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She Ifcotyp Uccklo. YOL. I. sl)e (Georgia tDeeklg, DEVOTED TO Literature and General Information, WM. HENRY PECK, Editor and Proprietor. PUBLISHED EVERY WEDNESDAY, BY PECK & LI NE S . TERMS, INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE : One copy, per nnnnm $2.00 Single copies, ... 5 cents. Advertisements inserted at $1 a square of 1 1 lines, for one insertion, and 50 cents for each subsequent insertion. A liberal deduction made to tbo;e who advertise by the year. t, , • ■ ■ ———_ Talk with the Sea. I said with a rnoar, as 1 roamed alone, By the side of the solemn sea— -Jt Ob, cast Rt my feet, which the billows meet, • Some token to comfort me. ’Mid the surges cold, a ring of gold •{ have lost, vith an amethyst bright, .Thou hitst locked it so long in thy casket strong, That the rust must have quenched its light. "Send a gift, I pray, on thy pheeti and spray, To solace my drooping mind, For I'm sad and grieve, and ere long must leave This rolling globe behind.” Then the sea answered, “ Spoils are mine - From many an argosy, The pearl-drops sleep in my bosom deep, But nought have I there for thee.” "When 1 mused before, on this rock-bound shore, Ti e beautiful walked with me ; She has gone to her rest in her hearing breast, Since ( s*w thee last, thou Sea! Be st«r*% restore, the smile site wore, Wtaeti her to mine was press* and, G ve »«ck th voice of the fervent soul That could lighteu the darkest hreast 1” But the haughty Sen, in it* majesty, Swept onward as before, Though a surge in wrath, from its rocky path, Shrieked out to the sornding shore— “ Thou hast asked of our king a harder thing Than mortal eer claimed before. For never the wealth of loving heart Could ocean or earth restore. THE HANDKERCHIEF. BV BLANCHE BRANDON “ If you please, miss, Dick has been at it again.” It was the staid old coachman who spoke, as, tightening the reins, he turned his head slowly uv«r his *4e#fc shoulder and- Addressed the fair young occupant of the car riage which he drove. “If you please, miss, Dick has been at it again —fighting with another youngster, miss, and nearly knocking the breath out of his body, if my eyes don’t de ceive me.” “Dick is incorrigible, I’m afraid,” replied the young lady, as she leant fiom the carriage window and glanced in the direction indicated by the dri ver’s fat forefinger. “Turn your horses that way, David, and let us see what is the matter.” The man obeyed, nnd in a few mo ments came to a stond tit an angle of the road beside the boundary of a wide field, where the following sight presented itself: “ A stout, round-faced boy, in his Blurt-sleeves, and with plenty of brown earth upon 'his bbots, stood with clench ed fists above a smaller lad. whose tat tered-and dusty garments, as well as the bundle %luch lay upon the ground beside Karo, .seemed to bespeak tit once st wayfarer and one,belonging to the ancient order of poverty. This last biry held his hand to his temple, and a tiny scarlet ffcfears. was trickling slow ly through'hi's.T'ong thin fingers. His disordered hair, flushed face, and trembling frame told of a conflict which had been too much for his strength; yet the angry fire in his black eye bespoke determination and ( defianee, which, had it been matched by a robust frame, would have render ed the hour a sore one for the round faced conqueror. As it was, howev er, the strong fists had gained the as cendancy over true courage, and their possessor stood, with a broad grin which revealed every inch of his red gums, and taunted his fallen foe in terms expressive of derision. “Do yon want any more, eh?” he pried, “Would you like to try it again ? I told you I’d lick three of you with one hand tied behind me, and I’d do it, too Beg your par don, miss,” he interrupted himself, as he, for the first time, perceived the carriage, which had made little noise upon the soft, dusty road. “Beg yuur pardon, miss—l could’nt help it.” \ * The young lady was leaning from the window of the carriage, with her eyes fixed upon the countenance of the wounded lad ; and as the round faced boy spoke she signed to him to open the door, and, stepping out upon the road, put her hand upon the shoulder of the young stranger, and said, kindly : “ Are you much hurt ?” “ Thank you,” was the half-whis pered answer. “ I think I must be— I am so very weak and cold.” “ Where are you hurt?” asked the girl, quickly as her eye marked the growing paleness 'of the drooping face. The boy removed his hand from his forehead, and revealed a long and deep gash upon the temple,' from which the blood was trickling profuse- IfeMcd iff §ont|ern fittratere, Jto, aitfo facial Information. GREENVILLE, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 27, 1861. ly. “ Oh, Dick, Dick ! how could you be so cruel ? See what a terrible wound this is, and how it bleeds !” “I’m sure, miss, I did’nt go to do that,” said Dick, relenting; “ I only meant to knock hitn down. He must have hit himself agin suthin sharp.