The Southern Democrat. (Oglethorpe, Ga.) 1851-1853, November 06, 1851, Image 1
By P. L. J. MAY.3
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POETRY.
I Like an Open, Honest Heart.
I like an opertf'honcst heart,
Where frankness loves to dwell.
Which has no place for base deceit,
Nor hollow words can tell;
Butin whose throbbing* plain are seen,
The import of the mind,
Whose gentle breathings utter naught,
But accents true and kind.
I scorn that one whose empty act
And honeyed words of art,
Betray the feelings of the soul,
With perfidy’s keen dart;
No more kind friends, in such confide.
Nor in their kindness trust,
For black ingratitude but turns
Pure friendship to disgust.
Contempt is but a gentle word,
A feeling far too mild.
For one who confidence betrays,
And guilt has sore beguiled;
The hate which hellish fiends evince,
When in dark torments tossed,
Is not more loathsome to the soul,
Thun one to honor lost.
Then give me one with heart as free
And generous as the air;
Whose ready hand and greeting kind
Give proof that truth is there;
Whose smiling countenance well shows
Affection warm is found.
And spring as pure as saints, whose notes
Through Heaven’s vault resound.
A pretty Little Maiden.
A pretty little maiden had a pretty little dream.
A pretty little wedding was its pretty little theme,
A pretty little batehelor to win her tavor tried,
And asked her hovv slic’d like to be a pretty little
bride.
With some pretty little blushes, and a pretty lit
tle sigh, ,
And some’ pretty little glances from the pretty
little eve,
With a pretty little face behind a pretty little tan,
She smiled on the proposals of this pretty little
man.
Some pretty little “loves,” and some pretty little
“dears.”
Some pretty little smiles, and some pretty little
tears,
Some pretty little present, and some pretty little
Were the pretty preludes to some pretty little
bliss.
This pretty little lady and her pretty little spark
Met the pretty little parson and his pretty little
clerk; ,
A pretty little wedding-ring united them for hie,
A pretty little husband nnd a pretty little w ile.
lIIISCELIiANEOIJS.
The Vicar’s Daughter.
A SKETCH.
“And this is love.”—X. X*. X.
“Is not the coach very late this evening ?” cried
Nora Hums, a3 she came skipping down the gar
den walk of the secluded vicarage of D—“l in
sure it must be past its time. 1 ’
“Nay, my dear Nora,” replied her elder sister,
who was half hidden among the trees, “methinks
it is your gay and bapyy disposition which has
outrun even four fleet horses.”
“I do not know what you mean, my dear sister,
but forgive me, Mary, if I have vexed you, voti
seem so melancholy.”
“I am not melancholy, my dear Nora; but you
always look at the bright side of a picture: and I,
perhaps do so too much also to be sad. \on ate
all smiles because Charles Driscoll is expected on
a short fisit to the house which used to be his
home. You know, dear, it is now five years ago.
Time changes us all; besides, he, has mixed much
in the gay world of fashion; and although the
heart may be still the same, we must not look for
the same exterior.”
Thus were the two innocent daughters of the
vicar of D—— employed, as the persoti alluded
to in their discourse, seated upon the box of a
London coach, was rapidly whirled onward to
wards the village. Every turn in tho road pre
sented to Driscoll some familiar object, or some
new one which the practical might call an Im
provement: but which, by the lover of nature,
would be deemed any thing but picturesque. The
tall spires of the church appeared in the distance,
and he, too, thought of the playmates of bis youth.
He recalled before his faney the pretty little laugh
ing, blue eyed Nora, who, when he had left the
vicarage, was but just sixteen ; and her more se
date, but no lcsß beautiful, sister. Then came
their pqpr kind mother, who had been gathered
to her rest: and the old vicar witli his clerical hat,
and his mild but impressive, manners. However,
he had not much time for these sousings; the
poach stopped; the ivy clad chimney peepedtoyer
the trees as it did of old; and soon the welcoiiK
ing hands were extended —he was once more in
the house of hie childhood.
“O, Charles, I am so glad to see you come
again!” exclaimed Nora, as running into the room
she heedlessly stumbled over a footstool, and al
most fell into his arms; then, at the sight of an
apparent stranger, she shrank back, and a crimson
blush came over her delicate cheek.
