Newspaper Page Text
VOLUME X.
Select |)octnj.
LOVE AT TWO SCORE.
BY. WM. M. THACKERAY.
Ho! pretty page with dimpled chin,
That never lias known the barber’s shear,
All your aim is woman to win—
That is the way boys begin—
Wait till you come to forty year.
Curly gold locks cover foolish brains;
Billing and cooing is all vour cheer,
Sighing and singing of midnight strains,
Under Bonneybelt's window panes—
Wait till you come to forty year.
Forty times over let Michaelmas pass ;
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear;
Then ypu know a boy is an ass,
Then you know the worth of a lass,
Once you have come to forty' year.
Pledge me around, I bid ye declare,
All good fellows whose boards are grey,
Did not the fairest of the f:yr
Common grow, and wearisome, ere
Even a month was,past away ?
The reddest lips that ever have kissed,
The brightest eyes that ever have shone,
May pray and whisper, and we not li.st,
Or look away and never be missed,
Ere yet eveu a month was gone.
Gillian’s dead, heaven rest her bier;
Howl loved her twenty years syne!
Marian’s married, bat I sit here
Alive and merry at forty year,
Dipping my nose in Gascon wine.
THY KISS.
When the Eastern sun is beaming,
And his rnvs, so gaily streaming
Through flu* casement, wake from dreaming,
’Tis unt hi* light makes tire morning—
Brighter than his ruddy dawning
Is the glowing of thy kiss.
When day duties makes me we trv,
And the time seem.; sad and dreary ;
When there's ©ought around to cheer me—
Oh! 'tis then, with power refresh’uing,
Chasing cares, and sorrows less’uing,
Conies the memory of thy kiss.
When the gentle twilight’s closing,
Leaves the world to its reposing,
Mother-like, the soul composing—
’Tis not night’s soft voice tliat’.s hushing
My wild thoughts to quiet musing;
’Tis the breathing of thy kiss.
When kind sleep, my senses stealing,
To my fancy is unvailing
Scenes too bright for mv revealing
No soothsayer’s dark incanting,
J'aiut* theso visions, no enchanting—
'Tis the magic of thy kiss.
THE HEART.
If thou hast crushed a flower,
The root may not be blighted ;
If thou hast quenched a lamp.
Once more it may be lighted;
But on thy harp, or on thy lute,
The string that thou hast broken,
Shall never in sweet sound again
Give to thy touch a token.
If thou hast loosed a bird,
Whose voice of song would cheer thee,
Still, still, he may be won
From the skies to warble near thee;
But if upon the troubled sea,
Thou hast a gem unheeded,
Hope not that wind or wave will bring
The treasure back when needed.
If tliou hast bruised a vine,
The summer’s warmth is healing,
And its clusters still may glow
Thro’ the leaves their bloom revealiug;
But if thou hast a cup o’erthrown,
With a bright draught filled—oh! never
Shall earth give back that lavished wealth
To cool thy paicUcd lips’ fever.
The heart is like that cup,
If thou waste the love it bore thee;
And like that jewel gone,
Which the deep will not restore thee;
And like that strain of harp and lute,
Whence the sweet sound is scattered;
pently, oh ! gently touch the chords
£o soon forever shattered!
MOONLIGHT.
’Tis dancing on the river,
’Tis shining on the hill,
And where the ash boughs quiver,
And the perfumed rose sleeps still:
Ah! loved and distant one, when last
I looked upon thy brow,
’Twas such another moonlight
As that that’s round me now.
Its fairy beams are given
To rock and wave and shore.
’Tis making even heaven
Look lovelier than before;
’Tis gleaming o’er the waters breast,
O’er forest, crag, and brae,
’Tis glancing in the wild bird’s nest,
And makes him think ’tis day.
It flings its snowy whiteness
O’er the green earth like a veil,
’Tis turning with its brightness
The star-light dim and pale;
’Tis lighting up the mountain,
’Tis silvering the sea,
But loved one, lone and sad J turn
To weep and think of thee.
Cl Soutlp'vn Wffltli) L’itfvnnj niib ftlisctllnmous Smtrnnl, for % ijontc Circle.
