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The Two Hands.
A large brown hand by labor stained
Four sngwy fingers press’d,
As though a swarthy Cyclops strained
A white maid to his breast,
fondly did the brown band hold
Those fingers white as snow,
As though it were a link of gold
That weuld not let them go.
Time passes on. The two hands clasp
Another newly given:
As though they’d found an angel’s grasp
To draw them up to h raven.
Once more the brown hand and the white
Are linked. So cold ! so fasti —
ks though true loving hearts unite
More closely to the last.
GOLD AND DROSS.
Header, have you ever heard of
Halliday Hall ? Very likely not.—
And yet, reader, It is one of the—may
I say j oiliest, without being considered
fast?—well, yes, I tcC'd say jolliest
old places in England; a big, ram
bling building, with no end of rooms,
and not a bad, nor a dingy, nor a
Stuffy room among them, which is no
small thing to say of any house, an
old one especially.
It has a terrace that commands the
finest view in the county, and a con
servatory that beats all in Vent; and
last year its Victoria Keg!as were
larger and better grown altogether
than any in the kingdom. Sir John
Maurice is the owner of it. It has
been in the family for years —cenju-
.old family, .trike
them allirf an, they were, are, and P
believe will be.
Sir John Maurice may be some
where about sixty; he stands six feet
three without his boots : he is stout
ish, erect as he was at fiveraud-twen
ty; with thick curling hair, quite
white; a splendid face, a trifle weath
er-beaten ; dark sparkling eyes; and
not a tooth mi ssing.
He is up at five in summer, six in
winter; walks two miles before break
fast to bathe in the open sea all the
year round; sleeps with his window
open from January to December;
rides to the foxhounds every time they
go out, and, notwithstanding his size
and his age ; and his weight, he and
his ho-se Goliath are among the very
first in at the death. At great hunt
ing dinners at Halliday Hall or else
where, he can drink more wine—ha
bitually he is rather abstemious in the
matter of drinking—than any man in
the county; and when, for certain
good reasons best known to themselves,
most of. the other guests eschew the
drawingroom, or would do well to do
so, he makes his appearance among
the ladies as genial, as well-bred, as
charming, as perfect a gentleman as
he showed himself at breakfast in the
morning. '
A dear, fresh, wholesome old man ;
the best landlord, the best friend, the
best father—had been the best hus
band—in -short, the best gentleman to
be met with anywhere in Britain or
put of it.
The story, of his marriage may
stand-as-an example of what he was.
At five-and-twenty he became attach
ed to a beautiful girl, with a large for
tune. He had not yet proposed, was
in no way bound to her; when one day
her father decamped, leaving wife,
daughter, and creditors to shift as they
best might; and about the same time
the girl was attacked with confluent
smallpox, which, the doctors confessed,
could scarcely fail to disfigure her for
life. Hardly was her life spared,
when Sir John waited on her mother,
disregarding all warnings as to infec
tion, and proposed for her; and, as
soon as matters could be arranged af
ter her recovery, they were married.
Eventually Lady Maurice nearly re
covered her good looks, and was as ex
cellent a wife as he was a husband.—
After some years she bore him a son,
and, when they were neither of them
very young, a daughter—Rosamond,
the heroine of my story —not very
long after which she died.
The first ball that had been- given
at Halliday Hall since Lady Mau
rice’s death took place on the occasion
of Rosy’s eighteenth birthday.
Young as she was, she was already
opening out into a splendid specimen
of womankind, tall and full and fair,
with masses of nut-brown hair, and
large violet eyes that looked at you
steadily from under their deep white
lids.
pirateS to §tot%rn JTttoratarf, Meras, into (fiftSftt fittormation;
This was her first regular ball.—
How she enjoyed it, I don’t know;
but this I can state, that on entering
her bed-room, when it was all over,
she sat down, hid her face in her
hands, and began to cry, sobbing,
gasping, as only young people and
strong men cry, and indulged—l use
the world advisedly—in this exercise
for about half an hour without inter
ruption. Then she got up, undressed
hurriedly, and went to bed.