“Come, eome, Nora, though I am, perhaps,
somewhat altered, you need not blush to welcome
your fishing companion of by-gone days; I shall
think it unkind of you if you do not treat me as
you. did of old.”
“I should think she need not look so much
abashed, Mr. Driscoll,” replied her sister. “But
you know Nora was always so thoughtless, so
£1) t Bo tt 11) cxßPcmo c r at,
cons ding. And you used to be such great friends,”
she added, as 9he turned away her head to hide
the tears that were gathering in her large dark
eyes.”
“Girls, girls !” exclaimed the vicar, as he enter
ed from tlie garden; “do not give my old pupil
such a dolorous reception; one would think you
had set him a page of Homer to learn, as a pen
ance for some misbehavior. Come, cheer up, we
will save our tears till there is some sorrowful oc
casion for them.”
If Driscoll was changed from tho tall, spare
youth of nineteen, to the elegant manhood of re
fined life, so were the Misses Burns; but Mary
the least so, if we might except a beautiful bloom
upon her cheeks, which used to bo pale as the
leaves of the lily. Nora had burst from the child
into the woman—from the rose-bud to the open
ing flower of summer!
The two sisters were the very reverse of each
other in point of beauty and manners. Mary,
the elder, by tho death of her mother, had been
early left in charge of her father’s household; and
from the equanimity of her disposition, she was
well fitted lor the task. She seemed to commune
with other than the spirits of this world. The
cursory ob-erver would have called her cold and
unfeeling; but she had a warmth of affection, a
firmness of purpose, which none could imagine
but those brought into close and confined inter
| course with her. It was a lovely’ scene to see
those two maidens that evening ere they retired
to rest, when talking over the improved appearance
|of their old schoolmate. Mary was scatad at tho
window, ever and anon looking out upon the
landscape, revealed in its shadowy softness by the
! pale light of the moon; as her long white fingers
, wandered amid the fair hair of her young sister,
| reclining on a stool at her feet. And now Nora’s
j laughing face, almost hidden by tho unbounded
i curls, was raised, and her blue eyes from beneath
| their silken veils, rested upon the pure Grecian
I features of her sister; the dark eyes met that gaze,
i and a kiss from the red lips was imparted to the
’ blushing check of the younger girl, i *>ev form
jed the picture of affection. Their very difference
j of disposition—the vivacity of the one, and the
j beautiful pensiveness of the other, seemed to bind
| them yet closer together. They could be said to
!be rivals in no one sense; for Mary’s tall figure,
j moulded with more elegance by nature than sculp-
I tor’s hand could chisel, was but a delightful con
trast to the round short form of tho mem -
hearted Nora. They had no brother, and conse
quently’ were all in ail with each other.
A month passed over the vicarage of D ,
and although he had intended to have stayed but
it few days, Driscoll was still there; as much the
companion of the old clergyman in his parochial
calls, as the loiterer on the steps of hisTair daugh-
I ters. Some in the neighborhood even rumored
that he was paying marked attention to one of
them ; hut none could tell whether it was to the
parson, to Mary or to Nora. It was therefore set
down as village gossip, and he was allowed to
ramble with the vicar, flirt with the one daugh
ter, or make poetry tor the other, without its be
ing considered as any very great harm.
It was a beautiful autumn evening; the sun
was slowly sinking, bathing the ivest in a deep
j dyed glow, which faded and faded away until it
! merely tinged the soft blue of heaven with agen
: tie stain. Tho song of the gleaners returning
! from their toil, floated tip the vale, and every here
j and there the sides of the hills were decked with
! sheaves of golden corn.
! “Here is my nioUier’s grave, Charles,” said
j Mary, as arm in arm they approached tho silent
I city of tombs. “llow many changes happen in a
few brief years.”
“Truly, Mary. But God is always merciful; if
he takes one away, he gives another to supply her
place. You and Nora must be great comforts to
your father. Do you not think he might be in
duced to spare one of you ?”
