Newspaper Page Text
BY J. II. STHHL.U & P. TI1WKATT, .In.
!MILLKDGEVILLKi TUESDAY, OCTOI1KK ii!), IKW.
VOLUME XXXI-NO. 5.
THE Or.OBIIIA JOI'BSAI.
IS rvm.lSHKD WM.M.V,
64t if.c COtlUt of ait:l ( /K?ancocR c$«cct*,
AT THREE DOLLARS TER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE,
Or F<n»r fHUsri lit lb, «iJ •* J’KI-
No ■uli*criptiin will r»*crivr«l for le** limn # yrnr, nor
will any |»apor tic discontinucil until of/ nrrrnragt« orr jmul.
The I’apei will not he unit In any person out of tin* Suite,
until the iuharripliou money i* fsni«l in advance or satisfactory
referent e riven.
ADVERTISEMKNTS Innertcd nl the usual rates.
(P* N. |l. Sales of I.ANI), hv A»limniilrnt(»r*, Kaeeulore
or Guardimi". are required, hv law, t«» he In M on the font
Tnemlav in ilia month, between llte hours of ten in the fore-
noon an*l three in the afternoon, nt the Court.house, in the
eoitnty in which the property is situnte. Notice of these
sales must ho eiveii in a public gar.etto SIXTY DAYS pre-
linut to tho tlnv of sale,
Snh's of NliGROES nttmt he at n public auction.on the
first Tuesday of the month, between the usual hours nl sale,
at the place of public sales in the county where the letters
testomenlarv. of Administration nr Guardianship, may have
been granted, first giving SIXTY DAYS notice thereof,in
one of the public gaiette* of tin* State, and nt the door of
the (*ourt-hou*e, where aur.h sales are to he held.
Notice for the sale of Person.il Properly, most he given in
like manner, FOR TY day* previous to the. day of sale.
Notice to the Debtor* and Creditors of an Estate must he
published for FORTY days.
Notice that application will he made to the Court oMirm-
nnrv for leave to sell LAND, must ho published for rOUR
MONTHS. , .
Notice for leave to sell NEGROES, must he. published for
FOUR MONTHS, before any order absolute shall lie made
thereon hv the Court.
All business of this kind rominne* to receive prompt at
tention at the Office ol the GEORGIA JOURN AE.
POETRY.
StnnfiM.
HT WILLIAM LKOOETT.
If yon bright stars, which gem the night,
fte earh a blissful dwelling sphere,
Where kindred spirits rc-unitn,
Whom death hath tore asunder here;
llow fweet it were nt once to die,
And leave this blighted orb afar,
JMixt soul and soul to cleiive the sky,
And sour away from star to star,
put oh, how dark, how drear and lone,
Would seem the brightest world of bliss,
If wandering through ench rndinnt one,
We. fail to find the loved of this;
If there no more the ties shall twine,
That death’s cold hand alone could sever;
And thentlipse stars in mockery shine,
More hateful ns they shiue forever.
It cannot he, each hope, each fear,
That lights the eye or clouds the brow,
Proclaims there is a hnppier sphere,
Than this bleak world that holds ua now.
There is u voice which sorrow hears.
When heaviest weighs life’s galling chain,
*Tis heaven that whispers dry thy tears,
The pure in heaven ahull meet again.
UuRF.quirKi) Eovr..—Many a fuir and lovely girl <
witnessto the truth of the following lir— r - “ ■—
erbocker ,j,j |Crc * 9 (l g r ; c f which nil have known,
Who ever mourned a friendship flown;
And few hut once have shed the tear,
Bewailing loss of token dear.
The urn of borrow marks the spot,
Which spenkH the widow's lonely lot,
While Pity oft is seen to shed
Her tribute nt the orphan’s bed.
Hope hath her shadow s, joy its gloom ;
Yet sillier each a gentle doom,
Compared with her whose lot must provo
The patig of unrequited love’.
When after nil that woman's art
Gould do to curb that rebel heart;
With every plea of maiden pride
At length exhausted or defied;
She feels ’tin idle to restrain
The throb which tells—the love$ in vntn .
i from the last Kuick*
MISCELLANEOUS.
AMIiLIA AN IMPRESSIVE STORY.
BY JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES.
“ I will not marry yut,” was her reply—her face
half averted from the kneeling figure beside her,
whom she still suffered to retain her hand, whose
arm still encircled her waist unforbidden. “ 1 will
not marry yet:" and love was in the tone of the
very accents that withheld tho boon of love, or de
ferred the bestowal of it.
St. Aubyn was a young man of moderate for-
tune—accomplished, unsophisticated, and of quick
sensibilities. A student, und fond of retirement,
ho had selected for his summer residence a small
fishing hamlet, on the romantic coast of Devonshire;
where, between his books and the sea-shorc, along
which lie loved to ramble, his time passed anything
but heavily. Here he had resided about a month,
wheu tho little community received ail addition, in a
young lady and her mother, who joined it for the
purpose of a temporary residence. St. Aubyn
stepped back, in surprise, when issuing one morning
from the cabin in which he lodged, he beheld two
females, in tho attire and with the air of fashion—
the one leaning upon the arm of the other—ap
proaching the humble portal whence he had
just emerged. Ho bowed, however, and passed
on.
He had scarcely more than glanced at the
strangers, but transient as was his survey of
them, he saw that one of them was an invalid—the
younger.
“ llow touching is the language which indisposi
tion casts over beauty!” exclaimed St. Aubyn to
himself. “ Health w’ould improve the loveliness of
that face, hut the interest which now invests it
would vanish. No visitation,” he continued, “ but
late hours und crowded rooms have sent her hither
—for 1 prophesy she conies to make some stay.
Sidinoutli would he change of scone, not change ol
occupation!” He was right. St. Aubyn return
ed from his ramble earlier than was his custom.