Next morning, after breakfast, she
came down late, when she knew her
father would be gone to pay his matu
tinal visit to the stables. She went
for her usual stroll in the gardens.—
It was a lovely day, though Well on in
September, arid the beds were still
bright with perpetual roses, -calceola
rias, verbenas, and geraniums.
But she passed them all by, and
wandering off to one of the shadiest
walks, began pacing up and down with
almost feverish rapidity.
Suddenly, as she came to the end
and turned, she saw a figure enter
ing the alley at the further extremity.
Her first impulse was to dash in among
the shrubs and escape; but a mo
ment’s reflection induced her to con
tinue her course, though at a greatly
slackened pace.
Meanwhile from the other end the
figure advanced, meeting her.
A tall, slight, though firmly-built
man, of about six and-thirty; not in
the least handsome, but with a grave,
striking face, especially about the up
per part, where a singularly earnest
and piercing dark grey eye looked
out from under a firm, broad, massive
brow.
At last they met.
“I have been looking for you Rosy,”
the new-comer said. “ Child, how
cold your hand is 1” but ho did not
hold it in hi3 to warm it, a3 he would
have done yesterday, nor was his look
or his voice the same.
For some seconds they walked side
by side in silence.
“Rosy,” he said, “I want to speak
to you. Shall I say what I have to
say now and here.”
“Rosy, I fear I have been mistaken
in you, that you have been mistaken
in yourself, and that we are both be
ginning only now to find it out.”
“Oh, Stephen!”’
“If it is so, we had better under
stand the truth at once. Rosy, I
would rather die than give you up,
if I thought you loved me. But also
I would rather die ten .thousand deaths
than marry you, if "T knew you did
not—if I thought you only fulfilled
our engagement from a mistaken sense
of duty, to -save me and save your
father pain. You are very young,
Rosy, a mere child compared with me.
I know the world, and women, and
my own heart; and I chose you de
liberately, and with full knowledge of
what I was doing, and because I knew’-
I could never love another woman
with the same love'l had for' ytntv^ 1 -
Your case was different. It inayhjlve
been that my devotion awakened in
your perfectly inexperienced nature
a feeling that you might easily mis
take for love, but .that was not love,
as would be proved on the first occa
sion. I was very angry last -night,
Rosy. When 1 left you, I rushed out,
walked off the beach, and there I
wandered about till daylight. I saw
the sun rise, and the' golden little
waves ripple in with the tide, and the
white cliffs become, ruddy as the day
came in. And in the-'face of all that
eternal glory and strength and tran
quility, I felt the folly and impotence
of my anger, the vanity of struggling
against.what was to be ; and by de
grees 1 ’ eame to see things in their
true light, and to say to myself what
I have said to you. Rosy, that man
; will never love you a3 I love; it is not
in him, and he is not worthy of you.
I tell you so, not because I am jealous
j of him, but because I,know it to be a
truth. Nevertheless, if you prefer
him to me, and that I stand in the
way of what you consider your happi
ness, Rosy—let me say, my Rosy, if it
be for the last time—l give you back
your freedom.”
“ Stephen, O dear Stephen, bow
good you are to me ! how little I de
serve it! But indeed, indeed, you
only do me justice in thinking I have
not been deceiving you. It was not
till last night that I really knew I—l
preferred Mr. Wilbraham. o’n, can
you forgive me ; can you bear it ?
Oh, what a change !—what a heart
break !—for papa, for everybody ! I
wish I never had seen Mr. Wilbraham.
But I can’t help it, Stephen; you
believe that ?”
“ Yes, Rosy; you never wilfully
deceived me in your life, and I believe
you have not yielded to>4his feeling
without many struggles. them
be over now. Shall TYell your
father ?”
“ Will you ? Oh, it will save me
so much ! But no ! I have no right
to save myself. No, dear Stephen, I
GREENVILLE, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY, APRIL 3, 1861.
will do it! What a wretch lam !
and you, what can I call you?”
“ Your friend I shall always be,
Rosy. Dear child, dear darling of
my heart! it seems like a dreadful
nightmare to think that you are mine
no longer ! To think—after the deli
cious months of peaceful, happy, holy
love, of tranquil security I have eh:
joyed —that all this is swept away-in
an instant, and that I am to go forth
alone, tossed hither and thither oyial
the world’s tide, leaving to another'*ll.
that I deemed so wholly my'j&wn.jSa
And I do not feelthe worst or fullest'
of jt yet! Oh, Rosy, Rosy,"it la,kil
ling ! I thought I had made up' my
mind to..bear it; but when I see
youg !
