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explained; and the chain, the.broken
link of which was found ndar the
slaughtered animals—it cant* from hit
broken chain—the chain he had snap
ped, doubtless, in his escape from the
asylum where his raging frenzy had
been fettered ami bound. The scourge
—its marks were there; and the scars
of the hard iron fetters, and many a
cicatrice and. welt that told a dismal
tale of harsh usage. But now he was
loose, free to play the brufe —the bait
ed, tortured brute that they had mwde
him —now without the cage, and ready
to gloat over the victims his strength
should overpower. Horror! horror!
I was the prey —the victim—already
in the tiger’s clutch ; and a deadly
sickness came over me, and the iron
entered into my soul, and I longed to
scream, and was dumb! I died a thou
sand deaths as that awful morning
wore on. I dared not faint. But
words cannot paint what I suffered—
waiting till the moment when he should
open his eyes and be aware of my
presence; for I was assured he knew
it not. He had entered the chamber
as a lair, when weary and gorged with
his horrid orgie; and lie had flung
himself down to sleep without a suspi-
cion that he was not alone. Even his
grasping my sleeve was doubtless an -
act done betwixt sleeping and waking,
like bis unconscious moans and laugh
ter, in some frightful dream. Hours
went on; then I trembled as I thought
that soon the house would be astir,
that my maid would come to call me
as usual, and awake that ghastly
sleeper. And might he not have time
to tear me, as he tore the sheep, be
fore my aid could arrive ? At last
what I dreaded came to pass —a light
footstep on the landing—there is a tap
at the door. A pause succeeds, and
then the tapping is renewed, and this
time more loudly. Then the madman
stretches his limbs and uttered his
moaning cry, and his eyes slowly open
ed —very slowly opened, and met mine
The girl waited awhile ere she knock
ed for the third time. I trembled lest
she should open the door unbidden—
see that grim thing, and by her idle
screams and terror bring about the
worst. Long before strong men could
arrive I knew that I should be dead—
ami what a death ! The maid waited,
no doubt surprised at my unusual
sound slumbers, for 1 was in general
a light sleeper and an early riser, but
reluctant to deviate from habit by en
tering without permission. I was still
alone with the thing in man’s shape,
but he was awake now. I saw him
stare at me half vacantly, then with a
crafty yet wondering look; and then
I saw the devil of murder begin to
peep forth from those hidden eyes;
and the lips to part as in a sneer, and
the wolfish teeth to bare themselves.
Bat I was not what I had been. Fear
posure —a courage foreign* so
ture. I had heard of the best method
of managing the insane; I could but
try; I did try. Calmly, wondering
at my own calm, I fronted the glare
of those terrible eyes. Steady and
undaunted was my gaze —motionless
my attitude. I marvelled at myself,
but in that agony of sickening terror
I was outwardly firm. They sink,
they quail abashed, those dreadful
eyes, before the gaze of a helpless
girl; and the shame that is never ab
sent from insanity bears down the
pride of strength, the bloody cravings
of the wild beast. The lunatic moan
ed and drooped his shaggy head be
tween his gaunt squalid hands. I lost
not an instant. I rose, and with one
spring reached the door, tore it open,
and, with a shriek, rushed through,
caught the wondering girl by 7 the arm,
and crying to her to rim for her life,
rushed like the wind along the gallery,
down the corridor, down the stairs.
Mary’s screams filled the house as she
fle l beside me. 1 h»-ard a long-drawn
raging cry, the roar of a wild animal
mocked of its prey, and I knew what
was behind me. I never turned my
head—l flew rather than ran. I was
in the hall already; there was brush of
many feet, an outcry of many voices,
a sound of scuffling feet, arid brutal
yells, and oaths, and heavy blows, and
1 fell to the ground, crying, “Save
me!” and lay in a swoon.
I awoke from a delirious trance.
Kind faces were around mv bed. lov
ing looks were bent on me by all, bv
my dear father and dear sisteus, but I
scarcely saw them before I swooned
again.