His thoughts, that day, were ia the hamlet, und not
upon tlie sliorc. He approached his lodging with
something like the emotion of expectation and su.s-
pense. Ho looked at his landlady, on entering, as
if he expected her to communicate something ; and
wus disappointed when shu merely returned the or
dinary response to salutation. He entered his
apartment dispirited, and threw himsolf in a chair
near the window, the sash of which he raised up,
ns he wanted air. For the first time, lie felt the op.
pression of loneliness. “ They have not come to
stop,” said ho to himself, and absolutely with a
eh—and no wonder ! In an assembly, a lovely,
stgl
graceful, and delicate woman, behold lor the first
time, would have exacted from him only the ordin
ary tribute which beauty shares with beauty ; hut
in a remote little fishing hamlet, inhabited by beings
ns rude as their neighbors, tin: sea and tlie rocks,
such a vision could hardly como and vanish without
leaving a strong impression upon tho beholder. St.
Aubyn sat abstracted, chagrined—mortified.
The opening of a window, in a cabin opposite,
roused bittt. The sasb was thrown up by a white
arm shining through a sleeve of mus'in, thin as
gauze. Presently a dimpled elbow reposed upon
tlie sill; and a cheek uf |iensive sweetness sank
upon a band, so small, so white, that it seemed to
have been modelled lor no other ufiieu than to
pillow such a burden. A thrill ran through St.
Aubyn,quickening him into wakeful life.
llow the hand talks! W'liat passion, thought and
sentiment urn in it ' VI hat longues arc the lin
gers ? Oh! the things that the hand which Hi.
Aubyn sat watehitig.discs,ursed to bint, as it eliang.
eil its postun—now with the palm, imw with tin
hack, kissing its owner’s cheek—now extending
one linger upon the marblv, atnule temple—
now cnwriMtllting its* If with one y tty curl and
another now pass d over the arched bright Ion:.
head—now lowered and languidly dropping I rom
the window frame, tqsm wltHt th s'ji 11 whte.lt it
belonged lay motionless—then t o ■ • I again, with
slow and waving motioi, fill it closed with the dwelt
tliat half nn ( it—then uoidunlly cross, d oter in
bosom that seemed to In uve w th a sigh as It passed
III tin In art — -tin'll < tspntl with Its boa tooUs jidblW,
Will Carried to tin' Inirk of the bell I, tin- foil das,
lie arms swelling and whitening as lis t coutruc.
tel '
St, Aubyn u me I on, cnirHinud, lle.berlo tin
dus k slow of tile fair invalid had I« « || pn . «.l,.
In him; In r eves mot In* and dr »p|- d. H!n 101
feud wtlb'li• w.
Only glimpses of Iter did St. Aubyn catch again
that evening,—hut they were frequent. A hand,
an edbow ; the point of Iter shoulder ; once or twice
her finger. Hitting backwards and forwards, as she
passed up and down the apartment. Dusk fell;
still ho remained at his post. Was it a guitar that
ho hoard ! It was hut awakened ns tho first tones
of tin ,E ilian harp, which you held your breath to
hear. Her hand was on the strings ; one chord at
length sho struck full; another succeeded—ami
another. Then nil was silence, for a time. Rt.
Aubyn still remained at tho window—nor in vain.
Tho music woke ng tin, as fairy soft as before; and
a voice soft as the music, hut oh! far sweeter,
awoke along with it. Site was singing, but lie. could
hear nothing except the strain, and yet he heard
enough to tell him that it was a theme of tenderness,
though sung hy fits, that raflter seemed to help than
mar the passionate ma d. The stars shone out;
the moon in her first quarter half completed, show,
cd her bright crescent clear though sotting: the
folds of a white drapery s!tono dimly thro’ tho still
open casement. Did the wearer approach, to look
out and gaze upon tho fainight? No. The sash
was pulled down ; the string und tlie voice were
hushed ; the interesting minstrel had retired. St.
Aubyn retired too; but though his head was upon
the pillow, not a moment of that night were his
vision and his car withdrawn from the open win
dow.
It was broad day before forgetfulness cast her
spell over thu excited spirits of St. Aubyn, nor was
it broken till high noon, lie arose, emerged from
his chamber, and took un anxious survey of tlie ha
bitation opposite. Tho room appeared empty. He
partook of a slight repast, and sallying out, made
iiis way to the shore, lie hail not proceeded far,
when, turning a point, he beheld tho cider female
about a hundred yards in advance of him, standing
still, and looking anxiously upwards towards tho
cliff. Ho followed what appeared to bo tho direc-
tion of her eyes, and saw the younger, half way up,
reclining on her side.—Somctltng appeared to he
amiss. He quickened his paoe ; and, joining the
former, learned from her, that her daughter, attemp
ting to roach the top of the cliff, had incautiously
turned, and imnccustomod to look from a height,
was prevented by terror from proceeding or des
cending ; that, from the same cause, she had slipped
down several feet; and that she herself durst nut
go to her assistance. St. Aubyn had heard enough;
he bounded up the steep. As he approached the lair
one, modeaty half overcame terror, and she made a
slight effort to repair the disorder in which her dress
hadbeenthrownby the accident. St. Aubyn assisted
to complete what she had effected Init imperfectly;
he encouraged Iter, raised her,and propping her
fair form with his own, led her, step by step, down
to the beach again. Nor, when she was in perfect
safely, did lie withdraw his assistance—nor did she
decline it; though, apprehension subsided, confu
sion rose, coloring her |>a!e cheek to crimson, at the
recollection of the plight in which she had been
found. Her ankle was slightly sprained, she said,
having turned under her when she slipped. VVhnt
was this, if not a warrant for the proffer of an arm ?
At all events, St. Aubyn construed it as such, and
escorted tho fair stranger, leaning upon him, hack
to her lodging. From that moment, a close intima
cy commenced. They were constantly together
—sometimes accompanied by the mother—more
frequently, and nt last wholly alone.—Communing
in solitude, between the sexes and in the midst ot
romantic scenery, where there is no impediment,
no distaste nn either side, is almost sure to awaken
and to foster love.