Mary replied not. llcr heart was full; and
had there been any one by, the sudden paleness of
her cheeks might have told the feelings of her
heart. She withdrew her arm from Driscoll’s,
and sat down upon her mother’s grave."*l“
“Nay, Mary, dear,” said the youth, tenderly,
“do not lie offended at the abruptness of my ques
tion ; I did not intend to wound your feelings.—
But—but, you have not known what it is to love.”
“Love!” ejaculated tho trembling girl, as per
haps the moment she longed, tor, yet feared to ar
ri.c, now hovered over her. That moment which
must he fraught with the deepest interest to every
female mind. That moment when the dream of
woman’s solitary hour is to be released—when
she is clasped to the heart of tho being she most
loves on earth.
“Yes, Mary, to love, for I have dared to do it!
You can tell me if there be hope. Or—must I
leave D vicarage for ever ?”
“Hope is woman’s lot.”
“You mean, then, there is none? 0 foolish,
foolish heart, be still.”
“I did not say so, Mr. Driscoll. There is hope
given to us all. But woman hopes, and hopes
for years. Hope feeds her soul with visions of
earthly happiness; and hope teaches her to look
to Heaven for richer and less fadingjoys.”
“Do you then say’ that she loves me ? May I
believe it?”
“Who—who loves you ?” faltered the maiden,
as she hid her face from his view.
“Yottr sister, Nora!” continued Charles, heed
less of the almost falling form of her whom lie had
thoughtlessly made his confidante, “her image has
been before me ever since I left D-; in the
crowded ball, the opera, no where have I seen one
like Nora Burns. But she is so light-hearted, so
innocently beautiful, I dare not sully her happiness
even by the sweet pains of love.”
“It is so. My God enable me to bear it,” scarce
ly articulated Mary in a voice so low that it was
not heard by the lover, ns she slowly rose from her
parent’s grave. “Mr. Driscoll, may you be hap
py. Your secret is in good hands. Believe mo,
you need not despair.”
“Thank you. thank you, for ever, gentle Mary.
Heaven alone knows how I can show my grati
tude!” • - -A
Charles Driscoll slept that night with a light
heart. Who can tell its lightness, save he who
has had its load of love, with which it was bunt
ing, conveyed to some kindred object? Man is a
being of affection, he was not meant to live alone.
We are all miserable when we have not someone
to whom to tell our little adventures —someone
who will feel an interest in them however trifling
—who M ill listen to us, And how delightful, in
G WJWpHj9 KkOVEMBER 6, 1851.
deed, to be able to commune over
are not the mere fancies of time. It is then we-!
feel the whole warmth of our dispositions, that wu
know ourselves better than we ever did before.
Now Mr. Burns, although a clergyman and an
ornament to his cloth, %vas not one of those fana-,
tics who pretended totally to despise all worldly
good, while at the very same moment they have
some private advantage in view. lie saw, as
well as those around him, the advantages of Dris- *
coil’s becoming a husband to one of his daughters;
still he wished not to influence the affection of ei
ther, by the slightest allusion on his part.
Tims things proceeded at the vicarage in that
quiet even sort of routine, which must be so en
chanting to those who have no other ambition,
than that of doing good in an unpretending way,
| and making those happy who are around them.—
Tho morning’s post, at length, brought a letter, re
quiring Driscoll’s immediate attendance in Scot
land. Nora had spent tho previous day with a
family at some distance, and tho night proving
rather stormy, had not returned home. Up to
that moment he had never made an avowal to her
of his love; something always came in tho way
when be had made up his mind to do so. Eith
er she was so full of mirth and girlish mischief,
that ho feared being laughed at; some party of
pleasure was in contemplation, and ho did not
like to distract her thoughts; or else, perhaps,he
thought that “tho question once popped” and be
ing “acknowledged,” would be quito enough, from
its very common-placeness, to dissipate all the de
light of believing that the one sought was neees
rary for tho other’s happiness ; so it was, howev
er, and when lie was forced to quit the vicarage,
the opportunity was gone. Procrastination, thou
art the thief of time ! lie must depart without
even knowing by one little word from “Nora’s ow n
lips that he was beloved.” “But,” thought he to
himself, after lie had bidden farewell to his worthy
host, and had forced his horse to a gallop, “I
will write to her and explain; and in a few ‘ays, |
a fortnight at most, will come back mid claim her
as my own.”
