Newspaper Page Text
VOLUME X.
(Original |fortnj.
Written for the Visitor.
FLOWERS.
Children of Summer! cradled by Spring,
Around me a spell of enchantment ye fling;
In each leaf and blossom strange beauty I see,
And your sweet laden breathing seems music to
me I
Daughters of loveliness! stars of the earth.
Surely the spirit and witnessed your birth;
Sojpe angel that wept o’er this dark world of ours,
From bis tear drops created ye, beautiful flowers!
Types of our happiness! bruiiant and frail,
Yonr glory is scattered by every rude gaie;
With the sunshine of.Summeryc vanish away,
Like the '.)o|ies of life’s spring time, ye bloo:.'. and
decay!
Teachers of holiness! speak to the heart,
Tell that its freshness like yours must depart—
But the fragrance of virtue, like yours may arise,
Iu incense of gratitude meet for the skies!
Susis Ssownaor.
Jfaduom, (7a.
I REMEMBER.
I remeieber thy 1 .ve, low it sank in my ’ roast
Lbe the blase of the sti *. melting down iu tl,e
west,
Till its rabe o’er the clou Is of she fiilur. was rash
And its dory hr.d , ;\\ and the dim halls of lbe pasr.
.Jut I know that its gleam >vasa mocker;,* of truth,
And I spurn tli falseid**ll w -rshipped in youth!
1 felt not, 1 feared not the depth f its power,
Till the offerings for ears were refuse*! in an hour*
Like a bright morning star to the billows dark
strife
Was the light of thy smile i the waves of my
life—
I was w.roed by thy glance in its -eaot • an 1
pride,
As the ocean is ruled by the oyieon of its tide.
But a storm rolled between the bright sie.r ad
the sea,
And Ihe smile of tbv mirth is unheeded by me;
Thy spell has departed, the power is mine,
And the tide of my heart heaves no longer t
thine.
I remember my rapture, when, chainless and light
Thy spirit v ent forth, ! : ke a dove on its U<gt>t;
And I deemed thy ahoctiOM more priceless in
worth,
Than the diamonds that glow in the mines of the
earth*.
But alas! thou shall feel that I love thee no
more—
T' ou shalt weep in thy wealth for the treasures
of yore,
Forthy spirit, once free, int bondage is sold,
Aud the pearl of thy bosom is barters 1 for gold.
Farewell I 1 shall meet thee, but not to restore
The joy which thy brow in its purity w* re:
Thou shalt think of mylove, thon .-halt mourn
f *r its end,
Till the world appears worthless, unblest with a
friend,
1 1 will not upbraid thee, but Memory shall start
[ lake a night-bird that lurks in tte shades of thy
heart,
And Ling round thy pathway through life’s deser*
waste.
Till the footprints of peace from its sai. Is are
ed’acel.
m-
SMILE OER THE DEAD.
BT JKXNY MARSH.
Smile o’er the dead,
Ch’de buck thy wild sorrow,
Thy dread of the morrow.
Dreary and long,
When thon wilitbe missing
One that is gone;
But press the white brow
More tenderly now.
And thank thy kind Father
For calling her home.
Lift the cold hands, .
And clasp the white fingers,
As if there still lingered
Welcome for tbee.
Oh r clasp them more warmly,
Though icy they be,
For they have been near thee,
To comfort and cheer thee.
When thy bark was wrecking
Afar on the sen.
Smdeon the dead;
Yes, smile when ye miss her—
That pure, gentle sister:
Weep that ye stay,
To be but a mourner
Os a dark day.
But yearn in thy weakness
For her holy meekness
And her Angel spirit
To guard thee alway.
Smile o’er the dead;
Not thine be the weeping
O’er one that is sleeping
* Unburdened of care;
I N°v chide thy heart’s yearning
| To rest by her there;
But smile o’er the pillow
Os her that is blest,
And ask God to call thee
When He thinketh best.
A BROWN STUDY.
I sat me down in thought profound
This maxim wise I drew;
Its easier far to like a girl,
Than make a girl like you!