3nf crest inn; St 0115.
ILDO STERNBERG.
A TALE OF “ CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.”
There was a certain heart sinking look
about the seedy stranger, as Mr. Talbot
told him he was in no need of help in
bis warehouse, which caused that gen
tleman to look up again and eye the
man more closely'.
H ith a half audible sigh, and with
an air of hopeless, utter despondency,
the object of lire scrutiny turned to leave
the counting room.
•‘Stay a moment, young man—what
can you do ?”
“ I have never been accustomed to
any kind of business except that of sec
retary, but T possess an excellent educa
tion, and sufficient energy to undertake
and persevere in any pursuit that may
offer itself.”
J here was a certain something in the
young man’s manner that interested the
good Mr. I’albot. So be told him to
take a seat beside linn and answer a few
questions. The young man pleased Mr.
Talbot. A mutual confidence springing
up between them, the stranger confided
to I lie good merchant bis pressing ne
cessities.
He was a Polo by birth ; In; bad been
despoiled of borne, fortune and country
at one blow, lie bad served as private
secretary for several years to an English
nobleman, but a misunderstanding bad
occurred between them, lie bad come to
this country, and he had been here sev
eral months, but not being able to get
anything to do, lie had spent bis last
penny, and had not tasted food for the
last two dare.
Mr. Talbot did not read him a lecture
on the uncertainty of human prospects,
bat lie put bis band into bis pocket, and
banding a tolerably well filled wailet to
the stranger, bid him go and make him
self first comfortable with good cheer,
and then presentable with good clothes,
and then to return to the counting room,
that he would lake him in his own em
ploy for the present, and that the con
tents of the wallet were but a part of bis
salary.
With an expression, of gratitude, the
stranger left, Mr. Talbot, wallet in band.
There was something in the lustre of his
large, earnest, gray eyes that told the
worthy merchant lie had not misplaced
his confidence.
lido Sternberg entered into his new
occupation with a zeal and comprehen
sion that showed Mr. Talbot had not
over estimated either bis moral or men
tal capacity.
Sternberg was employed to write Mr.
Talbot’s most confidential letters, and to
attend to bis most private accounts; for
tlic merchant at that time was deeply in
volved in several complicated specula
tions, all of which, if successful, were to
benefit the whole system of commerce.
After several months of unremitting
labor, the schemes ended in a sudden
failure. After honorably satisfying the
calls of all cieditors, who were involved
through the unfortunate speculations,
Mr. Talbot was enabled to pursue bis
regular business, though on a very much
reduced scale.
“A professional friend of mine wishes
a secretary, will you accept the situation,
lido ? The salary is good—far better
than anything I can offer you, for just
now, alas! I can offer you nothing. I
mentioned you to mv friend, telling him
he could not find one more capable and
one more unexceptionable in every way
than yourself.”
“ I cannot sufficiently thank you for
your good opinion of me and of your
care for me,” replied Sternberg warmly.
“ I will accept your friend’s offer, what
ever it may be, on your recommendation,
and I hope the result will prove your
good word for me not an unjust one.”
Mr. Redfield, the professional gentle
man with whom Sternberg now took up
his abode, was a lawyer of much repute,
practicing in the city, and dwelling in
much style a short ride in the country.
MADISON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, MAY 31, 1856
j “ Take care of yourself, lido, my boy,”
| said Mr. Talbot, shaking Sternberg’s ex
| tended hand and looking upon him with
the fondness of a father,
j “ I hope you will not forget your old
j friends for your new ones,” said Miss
Talbot with a pretty blush. “Father
and I shall expect to see you as often as
you can make it convenient to give us a
call.”
Fanny Talbot’s bright eye lingered
with him as he entered bis new abode.
1 hey looked up from the paper on him
day after day as it lay before liinj upon
bis desk. They accompanied him in all
his outgoings and incomings ; their light
had become the guiding star of bis life.
But yet in bis numerous visits to the
merchant’s bouse, Tldo preserved the
same respectful distance of behavior to
wards the bright Fanny that bad marked
bis conduct at first.