When I recovered from that long
illness, the pitying looks I met made
me tremble. I asked for a looking
glass. It was long denied me, but my
importunity prevailed at last—a mir
ror was brought. Mv youth was gone
at one fell swoop. The glass showed
me a livid and haggard face, blanched
and bloodless as of one who secs a
spectre; and in the ashen lips, and
wrinkled brow, and dim eyes, I could
trace nothing of my former self. The
hair, too, jetty and rich before, was
now as white as snow, and in one
night the ravages of half a century
had passed over my face. Nor have
• my nerves ever recovered their tone
after that dire shock. Can you won
der that my life was blighted, that
my lover shrank from me, so sad a
wreck was I ? lam old now—old ;
and alone. My sisters would have
had me to live with them, but I chose
not to sadden their genial homes with !
my phantom face and dead eyes.— •
Reginald married another. He has
been dead many years.-. Lnever caascd
to pray for him, though he left nje'
when I was bereft of all. The sad
weird is nearly over now. lam old, j
and war the end, and wishful for it.,
I have not been bitter or hard, but I
cannot bear to sec many people, ami
am best Alone. I try to do what good
I cah with the worthless wealth Lady
Speldhurst left me, for at my wish my
portion was shared between my sisters.
What need had I of inheritances?—l,
the shattered wreck made by that one
night of horror.
(Written for the Georgia Weekly.)
Lines to Miss Lizzie Malone.
»Y LIZZIE.
The rosei of Summer bloom bright on thy cliei k_
The azure of lleuveu beams bright in thy
eye;
The mow flakes of Winter, pearly and meek
Soft on thy brow in purity lie
Filled in thy heart with love and with peace,
No norms have arisen to darken thy skies,
But freedom from sorrow softens tbv voiie,
And gleams in the light of thy beautiful eyes.
Oh ! thus would I ask, thy future may be,
Cnclouded by sorrow, unshadowed by woe !
That flowers of joy may spring in your path
And yield you their fragrance where’er you go.
And in death may some angel descend,
On pinions of light from the m msions above,
And bear thy pure spirit away lo the land
Where thou'lt spend an eternity of glory end
, . love.
Hickory Hill Academy , March, 1860.
*■ •‘•(For The Georgia Weekly )
Westminster Abbey
[Concluded.]
There are several monuments of
note in the south transept, or what
is usually called the poet’s corner.
Amongthem we find the following:
William Shakspeare.—Both the de
sign and workmanship of this monument
are extremely elegant. The figure of
the great poet, and his attitude, his
dress, his gentlemanly air, and fine
composure, all so delicately expressed
by the sculptor, cannot be sufficiently
admired, and those beautiful lines of
his that appear on a scroll are very
happily chosen. ,
‘ The cloud-capped tow«rs, the gorgeous pal
ace?,
Th~ solemn temple?, the grear globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit**, shall dissolve,
\nd likn the baseless fabric of a vision
Leave not a wreck behind/'
The heads of Henry V, Richard 111,
and Elizabeth are on the pedestal.
The monument was erected one hun
dred and twenty-five years after his
death, by the contributions of a grate
ful public. He died in 1617, in the
53d year of his age, and was buried
in the church of Stratford on Avon.
David Garrick.—This monument is
stated to be the tribute of a friend.
Garrick aside the curtain,
fcwfe'teb -discovers a medallion and is
meant to represent his superior power
to unveil the the beauties of Sliaks
peare. lie died in 1770 aged 63.
John Dryden and John Milton.—
There are monuments to both of these
great poets, but nothing peculiar about
either, worthy of attention. Milton
needs none in marble. It is stated
that the Duke of Buckingham erected
the one to Dryden, and that he valued
his writings so much that he thought
no inscription necessary to spread his
fame.
Edmund Spencer—This was an old
and decayed monument, but was re
stored in 1718, Nothing worthy of
remark except the inscription—“ Here
lies (expecting the second coming of
our Savior Christ Jesus) the body of
Edmund Spencer, the Prince of Poets
in his time, whose divine spirit needs
no other witness than the works which
he left behind him. lie was born in
1553—died 1598.’'
Ben Johnson.—This monument is
of fine.marble and neatly ornamented
with various figures. Ilis epitaph,
•• Oh rare Ben Johnson !” is cut in
the pavement where he is buried.
Died August 16, 1637, aged 63.