But after all I don't believe,
My heart will break with woe;
Ii she’s inclined to lore “ that chap "
Why, bless hsr, let her got
91 Sontljcrn Wtrltlij Citmm) nub Ittiscriluneons Smtrnal, for t\)t Ijomc Circle.
3L Capital Sianj.
LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE.
No wooing had proceeded marriage,
It was merely a marriage de convenance,
both parties understood and regarded it
so. It was not they that were married,
but the broad lands and fertile estates of
l their parents. Strange that any man,
much more any woman, could stoop to
so false an act! But Hugh Grandison
might and would have loved his beauti
ful bride had it not been for the stately
coldness of her demeanor; he had been
unsoilod by contact with the world and
longed for happiness and home. Alice
Charlton cared little for either, and still
less for him. In her first girlhood she
had plighted her faith to one who left
her for a time, and died in a far off land
of gold—died before one word or mes
sage could be sent to her he loved—died
alone and among strangers, and was
buried where her tears could never mois
ten the turf on his breast!
They told the tidings to Alice, little
dreaming that the lonely adventurer had
! been aught to her. She was in her own
elegant home, surrounded by a brilliant
circle of guests, while Hugh Grandison
leaned over her chair, and bent his ad
miring eye upon her queenly fucc and
f >r(it. She heard the speaker through ;
the rich col. r died slowly out of her
cheeks, leaving her Alike and stern ; her
lips shut firmly as if they would repress
; a shriek of agony ; her large dark eyes
wandered round the group with a gaze
of passionate despair. The wondering
looks ot ail around recalled her to her
self, and making a graceful apology for
her sudden abstraction, she played her
part so successfully, that no one guessed
the secret she guarded with Spartan like
firmness.
Not until she was alone in her chamber
did the storm burst forth. She mourned
as she had loved, most deeply and paa
; sionately, but to the world she seemed
i unmoved. A little colder—a little haugh
tier—a little more impatient of out spo
ken admiration and love, she seemed;
but feeling was unfashionable in her ex
clusive circle, and none knew, or cared
to know, that the heart beating within
her breast, was a heart of stone.
A year passed away. The father of
Alice seeing that she was in no way in
clined to chose one from her many lovers,
chose for her and selected Hugh Grand
ison as his future son-in-law. The young
man was only too eager and willing to
accept the fair hand offered him, but
when her father brought him to her as
an acknowledged lover, she checked all
his raptures and said coldly— 11
“ Mr. Grandison, let us have a perfect
understanding. I do not love you; I
: never shall love—" a look of pain shot
over her calm face as she repressed the
world “ again.” She paused for a mo
ment, and then went on, with her cold
dark eyes bent full upon his face.
“ But my father wishes us to marry—
your parents wish it—you wish it, and I
am not opposed to the measure. But I
beg you to understand distinctly that,
while I give a wife’s duty, you must
never look for her love or blind submis
sion. From the moment we leave the
altar, our lives must be seperate, though
our home is one. On these conditions
and these only, I will give you my hand'
Are they accepted i"
The young man stood for a moment
bewildered. There was no mistaking
her words or manner. Those clear dark
eyes, that scornful lip and haughty brow,
assured him that she had spoken the
truth, and no love was there; but he had
long cherished a passion for her, and
hoping that his fervent love might win
some affection in return, when they were
one in the eyes of the world, he clasped
the small, fair hand in his, raised it to
his lips, and answered:
“I accept. And it shall be the study
of my like to make you happy.”
“Be it so,” was her unmoved reply,
and then she left him.
MADISON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, APRIL 26, 1856.
The engagement was soon made pub
lic, and all eyes were curiously scanning
the happy pair. They could find no
fault with the ill ccncealed devotion of
the lover; and the calm, unmoved way
in which Alice received his attentions, or
listened to his whispered words, was ac
knowledged to be the very perfection of
high breeding. “A queen could not be
more tranquilly self-possessed,” was the
general verdict, as all looked eagerly for
i ward to the bridal.
[ It came, ere long, on a bright sunny
[ spring day. The splendid parlors v ero
filled with the fashionable friends of both
parties, and a murmur of congratulation
greeted the lovely bride as she turned
from the altar with cheeks and lips as
white as the snowy satin robes she wore.