,06 passed his hand rapidly across
his eyes, and Rosy sobbed aloud.
“ Os course,” he went on, “I can’t
stay here and see it. To-morrow I
shall go to town to wind up different
matters, and in a week at farthest, I
shall be across the water.”
“ Where do you go, Stephen ?”
“ Heaven knows ! if it could be
‘ anywhere, anywhere out of the
world,’ it would fie all the better.”
“ You’ll bid papa good-by ?”
“ Yes, yes, of course. I’ll come
to-morrow morning; you’ll him in the
meantime. And now, Rosy, best and
only beloved of women, may God bless
and protect you, and make you as
happy with your new choice as I once
fancied you would be with me ! One
kiss, Rosy—the last of all I have, in
undoubting security, taken. Fare
well !”
He strained her to his breast with a
long and convulsive embrace, and with
out another word departed.
She stood some time on the spot
where he had left her, bewildered by
the suddenness of the scene, by . the
novelty of her position. For an in
stant her impulse was to call him back.
Was it thus that was to end forever an
engagement she had, not many months
hack,•willingly entered into with the
man she had, almost from her child
hood, esteemed above all
dearest friend of her absent brother,
YlKymyyrimmher father regarded as
how happy they hadr'Rrra 'togethef!-
Could it be indeed that a stranger,
whose’very .name was unknown to her
a month ago, could have thus changed
her heart, broken her-faith, made her
untrue to all the associations of her
life ? But it was so. • Alas !
Two months were gone by, and
Rosy Maurice was engaged to Mr.
Wilbraham.
The shock to her father, with her
rupture with Stephen Moreland, ut
terly unexpected as it was, had been
even greater than she had expected ;
for he had set his heart on the match,
which, in every point, except, per
haps, the difference of age, was an al
together unexceptionable one. But
he was too sensible a man and too ten
der a father to fight long against the
inevitable, and he at last yielded an
unwillilling consent to the new en
gagement, but with the proviso that a
year should ehipse before it was ratified.
“It will take longer than that to
reconcile me tq..it,” Sir John said.-y*-
“ I don’t like • the fellow, I haveli’t
faith in him. He’d no business •to
make love •to you when he knew, as
everybody did, that you were engaged
to another man. I say nothing about'
you, Rosy; it’ll take me many a year;'
to get over that.” 'V
But now the old man, if not satis*-
fiee, was to a certain degree resigned
to the match. He tried, for Rosy’s
sake, to like his future son-in-law, arid
as, in point of appearance, manners,
and fortune, there was no fault tribe
found with him, he resolved to
the best of what he could np.t prA’etrt-
Os course the lovers \y§re happy :
that it is hardly necessary* to ..state. —
George Wilbraham was tfi4- '-very man
to be the lean ideal of eigbt'egfh Not
one girl in a hundred is least" to,-,
be depended on in her ju3gtQ.o.nt of hi.
man till she is some way ouf of hqV.'
teens. A beauty-man, who rides and'
dances well, and who knows it, who
is tolerable agreeable, and who has
the manners of a gentleman,, is safo to
captivate hearts—that is .to say, to
make a very strong (though perhaps
by no means indellible)' impression on
the surface of hearts of nineteen
girls in twenty, Before they have put
ten and ten years together; not to talk
of those who are susceptible to similar
attractions for many years later.
And yet the young love is so sweet
and pure and natural a thing, that it
is very hard to impugn it. ShalL we
despise spring’s blossoms because they
are not summer’s fruit? Shall we
frown on the gambols of yon -white
lambs because they are not staid sober
sheep, who have been shorn so often
that they know the ways of men, and
mistrust them.
They rode together, did our lovers;
they drove together; they sang to
gether in the long winter evenings,
badly enough, and not always quite in
tune; but with hearts of harmony,
what did that signify ? and George
presented Rosy with the very smallest
and most' hideous Skye terrier that
could not be had for love or money—
the dog-fancier had. had him from a
“ party-who had taken a month in
compassifig the stealing of him; and
though -Rdsy hate<j Skye terriers and
all ugly things, however costly, she
got up $ spurious affection for the
creature- and tried to believe that in a
big head, a th.ip neck, and a long lean
•body, lay the true line of beauty.