“Well, my dears,” said the vicar “no mori'Mg'l
at breakfast, as he settled comfortably into his easy
chair, “what do you think of our late visiter?”
“0 papa! he is such a nice voting man.” ex
claimed Nora hi her gay manner, which often be
trayed her into expressions which, had she but
considered a moment, she would not have made
use of: “I do wish he had not gone, or that I had
been here to have wished him good-bye, I shall
never forgive that tiresome storm. Don’t you
think he will come back soon, papa ?”
“Very probably he will,” replied tho elder sis
ter. “lie seems,” she added in a half-interroga
ting tone, “very fond of the vicarage.”
“You mean of some of its inmates,” returned
the old man.
“For shame, papa!” exclaimed Nora.
“Father!” ejactlated Mary, as she turned an im
ploring gaze upon him.
More than the period he had allotted himself
had elapsed, and yet Driscoll returned not to the
vicarage. He. had, just returned to his own inn
from a walk on the barren const, vexed and wea
ry at his protracted stay, when immediately on en
tering, his eye glanced at a letter lying upon the
tabic. It was in a hand-writing lie did not know.
He hastily broke tho seal. Tho contents ran
thus:—
My dear sir,
It is with the greatest pain I writo to inform
you that my poor daughter was taken suddenly
ill a fortnight ago, and since that hour she lias
not quitted her bed. She is constantly asking if
you have returned, or if we have heard from you.
All desire kind remembrances; and hoping to see
you as soon as possible, I remain, my dear Sir,
yours faithfully,
John Burns.
I) Vicaraye, Oct. 20th, 1828.
“Sho is indeed very ill. I hope your affairs
will be arranged satisfactory. Pray come.”
The appalling tidings came like the destructive
flash of forked lightning upon Driscoll’s darkened,
mind. llow little had he .been taught what waJ
woman’s heart! Had lie then left hisbelbvM(
pine and die, merely for a selfish regard to'lns
own momentary feelings? “Poor Nora,” he ex?
claimed, as folding the ictter up, ho placed it near
his heart. “Poor Nora! I did not think it would
end thus. So gay, so pure, so young, to be cut off
thus by my hand. God forgive mo, if it be so!’’
The morning’s sun saw our hero on his way
from Scotland. His business was not completed,
but the voice of a dying girl sounded in his oars,
urging him forward. In the silent shades of night
he heard a gentle tone perpetually beside him,
whispering, “Charles, Charles, why did you for
sake me?’’
To a sensitive mind, the thought of having
caused ill to any one, creates painfully acute sen
sations ; but doubly so when it is to one we loVe,
cnefor whom, perhaps, we would have laid down
our life, and yet from mere carelessness, or folly,
that one has been unintentionally injured. In
clasping the butterfly, we have taken the beauti
ful bloom from its wings, which we can never
again restore.
It is a lovely autumn twilight, not a breath of
wind passes among the dark loaves, not a sound
is heard in the fields, save the chirp of the grass
hopper, or the rustling of a bird in its hidden cov
ert. The sun has gone, and the glowing hues of
autumn have nearly died away; many of the gar
ments of the trees lie neglected around their roots;
but there is still a yew tree, all covered with dark
some foliage, and the ivy climbing even to the
vicarage roof. “Emblem of affection,” thought
Driscoll, as having passed through the shrubbery
he paused for a moment, enjoying the calmness
and tranquility of the hour; and how soft is the
peacefulair, so unlike theclosebreathingsinabusy
city. Look ! there is still a pale rose hanging
o’er the lattice, perhaps the last beauty of the sea
son, clinging yet to its supporter. There is a light
at the casement, the white curtains are closely
drawn —it may be the home of death.” Ho could
hear his heart beat audibly, as he knocked at The
vicarage door. There was no answer: he cowl
sec no light. lie knocked-attain inoro^h
his agitation; a soft foot fall beat ii|ti>n£h<i3H
he heard it glide almost noislesslv along theljpH
Surely it was a step he knew. The door openedJ
and his own Nora, pale, but startled at his sudden j
appearance, stood before him.