She received that first caress as calmly as
though be were but one of the glittering
throng around her, and when all had
wished her joy, she retired to her apart
ments, preserved an unbroken silence,
while her dressing maid robed her in her
plain traveling dress, and joined the party
once again, attired for her journey.—
Calmly and coldly were all her farewells
spoken; but when she came to her fa
ther, her forced composure gave way,
and throwing her arms around his neck>
she clung to him a moment in silent,
tearless agony. It was her Inst display
of weakness. She heard his parting
blessing, and sitting by the side of her
husband, was whirled rapidly away from
the home of her childhood.
A month elapsed before the pair re
turned to occupy their elegant mansion,
far “up town." But in that month a
change had taken place in' Grandison.
He seemed restless, uneasy and agitated;
he followed the stately movements of
his wife with anxious eyes; he was un
happy in her society, and wretched away
from her side; iu short, he was little
like the merry, light hearted bachelor,
his dearest friends had known, and one
and all foreswore matrimony on the spot
since it had altered him so.
It was not long ero Madame Rumor
reported the startling fact that the prince
ly household was carried on upon the
European plan, that the gentleman ahd !
lady occupied separate apartments, and
only met at stated hours in the great
drawing rooms below. Great was the
wonder of the “ upper ten;" many the
surmises hazarded upon it, but no one
dared question the parties most deeply
interested, and they held their peace.
In public and private Alice was uni
formly kind and polite to her husband;
but this was all, and the wondering city
had an opportunity of witnessing that
anomaly—a man violently in love with
his own wife, and seekihg in vain to win
her.
I doubt if Alice saw the struggle
in his mind. Her own feelings were
benumbed—her own heart seemed cold
and dead. Judging his nature by her j
rigid observation of all wifely propriety
and diguity—it was all he required of
her—she was true to the letter of her
vow, and her spirit was at rest.
Two years had passed away. It was
the anniversary of her wedding night,
and Alice Grandison sat in her boudoir,
robed for a party and only waiting the
arrival of her husband, who was to escort
her. The years had changed her little- j
She was fair and proud as ever. Her
robe of azure velvet—her coronet of
pearls and diamonds—her necklace, with
its heavy diamond crosa, her bracelets,
and the single ring she wore, were fit
adornments for an empress, and right
well did she become them. She was
alone, and touching a secret spring in
her private escritoire, she took from a
small drawer, two miniatures cased in
gold, and laid them side by side. One
was that of her dead lover—the other of
her husband. Leaning her head upon
her hands, she gazed long and earnestly
at the two, and as her dark eyes dimmed
with tears, the could not but acknowl
edge the shadowy likeness that existed
between the loved and the unloved. It
was a faint and shadowy one, but still
it was no fancy. A something on the
lip, cheek and brow—the same careless
arrangement of the waving hair—and
more than all, the same earnest loving
intensity of look and expression in the
deep blue eyes. This, never seen before,
was what now chained her attention to
both.
The small pendule over the mantel
piece struck the hour of nine, and with
a deep sigh she replaced the portraits in
the drawer, and left the room. She
rang, on reaching the drawing room, to
ask for her husband. There was a bus
tle and the sound of many feet in the
hall bolow, before her summons was
answered, and then the servant who en
tered looked pale and frighteuod. A
strange, sickening sensation crept over
her as she asked—
“ Where is your master ? ”
The servant stammered, hesitated,
and cast strange looks towards the door.