— Oh Lord! how white he’s getting.” “ This blood must be stopped,” said the young lady, and drawing a hand kerchief from her pocket as she spoke, she put back the black tresses and knotted it about the poor lad’s fore head. He looked «p ai her when she had finished, muttered a faint “ God bless you !” and strove to press a rev erential kiss upon her snowy fingers, but in the very action fainted. Poor Dick, beside himself with horror, believed him to be dead, and in a misery of fear and penitence wallowed in the dust and groaned. In obedience to his young mistress’ orders, David lifted the inanimate form of the wounded boy to the soft cushions of the carriage and drove homeward—Dick running behind, venting bis remorse in unearthly bel lowing, while the beautiful lady bent above the ragged wayfarer, and, with her jeweled fingers, put back the damp black tresses from his mouth and listened for his breathing. When the poor boy’s eyes were opened in returning conciousness, he ! found himself upon a snowy couch, I with the pure high-born face on which j tliejT had last rested bending above him still. His name was Edmund Weldon, so ■ he said, when he bad strength to speak, j and he could remember father nor mother, for he had been picked up from the fragments of a wreck, when yet a little babe, by some poor fisher men. He had travelled far in search of employment, and was weary, dis heartened, and penniless. This was his tale, and glad he seemed to be when good old Mr. Marshall, the father of his young patroness, told him that he should have a home and em ployment in his service when he was well and strong once more. The young' lady, when once satis fied of the boys safety, saw very little of hitn. Their paths lay wide apart, and it w r as only when he sprang for ward to open the carriage door, or doffed his liat when she passed him in the garden path, that they ever met.— Yet when the summer day was done, and Clara Marshall sat singing and playing in the twilight, the boy whom she had picked from out the load side j dust would often crouch beside the window and listen, all unseen, to the low voice which, to his ear, seemed sweeter than an angel’s, arid every night the handkerchief which she had bound about his forehead lay folded to his heart. And thus the time passed on. Each day which brought the mai- j den nearer to womanhood and made her richer in beauty and accomplish- j merits, removed her further from the poor serving boy, while, as he gained in yearsj the lowly admiration, the reverence of his heart, grew to be something very near akin to love. — Upon love’s threshold ambition al ways lingers, and soon poor Edmund, felt a growing detestation of his posi tion—a wish to tread some path lead ing to fame and fortune —to he some thing, to do something, he scarce kngw what, which should bring him nearer to the spot on which she stood, shut oft' from him by the impassable barriers of wealth and station. At last this feeling grew to he so strong that he could not bear it any longer. He hade adieu to those who had been so kind to him, tied his little bundle upon his back once more, and set off for the great city with a strange ming ling of regret and hope within his bo som, over which Clara’s soft, white handkerchief lay fondly folded. At first the boy’s departure made some commotion m the household, and even Clara missed the bright face and : the quick hands ever so ready to do her bidding; but in time all had for gotten, or at least had ceased to men tion him, and even the flowers which he had planted and the vines which he had trained withered and faded and were replaced by others. This is a world of change. Eight years from that bright sum mer day on which he turned his steps away from the old garden gate, Ed mund Weldon stood once more beside it to learn from stranger lips that old Mr. Marshall had long been laid be neath the churchyard sod, that the homestead was the dwelling place of strangers, and that Clara Marshall had been married years before and had gone to some part of Europe with her husband, who was a foreigner. All along the weary road which he had traversed, poor Edmund had been lighted by the hope