St. Aubyn loved. The looks, the actions, all
hut the tongue of Amelia, assured hint that his pas-
sion was returned. Her health had improved ra-
pidiy ; the autumn was far advanced, and the even-
ings and nights were growing chill. The mother
und daughter now talked of returning to town ; the
day was fixed for their departure ; and on tho eve
of that day, St. Aubyn threw himself at tho feet of
the lovely girl and implored her to bless him witli
her hand. Yet, though she did not deny that he
had interested he—though her eves and Iter checks
attested it—though the hand which was locked in
his, locked his as well—though she suffered him to
draw her towards him, by the tenure of her grace
ful waist—still her reply was, “ 1 will not marry
yet.”
St. Aubyn ditl not require to ask if his visits
would he permitted in town :—lie was invited to re
new them there. An excursion to Faris, however
oil a matter of pressing necessity, respecting the
affairs of a friend, prevented his return fora month.
At tho expiration of that time, lie found him.
self in London, and with a throbbing liourt, repair-
ed to the habitation of his mistress, on the very even
ing of his arrival. The house wus lighted up;
there was a Imll; yet he could not overcome his itn-
patience to behold again tho heroine of tho little
fishing hamlet. He rang, ut the same moment when
a knot of other visitors came to the door, and enter,
ing along with them was ushered into a ball room,
the footman hurriedly announcing the names of the
several parties. The dance was proceeding. It
was the whirling waltz—
The dunce of contrnrt cl.se
Forbid ! nhnnduning to the frr* linml
'The *Ai*rcd wnist, while fun* to face—tliul hrcntli
Doth kiss with hr* Nth, anil eve emhrareth eye.
Your trancei) mil relaxing, *trui|;hloiiiiiK—round
Ami round, in wnvy mensiircs. you cut wine
Circle with circle—till *wnnmiug bruin
And paulinR hemt, in swoony lapse, give o’er!
It wus the waltz, and the couple consisted of a man
of the town and—Amelia!
The party who had entered with S. Aubyn im
mediately took seats ; Inti be stood transfixed to the
spat whore his eyes first caught thu form of his mis.
tress iu the coil of another.—She-saw him not.
With laughing eyes, and cheeks flushed with exer
tion, she continued the measure of license, her spirits
mounting, as the music quickened, until she seemed |
to round Iter partner, w ho freely availed himself of
the favorable movement of tho step, to dratv her
towards him, in momentary pressure.—They nt j
length sat down, amidst the applauses of the com- j
patty. St. Aubyn fairly writhed! he retired to]
a quarter of tin: room where ho thought lie ;
should escape observation,and threw htmselfinto a
chair,
and presented it to her ; then erowned n goblet, till
tho liquid almost overhung the brim ; breathed her
name ovei it, in n sight and quaff'd it off to the
bottom, at a draught, lie leaned his check to hers
till the neighbors almost touched, lie whispered
to her, and she replied in whispers. Ho passed his
arm over tho hack of her chair, partly supplanting It
in tho office of supporting Iter shoulders. Ho pres-
sed so close to her, that it Would have boon tho
same had both been sitting in otto sent. Site was
either unconscious of tho familiar vicinity, or she
permitted it. The whisperingcontinucd; the word
‘marriage’ was uttered—repeated—repeated again.
St. Aubyn heard her disticlly reply, “1 will not
marry yet,” as she rose, und, turning, met him
faro to face!
“St. Aubyn!” sho Involuntarily exclaimed. St.
Aubyn spoke not save with his eyes, which lie kept
fixed steadfastly upon her.
“ When did you arrive ?”shr inquired hurriedly,
and in extreme confusion.
“ This evening,” replied St. Aubyn, without re.
moving his eyes.
“ When did you join our party ?”
“ While you were waltzing,” roturncdSt. Aubyn,
with n smile.
‘ And how long have you been standing
here 1”
“ Since supper commenced : 1 made way for your
partner to hand von that scat, and place himself be
side you.”
“ You have not supped!—sit down and l will help
you.”
*• No!” said St. Aubyn, shaking his head, and
smiling again.
“ My mother has not seen you yet—como and
speak to her.”
“ No ; 1 have not a moment to spare. 1 leave
town immediately.”
“When ?”
“ To-night!—Farewell !” said he, turning 11
Amelia had fallen in a swoon upon the floor—with
difficulty they recovered her. Ill nil hour her
tmitln r was on her way w ith her from the little fish.
Ing hamlet.
la a month she dressed her in a shroud !
The Life of the Husbandman.—“1 am a true
laborer. 1 earn that 1 eat, get that I wear, owe no
man hate, envy no man's happiness : glad of other
men’s good,content with my farm, and the greatest
of my pride is to see mv ewes graze and my lambs
suck.”—Shaksi’eaue.
We have come to the conclusion, that nature’s
truest noblenmn is the man who earns his bread by
tlie sweat of bis face, upon bis own Isuiglit ami paid
for plantation. An independent Farmer may stand
upon bis house-top, and say to himself as Selkirk
did—
“ You surely arc not going yet ’'’earnestly inter,
posed Amelia.
“ 1 must not stay,” emphatically rejoined Rt.
Aubyn. “ For one object nlotte 1 catnc to town.
That is finally disposed of. The necessity for my
departure is imperative. Remember mo to yonr
mother. Good night;” he added, moving towards
the door.
“Have yon Ik ot well?" sho inquired, almost
tremulously. lie continued his progress as fast ns
the throng permitted him—affecting not to hear her
Sho followed, laid her hand upon Iiis arm, and stop
ped him.
“ You surely arc not well note,” she said in a
tore of solicitude.
“ No,” he replied, passing on till he reached the
door.
" St. Aubyn !” she exclaimed, heedless of those
who surrounded her, “stay a little longer !—tin hour
—half nn hour—tho quarter of nn hour."