Dreaming she knew not what, she step
ped out into tlie hall, and looked down
the wide stairs. Four men were ascend
ing, bearing a motionless form between
them. The long hair hnng down to
wards the floor, and from a wound in
the forehead the dark red blood was
flowing freely. They stopped short when
they saw her awaiting them ; they evi
dently dreaded the scene, but she was
firm aud calm, though heavy at her heart
lay the thought, “If he is dead, how
can I forgive myself for the unhappi.
ness I have caused him! ”
Obeying her calmly 3poken orders,
they laid him down upon a sofa, in the
splendid drawing room. lie had been
struck down, before his own dwelling,
by a runaway horse, and the family phy
sician, who was instantly summoned,
gave little hopes of his recovery. The
wretched wife sat close beside him while
the unsightly wound was closed; his
blood flowed unheeded over her rich
attire, and one small white hand was
crimsoned, as it held his head ; for the
first time her pale lips pressed his own ;
for the first time she laid her cheek to
his, and called him by a thousand endear
ing names; for the first time the
knowledge that she loved him caine to
her in tenfold misery. The estrang3ment
of years was forgotten ; the stone rolled
away from the door of her heart, and
its living waters gushed out once more.
But he who would have per’e'ed lifo
aud limb for one unsolicited carrcss from
her, now lay pale and still while she
pressed him to her heart; and the love
that he had sought in vain during life,
seemed given only too late—only to
waste itself upon a palid corpse—a gild
ed coffin and a lonely grave!
She watched beside him, day and
night, in the chamber where ho bad
spent so many lonely bours. Into this
room she had scarcely entered since he
had installed her mistress of his house
hold ; and everywhere she saw such
traces of his love for her, as pierced her
very heart. In a small alcove beyond
his bed, hung ber portrait, the first and
last thing he saw as he opened and closed
his eyes. A small inlaid cabinet held
the gifts she had bestowed upon him
from time to time; a favorite book—a
picture—a tress of dark brown hair—
withered bouquets—a small golden star
and many things which she bad given
ceremoniously or lightly, which he had
treasured as his choicest possessions.
The glitter of a golden chain upon
bis neck attracted her attention, as she
bent above him one-night. Safely she
drew it forth, and gazed upon a splendid
picture of her self, set in a small gold
frame. She gazed in silence for a mo
ment, but when upon the other side she
noticed a ring,—the wedding ring that
she had never worn—her composure
gave way. Pride had left her heart,
and love usurped its place. Sinking
upon ber knees by the bedside, while her
tears fell fast upon the dear hand that
lay feebly on the counterpane, she pray
ed as she had never prayed before, that
God would spare his life, that she might
atone for her sin by yean of patien;
and enduring love.
Her prayer was heard, for God is mer
ciful even when we sin most deeply. All
night she watched beside him. With
the early dawn the physician (now do
mesticated in the house,) entered the
room. He held the shrunken hand in
his for one moment, gave one searching
glance into the marble like face, and
turning to her, said briefly—
“ Your care lias saved him ; he wi6
live ! ” Late in the afternoon of that
day Alice sat beside the bed, waiting for
the long deep slumber to be broken, that
she might see those blue eyes look up at
her once again. Site was dressed as for
a bridal, in a robe of pearly satin, with
no ornaments save a single white rose in
her dark hair, another on her breast.
The color deepened in her cheeks as the
eventful hour drew near; her fine eyes
glowed and sparkled with the love so
'°ng imprisoned, and so suddenly set
free.
The golden hands of her watch point
ed to the hour of seven, when the sleep
er moved slight _ , drew a long sigh, and
opened his eyes. She bent above him
with a beating heart*; his gaze wandered
uneasily around the room, fixed upon
her—kindled, and ho tried to smile.
Very gently she passed her arm beneath
the aching head, and drew it towards
her, till it rested upon her breast; very
gently her warm lips fell upon his brow;
very gently the tears, which she could
not quite repress, fell upon his watered
cheek.
lie looked up in a strange, surprise,
and asked faintly— •
“ Alice, what does this mean ? ”
“It means that you must live to for
give me,” she sobbed. “ That I love you
: with my whole heart, and none but you! ’>
j Ah, his tears were falling now ! Too
weak to feel astonishment, he could only
s thank God silently. He drew herwitha
feeble hand to bis heart, and whispered—
“My wife! God bless you. Life is
worth the living now !”
Tbeir lips met in a long, long kiss of
reconciliation and forgiveness. AH was
silent in the chamber: for happiness
like their’s there is no language.