of meeting once more with the fair idol of. his boy hood’s dreams —of proving to her that he had grown worthy of her friend ship, perhaps in time even of winning her to be his own ; fbr his struggles had not been in vain. Men spoke highly of him in the profession which he had adopted, and he was .already on the road to fortune. Now this hope was gone-—she was another’s! He should nevertheless see her again. All whiph he had done seemed well nigh worthless. The boy of nineteen had -Wept as he turned from that old stone gateway; but the man of twenty-sev en left it with a heart seared by the burning tears he was too proud to shed. He went hack to hi* ****** the hope of his early life Was gone. — Before, he had striven for the sake of love; now, fame had grown to be his only object—fame, when there were no feet at which to lay his laurel wreath, no loving eyes to smile appro val on his efforts! Still he worked on bravely, and three more years passed slowly by, bringing few events or changes to his quiet life. Christmas Eve had come—a cold, old-fashioned Christmas Eve. The snow lay piled upon the ground, and frost pictures were painted upon the window panes. Edmund Weldon sat alone in the little parlor of a quiet dwelling which he had called his own, beside a glow ing fire, and thought upon the past — of the hopes which had cheered him, through so many toilsome hours—of the bright face never to be forgotten; though his eyes should rest on thou sands far more beautiful. Her hand kerchief—thaf white frail thing, which had outlived so much—was in his bo som still, and lie took it thence and laid it tenderly against his cheek, as a mother might the forehead of her sleeping child. “ Clara, G' ara !” he murmured. “To listen to your sweet voice once more I would give years of life, even though I only listened-un seen, unc.ired, for, a* ia ;my humble boyhood. Clara—Clara!” Was he going mad ok had those words evoked some spirit from the oth er world?- Even as lie spoke, low, clear, and distinctly fell upon his ears a song Which he had often listened to in those same words, the same fnbe—Hyb, tn£ saiffe voice which used to sing them. ! He sank upon his knees ;he listened witn both hands pressed upon his heart and from the. frosty stillness of the outer air he heard the words again.— Was she dead, and had her spirit learned his lo.ve at last ? Or could this be some other, voice whose mock ing tones deceived him ? With an effort—for a spell seemed to be upon him—he arose, went to the door, unbarred it, and looked out. — There, in the midst of the softly fal ling snow,.stood a woman’s form muf fled in hood and shawl, and holding a child by the hand. In the darkness he could not see her features, but the voice, when heard so near, was still the same. It pierced his very soul; it shook him from head to foot with wild emotions, and almost without his will the name forever at his heart rushed to his lips, i.nd he cried, aloud i “ Clara—Clara Marshall ?” The woman turned anti looked at him. “ Who calls me ?” she said, “Who knows my dear old name ?" He could not answer. He could only utter over and over again that worshipped name, as he lifted her from the ground where she had fallen in a death-like swoon. He bore her to the warm fireside, and holding that frail form still in his strong arms, knelt down before the blaze and look ed at her. The face was wan and pale—its youth was gone, its beauty failed ; but he would still have known it for that of Clara Marshall, even though the child’s face by her side had not been so like that he first remem bered bending over him when he lay wayworn and bleeding by the road side. How could she,nurtured in the lap of luxury and shielded in her childhood from the very winds of hea ven, come to such destitution as her garb bespoke ? By no wrong-doing of her own, he knew well. There were marks of suffering and of sorrow on those features, but no sign of aught save spotless worth and purity. As the trembling sigh which rose upon her lips told of returning concious ness, he placed her in the great arm chair, and stepping back, watched her blue eyes open and turn upon him in wonder. “ You called me by my old name," she said, dreamily. “ You must be a friend; and yet I cannot remember you.” “I am a friend,” he answered, drawing nearer—“ one who will deem himself only too deeply blest if he has it in his power to serve you.” “Yes,” she said, passing her hand across her forehead ; “yes, I should know you. That voice is familiar. I have seen you before, but where I can not tell.” “ I have altered since we met,” said