“0 Charles ! Charles my poor sister!” she ex- ■
claimed, as endeavoring to stifle her sobs, she;
gently withdrew from his half-unconscious embrace. J
“I am so glad you have come, for Mary is dying,
and slw r-''l>'forJProu Sometimes at midnight
p'%willV Where is Charles? Do not hide
“, ■ froii?he does not know it. Go—go;
n.thnt llove him. Tell him my heart is
‘ct •‘king.’”’
’ -r'scoll followed the weeping girl into the par
lor . to -his cavii selfish hopes, the scene was like
a resurrection from tho grave. Not a word had
been said in the vicar’s letter, by which he could
“have told which daughter it was that was ill ; and
his own excited fancy could alone believe it was
th£ one in which he was most interested, whom
he imagined others knew as well as himself. He
sat beside the youug creature of his hopes; but at
such an hour he could not talk of love. As he
gated upon her fair features, mellowed from their
gaiety by sisterly affection into an interesting lan
guor, ho could not avoid thinking that he had
never before seen so beautiful a being. “Will
you not come and see my sister ?” said Nora, “for
I am sure sho is asking for you; and even stand
ing upon the brink of the grave. llow she loves
you, Charles; and love like hers were well Worth
possessing; there arc few, I am certain, whose affec
tions are like poor Mary’s;” and hand in hand,
they quickly ascended to the room above.
The apartment was nearly dark, save where
the brigi.t moonbeams passed over the pillow of
the young sufferer. At the foot of the bed knelt
the aged parent, his hands clasped in prayer; and
as the words fell from his lips, there was heard a
low calm voico inurimiringly repeating them.—
Nora and Charles stood hidden by the curtains of
tho bod. They had entered noiselessly, and they
now scarcely breathed; for it would indeed have
been sacrilege to have disturbed the worshippers
in this awful sanctuary. Tho voices of the living
and the dying mingled before a throne of grace.
Tho last words of prayer had sunk into a silence.
“Father, may I not see yon pale moon which casts
its sickly light over my bed : I should like to see
itjVcUx-fore I die, for perhaps—however wrong it
(■■Sib think of such things—perhaps it shines
that he were hero, for I have
Again there was silence,
xnpiilt|7ou T gh Nora wished her sister to know that
. . iscOll was there, yet sho feared the shock his
presence might produce on her weakened frame
would be too much for her.
“She is sleeping now,” said a low voice beside
the bed.
“No, Nora, I am not,” replied her sister, “I
shall never sleep again in this world, until I sleep
the one long sleep. 1 thought you would not
leave mo now that I have but one little hour to
stay, but we shall meet, dear sister—do not let
your hot tears fall upon my hand—we meet be
yond tho grave. The Saviour has trod the dark
sea; his arms will bear me safely o’er tho billows;
wo shall meet, and love one another even as we
have here, only more purely, more blissfully,
where the weary are at rest. I wish I could be
hold Charles before I die; —ah! me-thought I
heard a sob. It was not that of my poor father;
God will suppoit him. It is—it is my own
Charles!” and the pale girl, grasping the hand of
Him iffffKH't'efl, sank back upon tlm pillow.
Driscoll gazed upon her marble beauty, which
the deceitful bloom had left white as the palest
flower. Little did lie think when lie confided to
her the secret of his love, as she sat upon her mo
ther’s grave, that he had planted a canker-worm
in her heart, that would bring her to u low grass
pillow.
There was an awful moment of suspense; at
length a happy smile passed over the features of
the maiden, she moved slowly aside the long dark
silken lashes from her brown eyes. “Thank God.”
she murmured, “he has given me strength to die
contented.”
“Forgive me, Mary, forgive me,” ejaculated the
young man.
“Hush!” she exclaimed with more firmness, “it
was a hard trial; but in you, Charles, I have no
thing to forgive. I have kept your secret till now;
.perhaps selfishly so, but God will pardon me. I
IfanTtrow on the brink of the grave—it cannot be
\ inmiMur—it will ease my heart to speak it.—
■■■HBtC'lilWcsp 1 have loved you fondly, but
Had*! lived, you could not have been
mmfisMt is but right that I should die. You
puld not love me other than as a sister. God’s
will be done ! Be it so. I am growing weaker—
fainter. Nora—Nora, where is your hand ? You
shall, Charles, love me as a sister even in death.