A Daring Feat. —The Rochester
Advertiser states that a few days ago, a
man cut a cane from Blackbird Island,
overhanging Niagara Fails. The feat
was performed in this wise: The ice had
made from shore a considerable distance,
until it was almost met by the ice from
this island; but still there was a fright
ful space between, where the water was
boiling and surging over the cataract.
Nothing daunted at this, he procured an
eighteen foot ladder with which he crept
along the ice, and managed to throw it
over, so that both ends rested on the
edge of the ice across the gulf, and then
went across himself on the rounds of
the ladder. After cutting a stick of red
cedar sufficient to make three or four
oanes, he fastened it over his shoulder
and then made the perilous return over
the rounds of the ladder, in the same
way he went. The slightest giving way
of the ice, his frail bridge and himself
would have been burled into instant de
struction ; or had he missed his hold in
the least, certain and instantaneous death
would have been the consequence. The
river has never been so fiilled with ice
above the falls as at present, and a cen
tury may roll around before this perilous
teat could be accomplished again.”
Luxuries for Cattle. —Sidney Smith
used to say: “I am full of cheap lux
uries, even for animals; now all animals
have a passion for scratching their back
bones ; they break down gates and pal
ings to effect this. Look there is my
universal scratcher, a sharp-edged pole,
resting on a high and low post adapted
to every height, from a horse to a lamb.
Even the Edinburgh Reviewer can take
his turn; you have no idea how popu
lar it is. I have not had a gate broken
sin re I put it up. I have it in all my
fields.”
Our greatest glory consists not in never
falling, but in rising every time we fall.
ittiscelltmcotts.
Invention of Printing.
The following account of the inven
tion of Printing is given by an ancient
German chronicler of the name of Tri
themius who appears to have personally
known one of the three persons wbo
clearly seem to have the best title to be
called the inventors of printing.
“At this time, in the city of Mentz on
the Rhine in Germany, and not in Italy,
as some have erroneously written, that
wonderful and then unheard of art of
printing, and "characterizing books was
invented and devised by John Gutten
berger, a citizen of Mentz, who, having
expended almost tho whole of his pro
perty in the invention of this art, and on
account of the difficulties which he ex
perienced on all sides, was about to
abandon it altogether; when, by the ad
vice and through the means of John
Fust (or Faust), likewise a citizen of
Mentz, he succeeded to bring it to per
fection. At first they formed (engraved)
the characters or letters in written order
«i blocks of wood, and in this manner
eyjprinted the vocabulary called a
“ Catholicon.” But with these forms
they could print nothing else, because
the characters could not be transposed
in these tnblets, but were engraved
thereon as wo have said. To this inven
tion succeeded a more subtle one, for
they found out the means of cutting the
forms of all the letters of the alphabet
which they called matrices, from which
again they cast characters of copper or
tin of sufficient hardness to resist the ne
cessary pressure, which they had before
engraved by hand. And truly, as I
learned thirty years since from Peter
Opilio (Schoeffer) de Gernsheirri, citizen
of Mentz, who was the son-in law of the
first inventor of this art, great difficulties
were experienced after the first invention
of this art of printing, for in printing the
Bible, before they had completed the
third quarternion (or gathering of four
sheets), 4000 florins were expended.—
This Peter Schoeffer, whom we have
above mentioned, first servant and after
wards son-in-law to the first inventor,
John Fust, as we have said, an ingenious
find sagacious man, discovered the more
easy method of oasting the types, and
thus tho art was reduced to the complete
stale in which it now is. These three
kept this method of printing secret for
some time until it was divulged by some
of heir workmen without whose aid this
art could not have been exercised; it
was first developed at Strasburg, and
soon became known to other nations.—
And thus much of the admirable and
subtle art of printing may suffice—the
first inventors were citizens of Mentz.—
These three first inventors of Printing,
(videlicet) John Guttenberger, John Fust,
and Peter Schoeffer his son-in-law, lived
at Mentz, in the house called Zum Jun
gen, which has even since been called
the Printing-office.”
