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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