Abraham Cowley.:—This monument,
though plain, is very expressive. The
chaplet of laurel that begins his urn.
and the fire issuing from the mouth of
the urn, are emblems of the glory ac
quired by his writings. The epitaph
and inscription on the pedestal are
thus: “Near this place lies Abraham
Cowley, the Pindar, Horace, ami Vir
gil of England, and the delight, orna
ment and admiration of his age —
While paired Bard, for worlds thy works pro
claim
And \o»i survive in an immortal fame,
Here may >oti,bl ssed in pleasant quiet lie!
To guard thy urn may hoary Faiih stand by,
And all thy far- rile tuneful Nine repair
T«. watch thy dust with a perpetual care.
Sacred for 'er may this place tie made,
And may no desperate hand presume 10 inrade
With touch unhallowed tbi3 religious room,
Or dare affront thy veneratde tomb,
Unmoved and undisturbed till time shall end,
May Cowley’s dust th's marble shrine defend.”
lie died in 1667, in the 49th year
of his age. The monument was erect
ed by the Duke of Buckingham.
Joseph Addison.—This monument
consists of a fine figure of Addison
on a circular, basement, about which;
are small figures of the nine muses.
The inscription is to the following pur
port .thou art, venerate
the memory of Joseph Addison, in
whom Christian faith, virtue, and good
morals found a continual patron—-
THE GEOrG I A WEEK LY .
whose genius was shown in verse, and
every exquisite kind of writing; who
gave to posterity the best example* of
pure language, and the best rule* of
living well, which remain, and tier
will remain sacred ; whoso weight of (
argument was tempered with wit, and
accurato judgment with politenftf i4O
that he encouraged the gS
formed the improvident, C.* t*/*me
wicked, and in some degree m»de
them in love with virtue. He was
born in 1672. Died the 48th year of
his age, the honor and delight of the
British nation.”
Oliver Goldsmith.—This monument
represents Goldsmith in profile. Olive
branches and books are the chief or
naments. Underneath is an inscrip
tion of the following import: “That
he was eminent as a Poet, Philosopher
and Historian. That he scarcely left
any species of writing unattempted,
and none that he attempted, unim
proved—(hat he was master of the
softer passions, and could at pleasure
command tears or provoke laughter,
but in every thing he
good nature was predominant—that
he was witty,sublime, and facetious; in
speech, pompous in conversation, ele
gant and graceful ; that the love of
his associates, fidelity of his friends,
and the veneration of his readers, has
raised this monument to his memory.”
He was born in Ireland. November 29,
1731. Died in London, April 14,
1774.
James Thompson.—The figure of
Mr. Thompson leans its- left arm upon
a pedestal, holding a book in one hand,
and a cap of liberty in the other.
Upon the pedestal in has relief are are
seasons, to which a boy points, offering
him a laurel crown. At
the figure is the tragic mask and the
ancient harp. The whole is supported
by a projecting pedestal, and in a
panel is the following inscription —
“James Thompson, aged 48, died
Aug., 1748. Tutored by thee, sweet
poetry exalts her voice to ages, and
informs the page with music, image,
sentiment, and thought, never to die.”
John Gay.—This monument is said
to have been erected by the bounty of
the Duke and Duchess of Queensbury.
The masks, tragedy, dagger, and in
struments of tnnsic. which are blend-
ed together in a group, are emblemati
cal devices, alluding to the various
ways of writing in which he excelled.
The following’shlfTt epitaph 3
ten by himself:
“Life is a jest, and all things show it;
I thought so once, but now I know it.”
Underneath are these verses, by
Pope:
Os manners gentle, of affection? mild,
In wit a man, simplicity a child ;
With native humor* tempering? virtuous rage,
Formed to delight at once, ar*d lash the age.
\hove temptation in a low estate,
And uncorrupt* and e’en among the great;
A safe companion and an easy friend,
(TnMamed through life, lamented in the end
These are thy honors ; not that here thy bust,
fs mixed with heroes, or with kimrs thy dust,
But that the worthy and the good shall say,
Striking their pensive bosoms—Here lies Gay! ’
lie died in 1732, aged 45.
There are many other monuments
in the Abbey worthy of special notice,
but having already exceeded tlrt limits
at first intended, anil probably wearied
my readers, in ruminating on these
trophies of mortality, it is proper to
decline ai.y farther exploration of the
gloomy recesses of this huge fabric,
and sacred depository of fafee and
grandeur. Temple.