Edmund, softly; “ and even if I had not, the poor lad to whom you were so kind might well have escaped your memory, although he never has for- gotten you. Do you remember a boy about whose wounded temple you bound this handkerchief twelve long years ago ?” The lady started to her feet. “Edmund!” she faltered. “Can it be possible ?” “ Yes,” he answered, “I am Ed mund Weldon, the wanderer whom you rescued from starvation.” “ It is I who am the wanderer now," she murmured. “Oh ! the changes, «jfc«t-*offering «w>d the Borrow which I have seen since then ! To-night there was neither fire nor food in our little dwelling, nor had there been all day. My child was perishing, and when I heard a ballad singer in the street, and remembered that it was Christ mas Eve, I thought it possible that I too might earn something by my voice, and, little thinking any one would recognize it, came forth into the streets. The light in your window caused me to pause here, and it was my first'; fearful essay which you heard.” - •*> * “ I thank-’God, who led you hither !” he said; and it was only by a strong effort that he kept back his tears as he spread food and wine upon the ta- ; ble, and .thought of the luxury and : plenty of that home where she once ; dweit-as mistress. In a little while she hAd told him all."- It was a tale of an unhappy mar riage, of squandered fortune, deser tion, widowhood and beggary. She | told it in a few words and with fewer | reproaches ; but he comprehended ev ery scene of that sad drama, and his soul burned with indignation as he 1 listened. When the tale was over, he spoke to her-quietly and earnestly, and she wept sweet tears of thankfulness to learn that, one act of girlish kindness to that forlorn and wandering boy had won a friend for her whole life in the good and noble man who sat beside her. Time passed on. Clara and her child were dwelling in a quiet home ehe had opened a little school, and was prosperous in her little way and very happy. The sunny beauty of her girlhood was creeping back into her face, and never was that face so .beautiful as when it raised itself to greet the coming step of Edmund Weldon. Christmas Eve had come again.— This time, ’ a bright starlit evening, dimmed by no falling snow ; and over 1 the crisp, frosty ground, Clara and ; Edmund walked together, arm-in arm. They had left the village where she dwelt, and the road which I wound away into the country. When they had reached a spot where two fields met, anil whence the lighted windowsW an ancient homestead were plainly visible, he paused, and said, in aiww, trembling voice: “ Do you know this spot ?” “Do I know it!” she answered.— “Oh! how can I ever forget it!— Those lights fall from the windows of my dea,.- old home. I have trod this path many a time, when my childish heart never dreamt of the woe which lay before it.” “Here,” he said—“here, beside this very tree, I lay once a wounded lad, poverty-stricken and unfriended ; here an angel bent above me in tones of kindness which I had never heard before. Here I have often sat think* ing of that angel, worshipping her from afar as the fire-worshipper adores the sun, loving the very ground her feet had trodden, and treasuring a cast-off faded flower once worn with in het'bosom as a miser does his gold ! On this night sleeping ambition first awoke within my bosom, and prompt ed me to strive to mount fame’s lad derftnd grow to be a little worthier of her esteem. Here I bent my head in anguish when I believed that I might never more meet with that bright be ing who had been the main spring of every noble thought or action of my life ; and here, dear Clara, I ask you for a boon worth all the world beside. Will you love me, Clara? Will you give me the right to shield you from the cold blasts of this bitter world ? Will you be the wife of the poor boy whom you first lifted from the road side dust ?” ' ghe did not answer, but his arms twined about her unreproved, and her head sank lower and lower, until it rested on the bosom where her hand kerchief had been folded for so many years. The old church-bells rang out upon the midnight air, telling that the holy Christinas Day had come, and to those lovers, as they parted from each other in the quiet moonlight, they seemed to shower a host of blessings on those last bright moments of their betrothal night. There is said to be in London 80,000 serving women, who earn barely one dollar a week, while working inoessant ly sixteen or seven teen hours a day. HEARTY SUPPERS. It was with feelings of painful dis appointment, with perhaps some vexa tion, that we recently