Were Chere ever times when Rosy
with Stephen tljeeon
versation never used to flag', as' ilTdicT
now and then . .at present ? that.Ste
phepvhad no dread or horror of a wet
day, and no Sense of ennui under it?
that he neveA'was annoyed at trifles,
and. that, on the whole, his views of
things in general were infinitely fresher
and brighter*' arid more hopeful, than
those of that handsome young man ?
I cannot say; but I know what Sir
John thought on the subject.
However, it was Rosy, and not Sir
John, that was to marry George, so
perhaps it.was of not so much conse
quence.
Rosy and her lover were riding one
day among the lanes in the neighbor
hood of Halliday Hall, unattended by a
groom. In the hedge some singularly
and rich beautiful clusters of holly
berries-ettracted Rosy’s notice, and
she expressed a wish to have them. —
George dismounted, gathered some
sprays—not without maledictions on
the prickles —and having presented
them to his lady-love, prepared to re
mount.
But the animal he rode—-a nervous,
fidgety chestnut mare—taking some
freak into her pretty head, set herself
immediately in opposition to such a
proceeding. No sooner did her mas
ter’s foot approach the stirrup, than
she wheeled rapidly round, repeating
the action two or three times in suc
cession. A dark fury passed over the
young man’s face, and gathering up
the reins tightly, and swearing a fierce
oath between his teeth, he began kick
ing. the mare’s ribs till, each blow
of. a p ick
axe ifi
“ Oh, George, George !” Rosy ex
claimed, in the distress of her tender
heart; “ oh, don’t kick her so; it’ll
only make her ten (fines worse, and
you may hurt her dreadfully. Oh,
don’t, I beseech you, George!” as a
yet heavier kick resounded on the side
of the plunging terrified creature,
whose mouth was also bleeding from
the pressure of the bit.
“D —n her!” exclaimed George,
savagely, “ I’ll teach her to play me
these tricks!” and kick, kick, went
his double-soled boot into the mare’s,
ribs again.
Rosy turned her horse’s head and
rode homewards. In a few minutes
she heard the plunging and panting
of the mare behind her, hut she con
tinued her course without looking
round. In another moment George j
was by her side.
He glanced at her furtively, and i
saw the tears! wet upon her cheek.—
This, far from, touching, annoyed him;
but he knew not how to commence
conversation.' He was half angry,
half ashamed, and wished to appear in
different.
• “il- don’t think she’ll try that game
agaihf,” he said. “ I was determined
not to give in.”
.‘-‘■Not even when I entreated you,”
said Rosy, without turning her head.
“My dear Rosy, what can women
know about managing _ horses ? Be
sides, there’s nothing like determina-
it’s no use to let yourself be
bulled by man or beast. I never do,
and I never will.”
They rode home in silence. There
was nO'sipging that evening, and the
hours passed heavily ; everybody was
glad when bed-time came.
; But next’day George brought Rosy
a! buiich of roses that might Yie with
those.o*f June, and made some sweet,
and quite original speeches about their
being less fresh, less lovely, than his
Rose; and so they kissed and made
friends, and all was sunshine again.
Stephen had once given Rosy some
trifling, offence. He had not made
her any peace-offering; but he had
begged her pardon, acknowledged
himself in the wrong, and promised
never to repeat the error.
At Halliday Hall it had been the
custom, from time immemorial, to
greet Christmas in most hearty fash
ion. Tor some years after Lady
Maurice’s death, the habit had been
discontinued; but as his children grew
up, Sir John had resumed it, and this
year a large party had been invited
to stay in the house.
One morning Mr. Wilbraham strol
led into Rosy’s sanctum, where she
always contrived, even when the
house was fullest, to have a couple of
hours to herself after breakfast.
He sat down by the fire, and began
pulling her dog’s ears, a resource he
not unfrequcntly indulged in when
out of humor or when conversation was
slack.