The invention of Schoeffer, which,
whatever might have b in its first me
chanical imperfections, undoubtedly com
pleted the principle of printing, is more
pasticularly described in an early docu
ment, which is given in several learned
learned works on typography, as pro
ceeding from a relation of Fust. It is as
follows:—Peter Schoeffer, of Gernsheim,
perceived his master Fust’s design, and
being himself ardently desirous to im-
prove the art, found out, (by the gooc
providence of god) the method of cutting
(incidendi) the characters in a matrix,
that the letters might each be singly
cast, instead of being cut. He privately
out matrices for the whole alphabet; and
when he showed his master the letters
cast from these matrices, Fust was so
pleased with tbe contrivance, that he
promised Peter to give him his only
daughter Christian* in marriage; a pro
mise which he soon after performed.—
But there were as many difficulties at
first with these letters, as there bad been
before with wooden ones; the metal
being too soft to support tbe force of the
NUMBER 17
impression; but this defect was soon
remedied by mixing the metal with a
substance which sufficiently hardened
it.” John Schoeffer, the son of Peter,
who was also a printer, confirms this ac
count, adding, “Fust and Shoefler con
cealed this new improvement by admin
istering an oath of secrecy to- all whom,
they intrusted, till the year 1462, when,,
by the dispersion of their servants into
different countries, at the sacking of
Mentz by the Archbishop Adolphus, the
invention was publicly divulged”—
Charles Knight.
“The Old Woman ”
It was thus, a few days since, wo
heard a stripling of sixteen years desig
nate the mother who bore him. By
coarse husbands we have heard wives
so called occasionally, though in the lat
ter case the phrase is more often used
endearingly. At all times, as common
ly spoken, it jars upon the ear and shocks
the sense. An 1 old woman ”is an ob
ject of reverence above and beyond al
most all phazes of humanity. Her age
should be her surest passport to courte
ous consideration. The aged mother of
a grown up family needs no other cei
tificate of worth. She is a monument
of excellence, approved and warranted.
She has fought faithfully the “good
fight,” and comes off conquerer. Upon
her venerable face she bears the marks
of the conflict in all its furrowed lines.
The most grievous of the ills of life
have been hers; trials untold and un
known only to God and herself she has
borne incessantly; and in her old age—
her duty done, patiently awaiting her
appointed time—she stands more truly
beautiful than in youth, more honorable
and deserving than he who has slain his
thousands, and stood triumphant upon
the proudest field of victory.
Young man, speak kindly to your
mother, and even courteously—tenderly
of her 1 But a little time and you sha I
see her no more forever! Her eyes is
dim, her form is bent, and her shadow
falls graveward! Others may love you
when she has passed away—kind heart
ed sisters, or she whom of all the world
you may choose for a partner—she may
love you warmly, passionately—children
may love you foudly ; but never again,
never while time is yours, shall the love
of woman be to yon as that of your old,
trembling, weakened mother has been.
In agony she bore you through pul
ing, helplesi infancy her throbbing
breast was your safe prolection and sup
port —in wayward, tetchy boyhood she
bore patiently with your thoughtless
rudeness, and nursed you safely through
a legion of ills and maladies. Her hand
it was that bathed your burning brow or
moistened the parched lips; her eye that
lighted up the darkness of wasting night
ly vigils, watching always in your fitful
sleep, sleepless by your side as none but
her could watch. Oh! speak not her
name lightly, for you cannot live for so
many years as would suffice to thank her
fully. Throogh reckless and impatient
youth she is your counselor and solace.
To a bright manhood she guides your
improvident steps, nor even then forsakes
or forgets. Speak gently, then, and
reverently of your mother; and when
you, too, shall be old. it shall in some
degree lighten the remorse which shall
be yours for other sins, to know that
never wantonly have you outraged the
respect due to “Old woman.”
Sydney Smith being annoyed one
evening by the familiarity of a young
gentleman who, though anew acquaint
ance, was encouraged by the canon's
jocular reputation to address him by his
surname alone, and hearing him tell
that he must go that evening to visit for
the first time thejArchbishop of Canter
bury, the reverend gentleman patheti
cally said, “ Pray don’t clap him on the
back and call him Howley.”
A wag states that he always looks
under the marriage head for news of the
weak.