St. Aubyn stopped; and turning, looked upon her
with nn expression so tender, yet so stern, that she
half shrunk ns she met Iiis gaze.
“ Not a moment!” he replied : “ I should he only
a clog upon pastime. I do not waltz!”—then
snatched her hand—raised it to his lips—kissed it
—and dropping it, hurried down the stair-case, and
departed.
Amelia at once perceived the awkwardness of
her situation, recovered her self possession, mid
with well dissembled mirth, affeted to laugh.
“ A poor lunatic,” she exclaimed, “ whom pity,
notwithstanding Iiis extravagant aberrations of
mind. Ho is innocent in his madness, llut conic,
let us forget him.
The dance was resumed. She was the queen of
the mirthful hour that shown, surpassing nil. Site
laughed, she rallied, she challenged, she outdid her.
self—her spirits towering the more, tho more the
revel waned. Party alter party droppedoff, still she
kept it up till she was left utterly alone; and then
she rushed to her chamber and cast herself upon a
couch, dissolved in tears.
Shu loved St. Aubyn. Vanity had been touched
before—but never sentiment, till she visited thu little
fishing hamlet on tho const of Devonshire. At
first, she could not persuade herself tlmt St. Aubyn
would not return ; hut a month set this jioiiit per.
foctly at rest. She drooped. S icioty, amusement,
nothing could arouse her into her former self. Her
partner in the waltz in vain solicited her to stand up
with itimagain. Sho declined tho honor; his visits
wore discouraged. Her mother anxiously watched
tho depression of spirits that had taken possession of
her, and seemed daily to increase. The winter
passed without improvement—tho spring. Stint,
mersetin—bloom and fruit returned—but cheer
was a stranger to her heart. Change of scene was
recommended. She was asked to make a choice
oftlie place whither she would go ; she replied, with
a sigh, “ to the little hamlet.”
She and Iter mother arrived there early on n
Sunday morning; and re.occupied the identical
lodgings which they had taken before. The land,
lady, a kind-hearted creature, expressed her sur
prise niidsorrow at tho altered appearance of Iter
young lodger.
“ Ah. the young gentleman would be sorry to see
this ; though he has had his turn of sickness too ;
hut ho has now quite recoveri d.”
*• Mr. St. Aubyn 1" breathlessly inquired
Amelia.
“ Yes !” replied tho landlady, “ that same hand
some, kind voting gentleman.”
“Merciful Heaven! is lt> here?” she vehemen
tly demanded.
“ He is,my lady," returned llte landlady.
Mother!” site exclaimed,ns she turned upon the
Intier a look, in wlijcli pleasure was painted fertile
first time since the momentous night uf tho hall.
“ Where docs he lodge ?" asked Amelia, turning to
the landlady.
“In the same place. He mine hack, about n
mot.lit after lie left,” added tho landlady.—“ Four
young gentleman !” she outilinucd, “ we all thought
lie had come to tlie amongst us ; so pale, so inclan,
cliuly. 11" would keep company with no one,
would speak to no one, and at last lie took fairly to
Iiis bod.”
! Amelia laid her bend upon her hand, covering Iter
44 1 nin monarch of nil I survey,
My rii;tit there i- none to di-pute;
From tho centre nil round to tin* ««•»,
I atn lord of the fowl nnd tho hrutu."
lie h truly a monarch—with n Intuit'd title more
secure than that of lcudnl Lord or Damn,—moru
easily protected and preserved, not by deeds of
valor, nnd through the shedding of blood, hut hy the
lawful labor of the hands. Iiis house is his castle,
iiis acres arc his dominions. His gardens are Iiis
parks, his grass plats his lawns, and Iiis forests his
groves. Iiis cattle, sheep and poultry are his sub-
jects, nml he becomes, at pleasure, either tlie oxecu-
tioncror the multiplier of such subjects. Tell us
if the King upon his throne has more, power worth
possessing.—Mis happiness we know is less, as he
increases Iiis toils, cares and sorrows in proportion
as the cultivator of the soil diminishes his.
In the springtime lie sows, and in the autumn lit
reaps. Providence has assured him that springtime
and harvest shall not fail, and he has the assurance
of the (iiver of every good and perfect gift, that as
lie sows so shall lie reap. Iiis grounds are watered
in th<’ season of drought, with tho rains and dews
of II ouven, and in the damp season the sun shines
t» cheer, invigorate, and give promise to his labors.
Tho severer tasks of the summer are succeeded by
tlie light?;r labors of the winter. As we have said
in th?! words of Will Shakspenre, he “earns that
ho eats, and gets that ho wears,” and his I*tiiloso
phy is that of tho shepherd who said that “good
pastures make fat sheep.” Ilo may say truly, and
with an honest pride—
44 1 cat my own Inmh,
My chickens ami limit,
I HhfNir my own llocce unit I wear it.”
What could a man want more, and how can a
farmer, capable of enjoying life, possessed of his
farm house, his farm, and his necessary implements
of husbandry, ever sigh for a residence within the
enclosure of a city,—choosing bricks ami mortar,
for the elbow room of a spacious farm house, the
smoke and dust of the town for tho village, tho three
or four story brick house for the granary or the
haycock,—the purest air of heaven for the ntinos.
pherc of a thousand smoky houses, and ten thous
and unwholsomc breaths? Mow could a farmer
make such a choice as this? We would pause fora
reply, did we not know that the only answer which
could be devised, after a long study, would be the
unsatisfactory one, that something better was anti-
cipatcd only,—for it would be a miracle almost, foi
a man to fmd himself happier, or iu bettor circum
stances after (i change of residence from the country
to the city. No,—no. The true Elysium,—tlie
^real Paradise on earth, is tlie country,—tlie green,
fruitful, bountiful country. The city for the ta^-
misvr and bis hard-working servant; but tlie couu-,
try for tlie man who wishes for health and leisure,—
contentment and a long life.