Mr. Talbot was once more prosperous,
and learning wisdom from experience be
pi rsued the beaten path of wealth, leav
ing chimeras to the benighted.
It had grew to be toward tlio dose of
summer, when lido Sternberg entered
the office of Mr. Redfield one morning
somewhat later than usual, and told him
he could no longer remain in his employ.
In vain did Mr. lledtield urge him to a
reason. He would give none, merely
saying he had made up his mind to go
to South America.
In about an hour after lido bad left
the office, Mr. Redfield was summoned
home; his eldest daughter bad been
found dead in the grove of woods bv the
seaside, which bad ever been her favor
ile walk. Her sister had seen her start
in the direction of the grove, early in the
morning, and had also scon young Stern
berg take the same path a short time
after, seemingly following in her foot
steps.
Isabella a dark, wilful beauty, full of
headstrong passion, and from her wit and
sparklii g playfulness was the idol of her
father and imperious mistress of both fa
ther and mother, and in fact of tile entire
household.
Some of the field laborers had seen
Sternberg conversing closely with the
beautiful Miss Redfield in the grove, and
as -oon as the news of her death reached
them, (for it spread like wild fire) they
came forward to give their testimony.'—
One of the laborers said that the young
lady seemed very much excited in her
manner and spoke angrily, and that
■ Sternberg seemed to bo expostulating
with her to do something that she seem
ed very resolute in refusing.
The testimony crowded in so closely
against poor Sternberg, that a warrant
was issued to apprehend him, and so
rapid had been all the proceedings, that
lie was taken on board a South Ameri
can packet within five minutes o£ the
time of sailing.
“Suspected and apprehended for mur
der!” exclaimed Fanny Talbot. “The
mnrder of my friend Isabel! Oh, papa,
how horrible! but lie ■is innocent. Ho
never could commit murder. The court
will find the real murderer and will ac
quit him,” and Fanny Talbot spoke con
fidently.
“ I hope so my child, but appearances
are strongly against him.”
“But, papa, you do not believe him
guilty?”
“My child, I will not say what, be
lieve. I dare not believe anything. My
good wishes are for the youth, but I fear
it will go ill with at the trial.”
“Oh, papa,” responded Fanny, fer
vently, “do not say so, even if you
think so.”
Meantime, the day of trial approached.
Fanny Talbot had watched the tide of
public opinion to discover that the uni
versal voice was against the young man
who could murder his liberal employer’s
daughter. F’anny also watched her fa
ther’s countenance to gain some consola
tion from him as to lido’s chance of ac
quittal, but she could glean nothing
there.
“To-day the trial takes place, dear
father?”
“Yes, my daughter.”
“ You are to sit in the jury box—one
of the twelve ?”
“ Yes, dear Fanny.”
“ It is a dreadful thing to decide upon
the fate of a human being, and terrible
must bo the remorse of him who senten
ces a brother to an ignominious death,
and afterwards—when it is too late—
finds the murdered man as innocent as
the one he was thougfit to have mur
dered !”
“How strange you talk," exclaimed
Mr. Talbot, startled by her words and
manner.
“Father, lido Sternberg is innocent.”
“ y ery likely,” gloomily replied I lie
father.
“And, dear father, you must not per
mit his death ; it all others insist, you
must refuse to be convinced. They can
not hang him without your sanction.”
“But, child, my friendship towards
him is known—my reputation will suffer,
may he ruined in consequence.”
“But, then, you will have saved an
innocent man from a frightful death.—
And, dear father, no one can suspect you,
who are so upright, of partiality.”
W eil, dear child, wo will see vvliat
can be done to save him.”
“ Father, you must promise me,” ex
claimed Fanny Talbot, with unwanted
vehemence; and then she poured into
her father’s ears l lie deep abiding interest
she took in (lie young man, also her
deep-seated convictions of ids truth and
innocence, and the grounds of those con
victions, saving that if ho were hung and
could have been saved bv her father, she
could not live to bear the horror of the
thought.