“ I say, Rosy, a deuced annoying
thing has happened to me this morn
ing-
“ Dear George, what ?” Rosy said,
all sympathy.
“I’ve opened a letter that wasn’t
intended for me. It was for Wil
mingham ; but the address was badly
written, so they brought it me, and I
opened it without looking at the out
side; and, though of course, I didn’t
read it, I see it’s from a woman.”
“ Well, but you told him of
how the thing Vas ?”
“ No, I didn’t.”
“You did not! What have you
done with the letter?”
“ Locked it up.”
“ Oh, George, why did you not!
give it to him at once, telling him of j
the mistake ? Even if he had been a i
little annoyed, he’d have seen it was 1
not your fault.”
“I don’t know. He’s a dcuCed stiff j
punctilious fellow.”
Rosy was struck dumb. To keep a
letter addressed to another man, prob
ably a letter of deep and delicate sig-!
nificance to him, through fear of pro-1
voking his displeasure by frankly own
ing the accident that had thrown it'
into the wrong hands !
When she spoke again, both her
face and voice were altered.
“George, the longer, you wait to
take the letter, the worse by a great
deal it will be.”
He made no reply, hut continued (
to pull Fairy’s ears till she winched
and turned .her round brown eyes on
him piteously.
“George.”
“ Well?'
“Take-the letter,- there’s a dear
boy,, and give to Mr. Wilmingham di
reofiy.”
Oh, deuce take the letter ! I
wish I’d- pitched it into the fire at once.
I can’t give it now. What shall Isay
for not having told him before?” I
“ George,” Rosy, with deliberation,
but with a pale cheek and trembling
hand, “it must be done!”
“ Musi ! who says ‘ must ?’ ”
’ ■
“ And if lanswered ' f woWPWPBi
“ Then we should part.”
In violent agitation he rose, and
took two or three turns in the room,
muttering. Then he came back to
the fire, and stood leaning on the man
telpiece. Rosy could not see his face
distinctly, hut she noticed the convul
sive clench of his hands. *
She softened her voice a little, but
maintained its firmness.
“ Will yQ.u do it, George ?”
drive 1 ' me into such a corner again—.”
Without finishing the speech, he
dashed out of the room, and Rosy saw
him no more in private for the rest of
the day.
Nor did she desire to do so. Her
confidence in him had received a shock
it was impossible speedily to recover
from, and while under the immediate
impression of it she felt snft-colild not
treat him as she was wont to do.
In spite of herself, Stephen’s words
rose in her mind: “ That man will
never love you as I love you—it is not
in him. He is not worthy of you,”
And even were that the worst, but
it was not; and Rosy shrank under
the bitterest of all humiliations, that
of the sense of shame in the man she
loved.
Some days elapsed, and the lovers
were still on a footing of coolness and
half-avoidance—on Mr. Wilbraham’s
part, more than half. Was he, then,
sullen and resentful, in addition to his
other short-comings? Day by day,
hour by hour, Rosy’s bitterness of
heart grew and strengthened. But
still,, to keep it from her father, she
outwardly gave no sign.
But the climax of matters was ' set
to come.
A week passed by. Mr. Wilming
ham was gone, and the lovers were, as
far as appearances went, nearly resto
red to their usual footing, when one
morning Sir John came th his daugh
ter with an open letter in liis hand.
“ Very odd and very annoying this,
Rosy,” he said, “ Wilmingham writes
to me that a letter of importance, ad
dressed to him here, has never reach
ed him. He has made every inquiry,
and has actually traced it to this
house; but there the clue stops. I
have questioned the servants, but
every one denies all knowledge of the
letter. And yet, you know, it must
be one of them. What’s to be done?”
Rosy sat with her back to the light
so that her father did not see the
changes that came over her face.
“ What day ought the letter to have
reached M r - Wilmipgham ?” she ask
ed. She would hope while it was pos
sible to do so.
“ On the 23d —yesterday week.’’
There was a moment's pause. Then
she got up from her chair, and stood
beside her father.
“Papa, I know what became of that
letter. Ask me nothing, I beseech
you ; only be assured there is no fault
of mine in the matter. I will write to
Mr. Wilmingham, and explain all.—
Leave me his letter. Dearest papa,
you will trust me ? Perhaps some day
you may know everything; but ask me
nothing now.”