read of the death of a brother editor, whose ex cellent monthly seldom failed of some extract from, or kindly notice of this Journal. He died in the very prime of life—-not thirty-one—in the midst of usefulness, and in the enjoyment of usual gopd health, until within twenty four hours of his decease. He was an able preacher, and a fine belief let tres scholar. He was on a journey, on the Master's business, and died from home. He had made up the copy for his September issue. Two of the ar ticles were from our August Number; one a plea for women, the other for 1 children. So many good people loved 1 him and looked up to him ! In less than three lines the whole story is told. “ He travelled all day, ate in the ev ening a hearty supper, waked up in the morning with a headache, became unconscious, and died at five o'clock in the afternoon, of apoplectic dis ease!” Eating heartily in an exhausted, or even in a greatly debilitated bodily condition, is dangerous at any hour. Many a man has fallen apoplectic, at the close of a hearty dinner; but the danger is greatly increased by going to bed soon after; for the weight of the meal, a pound or two, rests stead- j ily on the great’veins of the body, ar rests the flow of the blood, as a con tinuons pressure of the foot on a hose pipe will more or less completely stop the flow of water along it. This ar restment causes a damming up of blood in the vessels of the brain, which at length cannot longer bear the disten sion, and burst, causing effusion there, which is instant, sometimes, and cer tain death always. There is scarcely a reader, of middle life, who has not more than once been | nearer death than he imagined, from this very cause. A man feels in his sleep as if some terrible calamity was impending, some horrible beast .UL«&a mil' to overwhelm him ; but, spite of evwry effort, he cannot remove himself suffi ciently fast; the enemy behind as in creasing upon him ; and at length, in an agony of sweat, he is able by a desperate effort, to set the stream of life in motion by uttering some'Sound, fearful to be heard, or only saves him self from falling into some fathomless abyss, by a convulsive and desperate effort. In cases where there is no power to cry out, or no effort can be made, the person is overtaken, or falls and dies! Eating a hearty meal at the close of the day, is like giving a laboring man a full day’s wo*-k to do, just as night sets in, although he has been toiling all day. The whole body is fatigued when night comes, the stomach takes its due share, and to eat heartily at supper, and then go to bed, is giving all the other portions and functions of the body repose, while the stomach has thrown upon it five hours more of additional labor, after having already worked four or five hours to dispose of breakfast, and a still longer time for dinner. This ten or tVelve hours of almost incessant labor has nearly exhausted its power ; it cannot promptly digest another full meal, but labors at it for long hours together, like an exhausted galley slave at a newly-imposed task. The rest is, that by the unnatural length ”f time in which the food is kept in the stomach, and the imperfect manner in which the exhausted organ manages it, it becomes more or less acid; this generates wind; this distends the stomach ; this presses itself up against the more yielding lung.-*, confining them to a largely diminished space; hence every breath taken is insuffi cient for the wants of the system, the blood becomes foul, black and thick, refuses to flow, and the man dies, or in delirium or fright, leaps from a window or commits suicide, as did Hugh Miller, and multitudes of others of whom the coroner’s jury has re turned the non-committal verdict, “ Died from causes unknown,” if not more impiously stating, “ Died by the visitation of God.” Let any reader who follows an inac tive life for the most past, try the ex periment for a week, of eating abso lutely nothing after a two o’clock din ner, and see if a sounder sleep and a more vigorous appetite for breakfast and a hearty dinner, are not the pleas urable results, to say nothing of the happy deliverance from that disagree able fulness, weight, oppression, or acidity, which attends over-eating.— The greater renovation and vivacity which a long, delicious, and connected sleep imparts, both to mind and body, will of themselves more than compen sate for the certainly short and rather dubious pleasure, of eating a supper with no special relish.