Deeply affected by Ids daughter’s
pleading, Mr. Talbot left her to attend
the trial with a solemn promise to do all
in his power to save the prisoner.
The trial proceeded—the evidence was
all convictingh’ against, the young Pole.
His own words were few and pointed.
He declined any explanation of the ease,
but distinctly and firmly pronounced
that he was not guilty of the charge pre
ferred against him.
Ilis calm, majestic manner did much
towards establishing his innocence in the 1
minds of some. But all the evidence
being so strong and decided against him,
the presiding judge closed his speech
with pronouncing the prisoner “guilty,”
and recommending the jury to remem
ber the responsibility resting upon them
ami their duty to society.
1 lie impatient multitude without and
within awaited the decision of the panel
for twelve hours. At length tbev re- j
turned and the crowd were hushed into j
silence.
“ W e cannot agree,” was the response
of the foreman to the usual question.
The bench was perplexed. The presi
dent went all over the whole of the evi
dence, again dilating upon the point
which proved so conclusively the prison
er’s guilt.
The jury again withdrew, and thirty
hours this time were passed before they
announced a second decision, and then
a verdict of eleven was “guilt}',” whilst
the twelth juror firmly persisted in the
belief of the prisoner’s innocence, and sol
emnly avowed that be would suffer death
himself before lie would assist in bis con
demnation.
Finding this man solemnly impressed
with the prisoner’s innocence, and his
arguments in his favor still sounding so
convincingly in their ears, to the aston
ishment and indignation of all present,
the eleven unanimously concurred with
the one in a verdict of acquittal.
The prisoner b„eiug therefore set at
liberty narrowly escaped the lynch law
of the infuriated mob without. A strong
police guard alone protected him.
Once more lido Sternberg stood upon
the deck of a vessel bound for South
America. A boy whom ho recognized
as one in the employ of Mr. Talbot, ap
proached him and placed a letter in his
hands. The captain’s orders in the
meantime had been given, the anchor
was drawn up and the brig under way.
W ith a cat like spring the agile messen
ger jumped upon the parting wharf, re
ceiving a lusty cheer from the jolly' Jack
Tars who witnessed the act.
Ildo leaned his head mournfully upon
his hands and gazed abstractedly upon
the rccecding shore.
Suddenly he bethought him of his let
ter. lie opened it and to his surprise a
roli ot bank bills fell from it. lie glanc
ed upon them; they were all bills of
largo amount. The letter merely said :
“I ou will not refuse the enclosed
train one who believes in your innocence.
\\ lien you make the fortune which I
know your energy will achieve in the
new country you are going, you can re
pay them, if yon like, to your
Sister Fanny."
Jl l roe years after the above occur
rence, a young man lay sick to death
upon his bed raving in bis delirium, to
see Mr. Redfield, the father of the mur
dered Isabel.
Mr. Redfield stood beside the dying
couch of the man who was to have been
the husband of bis daughter.
“I am sorry to see you so low, my
poor Augustus,” said Mr. Redfield kind
iy-
“ Oh, speak not to mo! It was I who
stabbed Isabel?” exclaimed the voting
man wildly.
All were horrified at these words.—
His mother ami sisters imputed them to
the delirium of disease; but when bo
grew more calm, and solemiy repeated
bis assertions, they were forced to be
lieve him.
Before bis death be narrated all the
particulars of bis unnatural deed.
It seems that, the proud Isabel, from
tho tiiiiu thejliandsome Sternberg entered
her father’s bouse, had smiled less gra
ciously upon her affianced, Augustus
Raymond. Stung to madness and jeal
ousy, he had watched thorn together,
had heard Isabel the evening previous,
appoint the grove as a meeting place,
that she had something very particular
to say to Sternberg.
Augustus repaired himself to the
spot before the day dawned, secreted
himself—heard the conversation ; saw
the reluctance of Sternberg—beard the
passionate Isabel avow her love for him,
and urge him to make her his wife.—
Sternberg refilled her gently but firmly.