The ancient Romans venerated the plough, and
in thu earliest, purest times of the republic, the great-
est praise which could he given to an illustrious char-
ueter, was to say that ho was u judicious and imlus.
tiious husbandman.—Portland Advertiser.
eccent liicrn es Jinfasi iion.
In the 10th century, maimers became more re-
fined, nnd tho taste iu dress less mitre. Tho Eng.
lish tallies continued rich and expensive; yet they
lacked many of the necessaries of tin; present day.
When the earl of Leicester entertained Queen Eli
zabeth at Kenilworth, he provided a silver fork for
her, which was esteemed a singular piece of gallan
try, and a luxury, while tlie implement itself was al
most ridiculed us useless—the practice being to n«?c
the fingers. Porks were introduced, from Italy, by
Torn Coryat, the traveller, who was named Furcifer
for his pains.—Not until lflM did they at all he-
come common.
itarclny, one oftlie poets of the time, snys that
the breeding was not the best in the world.
Slow In* tin* sewer* in rewind in nhvnye,
Hilt «tv ill In* lli-’v nft'T, takiiiL’ meat ntvay.
A !*pr( i.il eil Hum u«ed i* them niiiftiif'f,
No good (tislin to Rtiflrron tmidn to lunci’.
It to' dull !»«• pica*.ulc,«lietlwr ll • li or I'mIip,
Tun tin ml* nt mica Mvnnn ia llifd^lic:
Ami it it hr HunIi, i«>a knivr-hIihIi (Iioii kto
Mangling tin* nn«l in llio platter fl**u.
rut then tliy liuml* in peril without fail,
Without a cauntlot or a glove of mull
Tiie dross of the lfith century would appear truly
fantastical to modern taste. A skirt hung over the
loins; ti long doublet laced over a stomachic, cov
ered the front of the hotly ; and a wide sleeved man
tle, a woman’s gown, tell over the skirt and descen
ded to tho ancles. There dresses were gay and
costly, made of silks, velvets, cloth of gold and cloth
of silver. There seems to have been no trilling
difficulty to know a well dressed man from a wo
man. Perhaps the Indies’s dress might he best
known hy its extensive train. It was not long be-
foVe this period that a serious and learned treatise
had been written, “Contra caudas dominaruiu”—
against the ladies* trains. Pantastieal as was this
part of feminine attire, it scarcely deserved llio sa
tiric notice of tlie hard, who added a stanza to a
poem called “Tlie Sttole House.” After harshly
abusing all women fur tltcir attachment to dross,
expense, and so on, he says.
Trowel) mime uion tlicre lio
Tlmt lyvo ulwnyr in prrat honour,
Ami imv, it po'ili l,y ilrHinia
'/’» hung or wod--liDth liuve une home.
Ami whether it hr, I mu well *mo
Hniismjr inlx'iier ol tin? iwoinr,
'Til sooner dour, und uhorlri pome!
You may be sure that this satirist upon mntriino.
ny and the sex, was some rusty old bachelor who
had never had the courage to ask a ladv to wed him !
It was precisely because be had not participated in
the pleasures of matrimony and the smiles of tin
fair that he abused them. The fable oftlie fox and
grnpc8 appear applicable in this case, at least I hopi
Who think von, now, i-tthe happy man ?” said j eyes; her tears had begun to ll
i n who stood within
lit d another,
This is the
• seen her dance with him.”
iil waltz him out of lr*r If art,”
“she is an incorrigible coquette
>f the group of gentle
few paces of him.
** Why who, if not Singleton?’, r<
“ he waltzed himself into Iw r heart
twentieth time 1 In
“Oh? another v
interpost d a third ;
from first to last.”
I fere the party s
knowing what h<
for a few minute■4,
room.
Ilf doHccndcd the stair-case, with the i.iteiition
of iptittifig the house; hut the sup|ier*roolii had just
Ih'I'ii thrown open, and the po >> carried him in.
Nor wiis he allowed to stop until he hud refehi d ihe
head oftlie table, KvefV m at Imt two, close to
• pn rated
St. Auhyn, pcnrcrU
ifter sitting alMiurted
, and passed out of the hall
W h«'
* Ik
d u vi u in hind liiin. He nt* p|H il back,
und the wait/.cr li d Id4 mi-in 4 to one of thi-iu,
and placed himsrlfiH i lo h« r. St. Atihyn would
have n treated, hot ro ,11 not without ittcoumint'itc/
I a eoiilpUUX , alio tin v. If min'd liiin til. Y ill* It 1
•In w her glove* from ihe white arms tin > liilh
enhanc'd l»v ».oiling; the wnltzir omitted her,
an I trail«fern d tin m I 1 (If etetody «»| liiikmiin.
Ill* • \< « I X'llorrd tl»e table ill I|!|e»t of fIn 1110*1 de.
lieu tit of the vim!*, wliii’h, one n 11« r (moth* r, h
n f oMlHM'iided t • her, until die made a •••leef i ni,
II lille 1 ■. w iite.pl • . with »pfifl i.g llirgtf.dv
“ llut the daughter of our neighbor, who hud a
I rich brother that sent his niece to School, and had
j determined to adopt her, having completed her time,
came upon a visit to her farther, shortly after the
return of the \oung gmitlcmun, and her mother
made her read to him r*instantly, to divert him ; and 1 4
In* grew' fond uf listening to her, and well lie might. I lov
forusweit young creature she is, and at last his! lie*
health took a turn, and lie was able to ipiit Iiis bed,
and to walk, ns lie used with you, rambling, w hole
hours, along th - shore with her.”
The eyes of Amelia wn« now lifn d to the land,
lady's face. Her t»ar> were gone, till hut the
trace s of them; th* y e« tie d m iftliey were glaz-1 fort
'•d. The landlady If! pans' d tl the sound of se.
veral voices ‘tiel a kind of hu*tle without; uud now
rail to the window.
“C m. Intli’r, Udit s? * <h» v 44 they are j t t
coining out ! ”
Amelia, by a rntivuLL ' l!bri, rose, nnd ha-tily
approached the window w ith In r mother,
44 lb re the y < ifite r< uu«d the lnudlidy.