Ingenuity of the Spide&.— Let
me put a spider into a lady’s hand.
She is aghast. She shrieks. The
nasty, ugly thing. Madam, the spider
is perhaps shocked at your Brussels
lace, and although you may be the
most exquisite painter living, the spi
der has a right to laugh at your coarse
daubs as she runs over them. Just
show her your crochet-work when you
shriek at her. “ Have you spent half
your days," the spitefufr VCiiiark
—“have you spent half your days
upon these clumsy, anti-macassar and
ottoman covers ? My dear ladv, is
that your web ? If 1 were big enough
I might with reason drop you and cry
out at you.
“ Let me spend a day with you and
bring my work. I have four little
bags of thread—such little hags ! In
every bag there are about 4000 holes
—such tiny holes! Out of each hole
a thread runs, and all the threads—
more than 4000 threads —I spin to
gether as they run, and when they are
spun they make but one thread of the
web I weave. I have a member of
my family who is no bigger than a
grain of sand. Imagine what a slen
der web she makes, and of that, too,
each thread is made or
5000 threads that have passed out of
her four bags through 4000 or 5000
little holes. Would you drop her,
too, crying out about her ugliness?
A pretty thing for you to plume your
self on your delicacy', and scream at
us.”
- Many arc vain of their high living.
But if ju man.-become* honorable->y
eating, how much more honorable is
the worm that eata him.
Nothing is Valuable Without
Labor.
BT Bill M. 0. 1.
In pursuing the daily occupations of
life, we always appreciate most highly
that which has required the greatest
labor to obtain. We are all aware,
that without nothing is ac
complished." We often hear our tal
ented men, er the sons of the South,
deliver their elegant orations, and we
appreciate them very much, for we
know that without mental labor, they
could not have accomplished their
speeches, and we feel a thrill of grati
fied pride, when we turn aside, and
contemplate these things. When we I
see a splendid edifice, we admire it
for the grace and skill with which it was
built; and it is worthy of admiration,
for there has been much labor expend
ed on it.
When we write a labored composi
tion, we value it more than one which
is not. We always labor, for we
are comforted with the assurance,
that we have beon laboring. The in
dolent person is not happy. He lias
nothing to exhibit as the recompense
of his labors. We should always re
member that “Omnia Vincit Labor.”
The musician could not have acquired
the knowledge of music that he has,
had he not exerted all his mind in la
boring to learn. I have heard of a
man, who was ridiculed by his friends,
because he could not sing, having no
talent for music. He often blushed
and stammered, when asked to play
or sing a piece, lie determined to
learn music, to cultivate his voice.
For this purpose, he absented himself
from his friends, spent his time in an
old rural dwelling, inhabited by an
eminent' musician, who taught him all
he desired. By continued labor, he
at length succeeded in acquiring a
mellow voice, could sing fluently and
perform well on the piano. After a
lapse of a few months, he again ap
peared on the stage of life. His
friends for a while,-desisted from laugh
ing and plaguing him. At a soiree
given by an intimate friend of his,
which he attended, he was solici'ed to
give them a song, for they- were not
aware, that he had been laboring to
learn music. He arose calmly, went
to the musical instrument, and began
to sing in a clear, sweet and powerful
voice. His friends were surprised and
resourul
ed throughout the room, and he who
hut ayEew months before, had looked
pule dhil dejected, now stood, -with
flashing eyes, heart full of joy jind
gratitude, for then lie knew, how
“ sweet was the recompense ,of his
labors.”
Franklin, the son of a poor tallow
chandler, and who never went to school
during his youth,Tiy laboring or study
ing late at night, acquired knowledge
and information. lie once remarked
to Governor Burnet, when he was in
New York, “That he was never so
happy a3 when he had read through
Locke.” llow could he have discov
ered electricity, had he not labored.
He was distinguished for his maxims
and discoveries.
This shows us that by laboring we
can accomplish almost anything.
Columbus would have never discov
ered this beautiful continent of ours,
had he given up in despair, as we do
sometimes. He continued to labor,
and after seven years of pleading in
the courts of Europe, at last succeed
ed. And was not his labor of some
value ?