Her father consented and left her.
The instant she was alone she sat down
at her desk and wrote as follows:
Dear Mr. WiLMiSuHiM »An accident has
just brsugbt to myJiDowledge the fate of your
! missing teller. Ist this moment I cannot tell
you whether it has been destroyed or conceal
| ed, but as soon as I can ascertain the fact you
[shall know it.
r- I can tellrj-ou
! you, as a gentleman, to ask me no-'-ftlrther
questions, and to believe that I am blameless
in this matter.
“Yours sincerely-, _ R. Maurice.”
ShR folded but did not seal the let
ter, and rang the Bell.
“Tell Mr. Wilbraham I want,to
speak to him.”
He sauntered in listlessly.
“ Well, what’s up now, Rosy—you
want to speak with me ?”
“ Read these letters,” she said, put
ting Mr. Wilmingham’s and her own
into his hands. .
He glanced at the signature of the
first, and became livid.
“ What have you done with that let
ter ?” Rosy asked, her voice still un
faltering.
“Burnt it.”
“ What are you waiting here for ?”
she said, after a moment’s pause.
“ Rosy, hear me 1”
“ I have nothing to hear from a
coward and a liar ! Go !”
He passed through the door, and
they never met again.
Twelve months after Rosy and Ste
phen had parted, she wrote to him:
“ Dearest Stephen :—A year ago I made a
dreadful mistake. You were then the chief
sufferer, my poor dear Stephen ; but since then
I have suffered horribly—yes! more than you
could have done. There is no man living but
yourself to whom I could write as I am now
writing—-to whom, after treating him as I have
treated you, I could say. return to me ; let the
past be obliterated, and take me as the Ro3y
you loved a year ago. But I know you, and I
know that twelve months of absence have not
changed your heart, or made it cease to love
me, unworthy as I may have been of such ft
heart’s love. %
i “So I come, Stephen, dearest, in deep hu
my fate in your jiftuds, and to
take me.
Readers, I give you each -jiriee
guesses as to the purport of Stephen’s
answer.
IirSANTY.
There is no end to the false impres
sions and dolusions with which the
mind may be affected. A physician
was once called to see a man laboring
under the fancy that he was converted
into a tea-pot. And when the physi
cian endeavored to ridicule him out of
the idea, he indignantly replied, “I
am a tea-pot.” Forming a semicircle
with one arm, placing his hand upon
his hips, he said, “ there is the han
dle,” and thrusting out trhe other arm,
“there is the spout.i’ Men have be
lieved themselves cohverted into bar
rels rolled along the street. One case
is recorded of a man who believed
himself a clock, and would stand for
hours at the head of the stairs click
ing with his tongue. A respectable
tradesman in England even fancied
himself metamorphosed into a seven
shilling piece, and took the precaution
of requesting, as a particular favor
of his friends, that if his wife should
present him in payment, they would
not give change for him. Some have
supposed that many armed knights
were engaged in battle with them. A
sea captain in Philadelphia believed
for many years that he had a wolf in
his liver. A madman in the Pennsyl
vania hospital believed that he was
once a calf, and mentioned the name
of the butcher who killed him, and
the stall in Philadelphia market on
which his flesh was sold previously to
his animating his present body. One
man believes his legs made of butter,
and with the greatest caution avoids
the fire ; another imagines them to be
made of glass, and with extreme care
wraps them in wooden boxes when he
goes out to ride. A prince of Bour
bon often supposed himself to be a
plant, and taking his stand in the
garden, would insist upon being wa
tered in common with the plants
around him.
A French gentleman imagined him
self to be dead, and refused to eat.—
To prevent his dying of starvation,
two persons were introduced to him in
the character of the illustrious dead
like himself, and they invited him af
ter some conversation respecting the
world of shades, to dine with another
distinguished but deceased person,
Marshall Turenne. The lunatic ac
cepted this polite invitation and made
a hearty meal. Every day, while his
fancy prevailed, it was necessary to
invite him to the table of some ghost of
rank or reputation. Yet in the other
common affairs of life the gentleman
was incapacitated from to
| his own interests.
NO. 9.