— Halt s Journal of Health. A judge ignorant of grammar is apt to pronounce incorrect sentence*. CONTROL THE AFEECTIONS. A GREAT MAN’S ADVICE TO A LADY. It was it) the year 1758, long be fore the War of Indepence, that Col. Washington—as he who was to be the founder of the American Republic was then called—crossing on military business a ferry of Pamunka, a branch of the York lliver, was stopped by a - to partake of the hospitality oC a. Mr. GhmnVerluyne, the owner of a domain in Virginia, where the Col’s name was honored. The strict Wash ington insisted on pressing forward, but the Virginia Amphitryon would take no denial, urging, among other temptations, that he would introduce his friend to a young and charming widow, then beneath his roof. This was a Mas. Custis, (nee Dandridge,) aged twenty-six, who had married a gentleman who was both a Colonel and an eminently-successful planter. By his premature death, Mrs. CuStis “ found herself at once a very young, and among the very wealthiest widows in the colony.” Col. Washington came to dine, and remained to woo. He was fascinated by the widow, and marrying her, nev er lived to repent the step. The new Mrs. Washington had a step-son, whose son, Mr. George Washington Parke Custis, is the author of certain “ Memoirs” of the great man, just is sued, and he and his sister were adopt ed by Washington. This young lady, “Nelly Custis,” when sixteen, and af ter her first ball, had told her revered guardian that she cared nothing for “the youth of the present day.” The sound and sensible advice then given by Washington, at that time President of the United States, to his adopted daughter, is of universal application to those who, as she then was, are un engaged : “ Love is said to be an involuntary passion, and it is therefore contended that it cannot be resisted. This is true in part only, for, like all things aiiiiKifrfrflflii .iiiffl ru to}i aDi * v* it ' 1 vd "’’m its progress; but let these he with j drawn, and it may be stifled in its I birth or much stinted in its growth.— For example, a woman (the same may be said of the other sex,) all beautiful ; and accomplished, will, while her hand and heart are undisposed of, turn the I heads and set the circle in which she moves on fire. Let her marry, anti what is the consequence ? The mad ness ceases and all is quiet again.— Why ? Not because there is any dim inution in the charms of the lady, but because there is an end of hope.— Hence it follows that love may, and therefore ought to be, under the gui dance of reason ; for although we can not avoid first impressions, we may assuredly place them under guard ; and my motives for treating on the sub ject, are to show you while you remain Eleanor Parke Custis, spinster, and retain the resolution to love with mod eration—the propriety of adhering to the latter resolution, at least until you have secured your game, and the way by which it may be accomplished. “When the fire is beginning to kin dle, and your heart growing warm, propound these questions to it: ‘Who is the invader ? Have Ia competent knowledge of him ? Is he a man of good character, a men of sense ? For, be assured, a sensible woman can never be happy with a fool. What has been his walk of life? Is he a gambler, a spendthrift, or a drunkard ? Is his fortune sufficient to maintain me in the manner I have been accustomed to live, and my sisters do live; and is be one to whom my friends can have no reasonable objection ? If these inter rogations can be satisfactorily answer ed, there will be but one more to be asked. That, however, is an impor tant one: Have I sufficient ground to conclude that his affections are engaged by me ? Without this the heal tof sen sibility will struggle against a passion that is not reciprocated—delicacy, cus tom, or call it by what epithet you will, having precluded all advances on your part. The declaration, without the most indirect invitation by yours, must proceed from the man to reader it permanent and valuable; and nothing short of good sense and an easy, unaffected conduct, can draw the line between prudery and coquetry. It would be no great departure from the truth to say that it rarely happens otherwise than that a thorough-paced coquette dies in celibacy, a5 a punish ment for her attempts to mislead oth ers, by encouraging looks, words or actions, given for no other purpose than to draw men on to make over tures, that they may be rejected.” A mother, who had brought up a large family of children with eminent success, was once asked by a younger son what she would recommend in the case of his children, who were too carefully educated. “I think, my dear, a little wholesome neglect,” she replied. NO. 4.