Show me a person who has labored,
and I’ll show you one that is happ) 7 ,
beloved and is seldom troubled With
ennui. . ,
Alfred, the Great, when but a child,
was told by his mother that if lie, or
any of his brothers, would learn to
read a certain book, she would give it
to the reader. lie resolved to win the
prize. By studying he at length read
it through, and was the winner.
He once remarked to his courtiers,
“ That he thought much of that book,
because he had labored to obtain it ”
It is no disgrace to labor. Peter,
the Great, of Russia, descended from
his throne, and etr ployed himself in
ship building, and many other things,
which he thought would be useful to
him and his subjects.
God rewards that husy one,
Who lahorß with all his might,
Who rises early with the sim,
And never stops till night.
But those who love to sit,
Idling under the shade,
Are those who will not work a bit,
Unless thev are always made.
Greenville Mtuonic Female College.
Handkerchiefs were first manufac
tured at Paisley, Scotland, in 1742.
Hats were invented for men in Paris
ir> 1404. ” Khittitig stockings were in'-
Touted in Spain in 1550.
&jje Georgia Prtklg.
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 6.
Protection for the White Me
chanic-
It is our firm belief, that the time
has come, when the law makers of our
Southern Republic, should raise the
standard of white mechanical labor
among our people ; and not only ele
vate it to its inherent position of high
and honorable rank, as the most im
portant grade of republican aristocra
cy, but make that position firm and
impregnable by jealous and stringent
laws. Briefly, our proposition is
this:
No negro , free or enslaved, should
he taught the mechanic arts, from this
time forth forever; nor should any
n-gro he brought into this Republic to
labor as an artisan or mechanic of any
grade whatever.
Such an edict, or one similar, would
at once exert a most powerful and in
-suit«dy salutary influence upon the
present and future progress and wel
fare of the Southern Confederacy.—
At once white labor would be recog
nized as the most powerful estate of
our political society, and negro labor
be forever perpetuated and confined
to tilling the soil as its proper and nat
ural sphere. This influence would in
crease with its existence, until every
white man, both rich and poor, would
become, perforce, a firm advocate ol
the great institution of Southern ser
vitude and bondage of the negro.
It would become invulunerable from
the number and power of its defend
ers and upholders—the white median
ics of the South.
But, as the matter now stands, we
are fostering an enemy in our homes,
creating what may prove an incurable
cancer in our body politic, which will
eventuate, sooner or later, in the de
struction, or utter degradation of the
entire South. As it is now, the mas
ter of many negro mechanics is un
doubtedly an insurmountable, though
perhaps innocent barrier, to Southern
progress in the greatest, most useful
and most necessary of all arts —the
mechanical arts.
The South stands in deplorable need
of good mechanics, white mechanics;
above nil, white Southern mechanics.
Her duty to herself demands that she
shall* inakeirfostep nn*l i«*wYmf]hei u tuvn«
native born artisans; and to do this
she must first abolish all negro rival
ry in whatever is done best by the
white man, and in all that belongs to
him as of the dominant race of South
ern soil.
That being consummated the honor
able avenues to wealth and indepen
dence will be speedily sought and
quickly filled by our young men ; for
then that instinctive disgust, jvhicli
every white mechanic feels in being
forced to labor, side by side, with the
negro, will have been forever destroy
ed by the destruction of its cause.—
Thousands and tens of thousands of
our high-spirited and ambitious young
men, who now live in ind dence, undei
the unuttered but terrible ban of negro
equality in labor, will forsake the race
course, the drinking house, the gain
bling hell and the great sea of South
ern indolence and recklessness, to
compete in the industrious and useful
paths of life.
We would never advocate the pas
sage of a law that should in the slight
est degree militate against the rights
and interests of the present owners of
negro mechanics j but to the utmost
of our ability oppose it. Let the law
so read a<s to allow such the full en
joyment of the present system, but
let the law be the death blow to that
system, as regards its extension and
perpetuation.
The policy of such a law must be
patent to all, whose self-interest does
not close their eyes against the rights
of the white mechanic and the future
welfare of the South. The present
system is the silent and irresistible
war of capital against labor—of ne
gro property against the white me
chanic’s toil.