“ The ymitig pi utlem ( n, a' • \ fell in l ive w ith Iu*
sweet v 01111 g nnr*e, mi l o I r* d t • marry h r, HIm
Getting Married.—It surprises mo to see how
speedily this thing is “done up” bv some peo
ple in our goodly land. What .should require tlie
deliberation of years, is often effected in a few
months or weeks. Some persons, it seems to me.
wore horn to he married, so utterly do they rush up
on it. They seem to think 110 more of winning the
heart of a lovely woman, and perpetrating marriage,
than they would of performing a journey or taking
a shower bath. You look into a paper of a morn-
ing, aae you behold the marriage of your old school
mate and playfellow, and you immediately wonder
that your old friend should have executed what you
have just began to think of. Why, you say, lie is
no older than myself, and if I were to get married
uow, everyone would believe me insane, and with
g >od reason. Tlmt a man can deliberately commit
matrimony at such a tender age as my friend’s, (and
lie is hut twenty-six, one year younger than myself,)
argues a recklessness which it is frightful to eon-
template. Only consider the nature of the act,
how momentous, how fraught with stupendous con
sequences, cither for good or for evil! To choose
a walking stick does not require much time or deli,
hemt ion ; and yet, me thinks, some young men he-
stow much less thought in th«' selec tion of their
helpmates than would he requisite to procure the ar
ticle just enumerated. They are violently .smitten,
at first sight, w ith a young lady, mid they make up
their minds on the spot to wed her, without ascer-
taming by a regular series of attentions, what may
b; her suitableness to preside over their house and
household. Such precipitation is dreadful, and )ot
is of daily occurrence. Young men say they have
not time to 44 roar/,”—they must tie the k.iot now nr
never—they must strike while the iron is hot.
And they do strike, and the way they get burnt is a
caution.—Boston Morning Post.
The full iwingtrib itu of filial affection came from
one of Ireland’s greatest men.—h is interesting
because it speaks the cm >tioiis<d Henry Grattan
—it is touching bcc’inse it is language of iialun*.
Thousands have expmi need tie* same feelings hut
it is not often tint they are so w ell expressed. Grat
tan’s character us a public man was uf a stern, tin-
fi.aching species ; his power* uf inv» etivo w»*re 1« r-
rililo ; so that tnjtidgu of him as he appeared in tha;
capacity, ho much softness and gentlniesinf alf c-
tion would hardly be expected from him. Hut lie
was a tru •- patriot uud u glory to the Kmerald Isle,
The extract was found among som memoranda l
iu Iiis journals or papers, and is addressed to his
in ither after her decease us though she w< re still
living:
“ \ uu were the only woman in the world who
10; th«* love \ «>u b »ro me, th* thousand kind.
I have received Iroin \uu; your tenderness,
\ our anxiety. your Iiis rnlity, \ iur maternal eoncern
for me, are a most ntfi« ting and wounding consider,
ntioil. *T • relll' llih r these obligations with til'•
gratitude tiny dew ivi-s, makes your death iiisup.
poitable. Your good eiisu, youi UK • kticss in mi -
titilde ill still' riog, th' judi- ims love
you distiibulud among \oiir children, >«mr g«m r-
in gligrncc ot \ouiM'li, place you among the
o| wi.mm.—A lh »us*iiiii imii.dile instances
1 v.rVc . a thousand mutual ublq itioits vh
had already t ill n m I •
turn, and this vry nr.
church. There lb > ar« '
♦o swei’t n *ight * Win 1
• h« ni * Th. y wen mi '<
The I 1,dink -r.n I
t. .1
• t!i I. in ; hIm
ting tin v are going I
•
, 10'.of* •’ (Id III' .
.r.me mother
and 11 1.1 ft round.
ter wove our alf'ciiotiH, erowd
Y-i'ir iucoinpar bii* quinta *e
I ui*> t on: rly proud to r»
i n hid that son himeLiuU t»
those who ki.o
■lucid have i"
ol tho*. that •<
it n
V 0 III* s, Uli'l ll
I Imt I lie tear . ni
i "ii.”— A’w/"rt
id afflict m« .
i‘ now though
ni. I lii.M 11
> in* lours of
.it < u« h 111 ru
id udliliintloll
ik>
win uiUi 1 il tu ti
l.d th. I
t-r in li t
I lot l.ii
Soon after the accession of Henry the VIII, th*
doublet and mantle became shorter, while the noth,
cr garment, elongated into something like the panta
loon, took tho place of tho short petticoat hitherto
worn by gentlemen. As the King increased in bulk,
the courtiers took to stufiing their habits to make
them resemble his—just as, in the court of Alexan
der the Great, his fashion of holding Iiis head to one
side was imitated by his courtiers. The bulky still
worn in Hnglaud by the present yeoman oftlie guard
is a remnant of the fashion introduced in complh
merit to the corpulency of the fat King.
There were changes, too, iu the attire of females,
The men having exchanged the hoods oftlie 15th
century for a course round felt hat, cap or botuu t
with a jewel in front, tlu women assumed a plain
coif composed of a roll and false hair, or w Ivet bon
net. in the latter, nil the portraits of Anna Bollein
arc represented by Hans Kolhcin. If they were
maiden, the head was left uncovered, and the hair
either hung down, or was very simply hraided with
ribband. The men wore their hair at full length,
iu graceful ringlets on their shoulders, until lh nn
VIII. directed that his attendants nnd courtiers
should cut it short, ft was about this time that pc-
rukes were first worn in Lnglaml. They enter the*
lists of fashion with no advantage, for “Paid for
Suxton, the King’s fyot, for a wig, twenty shillings,”
is a charge made hv the Treasurer of the Chambers
to Ilenry VIII. This monarch appears to have had
a jiuiicliunt for meddling w ith every thing—from the
holy mysteries of religion to the cplu moral fashions
of a Court, lie made an ordinance that doth ol
gold nnd tissue should only adorn Dukesuud Mar-
quises ; and that purple should be reserved for the
Royal family: silks and satins might he worn by
the opulent commoner; Imt none inferior to an curl
in dignity might use embroidery. The usual co-
vering for thu legs in these days was cloth boots,
and a pair of black silk hose made iu Spain, was a
present which found grent favour in the eyes of a
seven, ign ! That sovereign was Klizabcth, and the
silk stockings were a second huml pair which had
already soon servic”'.