At first she was angry, but lie soothed
her into quiet, and left her after confes
sing to her that lie loved another. She
acquitted him of attempting ill the
s’ightest degree to gain her love, and as
he turned to depart, she smiled sweetly
upon him, and said she would try to
forget him except with the love of a sis
ter, hut that none other could ever sup
ply bis place in her affections.
Perfectly infuriated with passion, Au
gustus Raymond stood before her on
Sternberg’s departure, and reproached
her more like a demon than a mail with
her perfidy.
Her manner was so haughty and in
dignnnt, that insane with jealousy and
passion, her discarded lover plunged the
fatal steel into her fair bosom, and then
darting info the thicket and made his
escape with the cunning caution that
eluded the eyes of all, and locking the
fearful secret tip in his own breast, he
escaped without being suspected even
of the foul deed.
The repentant lover died, and the fa
ther of the murdered girl wished to
make reparation to the falsely accused
Sternberg.
Finding the turn affairs bad taken,
Fanny Talbot confessed to her father,
with a countenance with blushes, that
she knew the hiding place of the ac
quitted Ildo. She had corresponded
with him faithfully in his exile.
A few weeks more and the now hap
py Sternberg returned to his friends
more highly in favor than he ever was
before.
It was with a proud exalted lieait
that tho fond father placed his daugh
ter’s baud in that of Ilda Steruberg, who
under an assumed name had won both
fortune and fame during his exile—he
had also proved himself in all ways wor
thy of the trust now reposed in him —
the sacred trust of the safe keeping of
a loving woman’s heart and happiness.
iWiiscdlavimiß.
A Word to Daughters at Home.
Dear young friends, will you listen to
a word of counsel respecting your pres
ent duties, and also intimately connected
with your present and future happiness?
You have a pleasant home, you Lave
kind parents; bow inestimable these
blessings ! Do all you can to add to
the comfort of your home, all you can
to lessen the care of those best friends,
who ever bear you on their hearts, and
would almost lay down their lives for
your good. Anticipate their wishes, and
meet them promptly, if in your power,
without being told. Make yourself so
acquainted with household duties, and
so happy in their performance that you
can move about quietly and relieve your
toil-worn mother, and thus begin to re
quite her labors of love for you, when
you were young and helpless. Never
for a moment indulge tho thought that
work is dishonorable, or that a scientific
and practical knowledge of home duties
is inconsistent with a literary education,
i rue, you may not be able to pursue
tho latter at home, to the extent of your
wishes, and the time may not have come
for you to go elsewhere. You may have
learned to feel that education is of im
mense value—may have a natural love
for books, and much prefer reading and
study to active employment, and may
therefore enter upon tho routine of do
mestic avocations, restless and dispirited,
l’erhaps your youthful face that should
ever be bright with cheerfulness and
hope, distilling gladness wherever it
moves, may wear a frown tending to
habitual morosenOss that you would fain
avoid. If such are the circumstances
of any of our readers, let us say to you
in all kindness, do not look a moment
longer on the dark side. Do not feel
that the noble aspirations of your soul
are to be crushed, or disappointed. Be
ready and willing to do present duties
with alacrity, and doors will be open iu
due time where your laudable love for
study may be fully gratified. If you
have at rived at the age of fifteen, you
should be capable of assuming occasion
ally the care of the family, of keeping
the house in perfect order, cutting and
making most of your own clothing, pre
p ring food for the table, and entertain
ing company with ease and grace, theso
are things to be learned at home, and
that cannot be learned at school, and
they are an indispensable part of female
education. If you are conscious that
you excel in these old-fashioned accom
plishments, then press forward with eag
erness in intellectual pursuits, as oppor
tunity offers, but do not take up French,
Latiu, Algebra, or a half dozen of this
class of studies, if you are at all defi
cient in Orthography, Penmanship,
Grammar and Arithmetic. With these
common school studies bo thoroughly
familiar, also with the laws of life. Lot
other things come in their order. What
ever may he your pursuits, do not ne
glect the daily, prayerful study of the
Scriptures. Let the Bible be the guide
of your youth ; it will aid you to bear
life’s early trials, discharge the duties of
your station, and fit you for tho Future.