For the future let the negro labor in
the field or in the lowest menial sta
tion, and for this the decree of Hea
ven, endorsed by the seal of History,
has doomed him to be—the slave of
the white man; and never should he
be permitted to labor as the white
man’s equal.
The consciousness of his ability to
labor in the mechanical trades renders
the negro indolent, proud and discon
tented, and the history of all insur
rections am.ong slaves proves this
startling fact— the leading spirits of
all black , conspirators have been negro
mechanics.
Thus -the -system now obtaining not
only debars the white mechanic from
his rights, but endangers the domestic
peace and safety of our country. Ne
gro mechanical labor ruins that of the
white man by its cheapness, and this
cheapness arises simply from the fact
that the negro mechanic is supported
by his master, while the white is forced
to support himstelf, and generally *
large family.
There must be a radical change in
this system, or our posterity will bo
the sufferer and our scape-goat. Let
every working man henceforth de
mand of the Candidate that asks his
vote— Protection for the white me
chanic.
Lincoln’s Inaugural
Is now before the public, but too late
in its arrival to allow us to publish it
in this issue; and before our next it
will have grown stale, in the mean
time we will try to furnish it an extra.
The address is neither, bird nor
beast, yet si mongrel affair considerably
more beast thanbirtL Lint&ln affirms
the Union is in fact unbroken, and
looks warlike with this falling from
his lips:
“ The power confided to me will be
used to hold, occupy, and possess the
property belonging to the Government,
and to collect the duties and imports ;
but beyond what may be necessary for
these objects, there will be no invasion,
no using of force against or among
the people anywhere.”
He declares it to be his duty to en
force the laws of the Federal Govern
ment in the seceded States—which he
styles “ insurrectionary and revolu
tionary.
In fact he says in meaning: “ I in
tend to get all I can, keep all I get,
take it by force, steal or beg, from you
, seceded States, and there’ll be no
■ fighting unless you dare to snarl while
I I kick, cuff and flog you—as I have a
perfect right to do, and will do, so
help me Jacob !”
Then again as follows: “ But when
you snail awfully and will bite, I’ll
i hold off till you grow cool !”
i This latter refers to the “ interior
localities ” only, whence it is plain to
- see that the localities elsewhere, our
seaports, are in Illinois vatois —“ gone
| suckers!”
I In the meantime Fort Sumter rc
, mains in the hands of the enemy.
h mi ——■— Plant Lp -- t
As it now seems morally certain
that we are to have immediate war,
and war to the bitter end, it is the ur
gent policy of the entire South to
plant. Plant cotton, corn, wheat, and
ill kinds of grain. Plant cotton; for
cotton will bring money, and money
is the potency of war. Plant corn and
.Train; for the foreign supply may be
cut off.
In th’s strife, which is coming down
upon us like a tempest, our victory
will be but a question of time; and,
that we may not suffer during that fear
ful time, let every planter look jeal
ously to his fields of grain, and to his
stock, as well as to his fields of cotton.
Few can hope to make much mon
•jy during a civil war. Our aim, then,
-hould be to live as economically as
possible.
Onr soil is our best and most power
ful friend, and will not desert us in
our need. Our enemies tell us that
we are dependent upon them for the
very food we eat. Let the facts of
our grain produce for 1861 give them
the lie.
During this coming struggle oftr
warriors must be fed. C9nsumers
will be greatly increased, for the waste
and not the necessities of war, is ruin
ous to a nation. Let us, at least, be
able to feed our own people, and ask
no odds of antagonistic or neutral
States.
Let us take from our open foes,
rather than purchase of lukewarm
friends.
jjgy The scenes transpiring day
and night upon our Court House
square have inspired even our “ devil”
with warlike ardor. The drilling,
facing, countermarching and other bel
ligerent manoeuvres remind us of the
times of the Mexican war, and lead us
to believe that Old Abe will “run agin
a snag” if he tries what he threatens
in his inaugural. The war spirit is
nniversal, and if we have no fight our
boys will “ blue mould” for the want
of a battle.
The latest news cheers us with the
hope that the border States have te
solved to cast their destiny with the
Southern Confederacy.
Perhaps Uncle Sam —U. S. will
find more than a match in Sam s Cousin
S. C.—that is the Southern Confed
eracy.