Glider Kdward VI, the covering for men’s heads
was a plain velvet enp, worn diagonally and decora
ted w ith a jewel and a large ostrich leather.—The*
hair was cut short, the heard left full, a small ruffle
Mu-rounded tliu neck, mid the g iwn was furred w ith
sables iu front und r mud the broad sleeves, hung
over the upper part of the arm.
The female attire was then characterized by con
cealment, though the splendor of tlie dresses was
very great, hy the addition of jew els, velvets, fur-
trimmings, and cloth of gold. The garments usual-
ly consisted of long bodices, with m* without r-kirts,
or close-bodied Imbits over them, especially thus,
large hooped ones called farthingales, which were
introduced from Spain hy Qu. i n M iry.
At the . .un'! time Philip of Spain, on his mar-
riage, brought into lhigland n richer style ofdressfor
tiie men, particularly the close ruif, the doublet tit
ling exactly and stiffly under the chin, and the short
Spanish cloak, all of w hi di long remained iu fash
ion. About Ifitio, the enormous trunk “inc xpre*
hies,” introduced under Henry \ III, began to dis
appear; hut w hile they lasted they w ere carried to
su.di an absurd degree of magnitude, that in the Par
liament House, theiu were certain holes about two
inches . q.iarc in the walls, having posts in them,
supporting a seallldd all around th*’ building for
those nn nihers to sit upon w ho wore greut breeches
smiled with hair, like woolsacks.
Tnc g' lieral ladiiou under Klizabcth was nearly
stationary, and consisted of very rich doublets and
cloaks trimmed ui’hftir; full draw i s terminating
above the knee, ai d hose whi' h titled tightly to tlie
lielow them. Swords were ids > genera! y worn,
l ut an immoderate length of Made wus prohibited.
The most rein u kahie aud we!lki"w n feature ut
the costume of this time, w as tlie ru f, of plaited lin
en or CUinhriCfUro IU>I the lit ek nnd W l ists. These
ruffs spread out to a great s " , and, until the inu u-
tion ol starch, was support'd on ev» i;\ side by pit ees
ut ivory, wood and gilded nn-tid,enlli d poking sticks,
which wi re e.q.< eialiy worn by the in. n. The art
of starching, how ever, w as brought from Flanders
and in 15R1, tlw w ife <>f (iuillen ll m ii« n. the Qm ell**
eo’iehu!’ 11, Marched Iur the win* 1 " cmri, and taught
the nit t • voin," persons for n high gratuity.
( i d> r .1 ime • I, the Spanish habit continued (•> he
Worn m Kngland. li wa* chi' fl\ o| Mack, with !urp»
trunk h'""', a rapier, and a hat wuli a lofty conical
crown, with u hand nf twitted ilk, ft'qtieutly dec.
oral'd w ith j' W• I*.
|. 10 lie dh * i leel the lie. k eloivly envelop, il
'I Mill’, thud -h tin bus. 1 1 w im often i XjH.sed
'united w nil m u > tow o| large peail*. w liieb
i.h..v bei n ||k« I ivorit. I* hi I "I tin'tune.
I th« tine "I I'.I./.iIk tli, the h. ud* at I whi»ker« ol
•h* mule . \ b.id lie. nine 11111V1 t« il tlie b rine 1
%%« )-• him 11 iik w. .ru ti linin' d t • u point, h iugui|
li.wo ’*• t'l dill Mil ot til*’ lull. |ly the time o'
i .r I. |mm< v *, th" h nr wa* worn |. ng und tie
munth^tuu'. in tlw i' mim >1 a Iriitigle forflK d hv (Ik
Then, also, the ruffa and collars were worn of
rich point luce, large, hanging down on tho shoul
ders, und held by a cord and tassel at tho nock,—
such as you may see in the portraits of Vandyke- I
Tho chief habits were vests and cloaks of velvet, a
silk damask, hats of conical form, but sometime#
with broad leafs and feathers. The female dress
was more elegant than splendid ; they were charac
terized, sometimes, by a sort of gorget rufl£ standing
up nbout the neck like a fan, and sometimes by a
falling ruff, of very rich lace, hanging over tho
shoulders. Gowns with close bodies and tight
sleeves, were also worn. The hair was generally
curled, gracefully with a plain braiding or a few
flowors ; and an elegant fan, made of beautiful fea
thers, fixed in an ivory handle, was greatly in vogue.
1 have seen many portraits of ladies thus dressed,
nml question whether, nt any time a more graceful
simplicity prevailed in female attire.
The civil war and the military interregnum which
succeeded, altered the national dress, chiefly by the
addition of armour, of rendering it—to please the
puritan taste—more plain in its form, and less ex-
pensive in its materials. The female* were pre
vented from wearing lacc, jewels, and braided hair
—1 wonder how they lived under the prohibition !—
and then the men were habited in long vests nnd
leaks uf Rome dark hue, with a plain linen collar,
called a falling hand or turnover.
In the Restoration of Charles il. appeared tho
first resemblance to the present costume of coats an.l
vests, then however, generally worn on the Contin
ent. The coats were long and straight, having a
long line of buttons down the front, while the poclu
ets wore low down in tho skirts.
The vests had large flaps, also covering pockets.
Large laced ruffles were worn loose at tlie wrists
with Holland sleeves. Across the shoulders was
hung a brood sword belt of einbioidered cloth* Tho
formal lim n hand enve way to a lace cravat, and tho
military cocked hat, with feathers ut the corners,
came iu towards the end of this reign.
