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YOL. I. ®l)e ©torgia lOcckln, DEVOTED TO Literature and, -General Information, WM, -HENRY PECK, Editor and Proprietor. .PUBLISHED EVERY WEDNESDAY, BY p.5>C'K & LINES. ", 'V - ' terms, invariably in advance : One copy, per annum $2.00 Single copies, 6 cents. Advertisements inserted at $1 a square of 12 lines, for one insertion, and 60 cents for each subsequent insertion. A liberal deduction made to those who advertise by the year. 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.