Be at home all that a daughter should
bo, and you will gain that good name,
which is rather to be chosen than great
riches. To those taken into families to
be brought up, we would give the same
advice. Act well your part. Do not
acquire tho habit of offering to do this
or that, instead of doing what you see
needs to be done. Aim to please by do
ing all that is light. Be amiable, kind
and efficient, and you will be loved.
Young ladies in your teens, a few
years hence, and lens of thousands of
homes of our country will be mado
happy or miserable through your instru
mentality. It will bo yours to give them I
NUMBER 22
an air of comfort, respectability, order
and neatness, or disorder, disquiet, and
all that divests homo of its charms.—
Your conduct now must indicate wheth
er it shall be the former or the latter.—
Seo to it that you resolve wisely, and
act accordingly.
A Touching Incident.
A little girl, in a family of my ac
quaintance, a lovely and precious child;,
lost her mother at an age too early to
fix the loved features in her remember
anee. Site was as frail as beautiful ;
and as the bud of her heart unfolded,
it seemed as if won ,by that mother’s
prayers to turn instinctively heavenward.
The sweet, conscientious,, prayer-loving
child was the idol of the bereaved fam
ily. She would be upon the lap of the
friend who took a mother’s care of her,
and, winding one wasted arm about her
nock would say ; “ Now (ell me about
my mamma?” And when the oft-told
talo had been repeated would softly ask,
“ Take me into the parlor and let mo
seo my mamma.” The request was
never refused, and the affectionate child
would lie for hours, contentedly gazing
on her mother’s portrait. But
u J’ule and wan she grew, and weakly—
Bearing all her pains so meekly,
That to them she still grew dearer,
As the trial hour drew nearer.”
The hour came at last, and the weep •
ing neighbors assembled to see the lit
tle one die. The dew of death was al
ready on the flower and its life sun was
going down. The Jiltlu chest heaved
faintly—spasmodically.
“ Do you know me darling ? ” sobbed
close in her ear the voice that was dear
est ; but it awoke no answer.
All at once a brightness, as if from
the upper world, burst over the child’s
colorless countenance. The eyelids
flashed open, the lips parted, the wan,
cuddling hand flew up, in the little one’s
last impulsive effort, as she looked pierc
ingly into the far above.
“Mother!” she cried, with surprise
and transport in her tone—and passed
with that breath into her mother’s bosom.
Said a distinguished divine, who stood
by that bed of joyous death : “If I had
never believed in tho ministration of de
parted ones before, I could not doubt it
now! ”
“ Peace I leave with you,” said tho
wisest Spirit that ever passed from earth
to heaven. Let us bo at peace, amid
the Spirit-mysteries and questionings on
which His eye shall soon shed the light
of eternity.
Surtouts for Ladies.
Anew article of ladies’ dress has
made its appearance in Broadway, and
as a desciiption of it msy prove of in
terest to our lady readers, we give one
we find in tho Home Journal. That
paper says I “ A promenade over-dress
—being a close fitting coat like the New
York surtout worn only by gentlemen
only not so long. It is all the rage at
present in Paris, and pear drab cache
mere or pelisse cloth are tho goods pre
ferred. The cut is double breasted; with
four pearl, or passomenterio buttons on
each side of the lapels, and two buttons
at the waist behind, at tberjunction of
the box plaits and side seams. The col
lar is quite small. Tho sleeves are cut
in pagoda style—that is, with a very
little fullness at the arm hole, and form
ed to fit the arm nearly to tho elbow,
from whence they widen so as to become
very largo and (lowing at the wrist
where they are turned over to form a
round cuff of three inches depth. For
a waist sixteen inches in length, the
skirts should bo about eighteen-inches
kng, and cut in a regular circle, to sew
without fullness to tho bodice, and still
fall gracefully over a hooped skirt of
moderate amplitude. The linings aro
of silk serge to match, and tho edges
are bound with tine galloon. There are
two diagonal pockets in tho skirts. This
garment should be cut and made by a
tailor who posseses some knowledge of
the ornamental art, when it becomes tho
most attractive and comfortable garment
for promenade that was ever adopted by
the ladies