The female attire became extremely splendid
and fantastic. The richest materials were used,
and the use. of jewels was revived. The bosom was
in general only covered by lacc, and the common,
neck ornament was a pearl necklace.—Falling rmgj-
lets were general and graceful.
In the reign of William IIL, there was little
change of fashion, hut peruke of thick black hair,
winch had been introduced by Charles II, was still
worn—the curls very long before, or resting on the
shoulders. The. colour of tho Imir now suited tho
complexion. The peruke formed one of the most
important articles of dress, and the beaux of tlie time
wore wont to carry a tortoiseshell comb and case*,
or turn its curls over their fingers during conversa
tion, or while walking on the Mall. Coats wore
usually of velvet, without collars, having extremely
large hanging sleeves, and button boles of gold cm-
broidery ; while the cravuts were of the richest lace,
loosely tied, and hanging down in front of the vest.
About this time ladies began to wear huge head
dresses. The hair was strained over a toupee of
silk ami cotton wool, and carried up considerably
more than the length of the face. Ladies wore
long waist?, with stonmrehers of velvet, covered with
jewels.
Dress remained with but little variation in Eng.
land for nearly a century- In the early part oftlie
reign of George 111. the fashions of gentlemen were
curious. Dove colored silk was the favorite mate
rials for the clothes of a well dressed man. Swords
were worn by all gentlemen.—The hair was clabo-
ratuly dressed with pomatum and powder, until the
commencement of the present century. The black
stock, now so much in use, was once exclusively
military. If wus adopted by gentlemen after the
fashion of George IV-who, when Prince of Wales,,
took to wearing it, tlmt lie might hide tho marks
which a scrofi.fui8 disease had left upon his neck.
In 1815 Wellington boots were invented. Then,
too, was introduced the mode of stiffening cravots
by starch. Beau Brummel, ere ho departed to ex
ile and poverty, communicated his great discovery
in the aphorism—“starch makes the man !”
Within the Inst fivo-and-twonty years fashion has
varied rather than changed. Coats with waists oa
tho hip, have succeeded coats with waists just under
the arms. Female fashions have been in perpetu
al change of late. Hoops, feathers three feet high,
and all extravagancies have bad their day. In
fact nothing has hud so great a constancy of change
as fenmte fashions’.
In America, wo nrc content to have them im-
ported from Paris and London. Most of the changes
arc made by Parisian Milliners, sometimes assisted
by clever artists. 1 should like to stun d be brad. a.
screen while they are planning new dresses: it
would he quite a treat to hear them contrive a new
corsage, and invent a new sleeve. The chief aim
is to vaiy the mode, that as many new gowi.s mu t
he purchased as possible*.
I must fMj excused if I decline drawing tlie curtain
from these mysteries of the. toilette. Sleeves a beret
or gigot—Mound lacc chemisettes: cambric man-
duties corsages ala sevigne : turbans a /agree;
pearl Jerrioncres; diamond girando/ts ; coijjcures
en chvrcnx ; uud copntes a /’ Kspagne f are mysteries
which must not be discoursed upon in public. Sa
cred and secret he the names of rouge, pear! pow
der* mid nil cosmetic*. And I suppose it would Ixi
especially improper to breathe one syllable respect
ing the importance of that fundamental principle of
of female attire—the modern magician, which has
the power of conferring a good figure, upon those to
\\ horn nature has not been so kind,—the miracle of
modern art wdiicli places upon the well formed fe
male an imitation oftlie deformity of the Hottentot
Venus—the phenoinon entitled The Bustle ? Far
from m> to intrude upon the mechanism and mys.
lories of dress, but 1 mnv gently hint tbutiQlhc Mir
sex would he content with the many charms given
them by Nature, they would !>e immeasurably im
proved. None ought to be indebted to Art, except
such as owe very little to the beauty of nature.
Tn
uud (I
p|M
Envy.—Envy is u displeasure for some supposed
advantage iu another. The object of Uiis passion
i. something more desirable ; mid although excel-
li 1 •« y, pr* cihidy considered, cannot occasion dislike,
\et excellency misplaced may. The envious be-
iieves himself eclipsed hy the lustre of Iiis neigh-
bor; that which is good in itself becomes an evil
to him, and makes him wish it cither removed or
extinguished. Envy, like a cold poison, benumbs
and sttipilios; and thus, as if conscious of its own
importance, it folds its arms iu despair, und sits
cursing m a corner. When it conquers, it is com-
iiioiJn in the dark, hy treachcrv and undermining,
b\ calumny und com ruction. Ivnvy is no less fool-
i'll than detestable; it is a vice which they say
keeps no holiday, hut it is always working upon its
ow 11 disquiet*
An item from Do.mlmk life.—“Come, bustle*
iimu:.”- iiiihard 111.—A coloured w aiting-ir aid
in the set vice of a fusliioiuiblc family in the country
observing in Iter \011ng mistress a new article of
dr«>s, eloquently styled “ toiiure” decided to adopt
the Ema il dovution without encroaching on her
monthly perquisites. Klyirg to the garden sho
m oid upon a nc ruble \» llow-coated cucumber,
and thrusting a stout string through a (rout end to
( ud, sIh hunt; it in giucclui dalliui c# beneath her
mix ik nd (!nm cl, and nr« scnicd herself at the din-
ner hour I. hind iIm- < hair uf her old mtstof* Hav
ing uu 1 \» for the pieturr sque, la was not long in
(Iim'oni in g thu tuuhitiotis linnip, which at bUwkb-
id miigniD.il wnsslu'dly subjected to a delicate and
11.0*1 • mltiitrussing tUrelosuie, amply utoiu.d for,
h"W«ti-r, by tho wiping Rose Nila, l*y u prmuire
to p rnat the r» mumma %• jf table bustles to di* a
eM 1 1? 1*1 Hlt.a— JV'Vi'G (Waslfi