I feel it, Nora, now, although I cannot see you —
but you too had a secret, though you would not
tell it even to me. Yes, you loved Driscoll even
before he left ns, now nearly six years ago. 1
have seen it, though I did not believe it. Nay,
Nora, do not tremble, your poor sister will never
stand in the way of your earthly happiness ; but
she hopes to share your happiness in heaven.—
Nora 1 Nora! do not draw your hand away !
Take it—take it, Charles—it is yours. You have
loved one another long, although the word has not
yet been spoken. Take it, Charles—what God
has joined together, let not man put asunder.—
Keep it, Charles remember me. God—God bless
you both! I— my Father —” The light of the
moon rested on her pallid face—the lips had fal
len—the voice was hushed. The hands of the
lovers were clasped together in that of the dying
girl. They felt the uniting pressure of the slight
struggle as the soul burst from its earthly tene
ment, 0 and soared away to heaven. They were
joined by the cold fingers of the dead. A low sob
was heard at Nora’s side; it came from her fath
er’s heart. “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath
taken away; blessed be tire name of the Lord,”
half articulated the old man, as they slowly and
sadlv left the room, that now contained nothing
but tho cold corse of her who had fallen a victim
to England’s bane, consumption.
It was an awful scene for those two young be
ings who had never told their loves, to have its
full light thus burst in upon them as they knelt
beneath a breathless sacrifice,Jto hear of affection
f ro m lips that would in a few moments speak
among the angels of heaven, to bo wedded o’er a
sister’s death-bad. It would be impossible to Jes
ml>. the sen ations of Nora and Charles. They
that eeVLivere lielovcd. but what had been
■Wpf tfoiirTq.piness? It Was the sorrow
every thing serene, and they
betook themselves in prayer unto the prcsenco of
Him “whose ways are not man’s ways.”
That night the vicarage was a place of gloom; for
our holy religion bids us to grieve for the depar
ted, “but not as those without hope.” Nora had
gained her heart’s desire, but —she had lost a sis
tor! She vhotfid been the companion of her
days, the sharer in herToiS and herj oys, who had
loved her as a. sister can only love, could no longer
fold her in her arms, and call her own dear little
naughty pet. They could no longer read the j
same book together, or sing the same song, or
bend over the same spot in prayer! Poor girl!
when site awoke in the morning, she turned to
look for Mary’s smile answering the first glance
ofher unclosing eyes—it was not there—Nora
was alone!
That winter was a dreary one to poor Nora; and
even when the spring came, she had scarcely re
covered from the dreadful shock.
Time is the healer of all our painful thoughts,
and it is mercifully’ so ordained. For were we
forever to be wounded with the same fine poig
nancy of regret, we could not fail being misera
ble. One by one the friends of our youth depart
—the children we have held in our arms, are now
perhaps no more; tho aged to whom we looked
for instruction have been gathered to their fathers!
and some who may read this tale may in some
brief space of time have passed onward. Flow
ers fade. “All things around us preach of death !”
A twelvemonth sped over the vicarage of
D . Again was the solitary rose seen cling
ing to the lattice—again were the withered leaves
strewn over the gravel walk. It was the day on
which Mary had breathed the inspired language
of heaven. It was the day of Nora and Charles’s
wedding. They had fondly wished it to take
place on that awful anniversary, that they might
through life remember what had been the price of
their love; and therefore treasure it through storm
and sunshine —through the clouds of woe and the
light of joy; even when the last sigh of death
should pass over their then rosy lips. Nora trem
blingly faltered out, “I will;” the same words
were pronounced by the clergyman as her poor
sister had spoken; the same blessing was bestow
ed. Sho was Driscoll’s wife. But it was not
doomed that the last rose should be plucked from
tho vicarage garden. After a short continental
tour, for they deemed tho change would in a de
gree alienate their minds from grief, the young
pair returned to the vicarage to soothe the wa
ning yea -s of the widowed parent by the presence
of his only daughter, whose gaiety had now be
come sobered by affliction into a beautiful calm
ness; nor did they leave that peaceful home until
anew incumbent was appointed to the living.
In elegant Language.
Coleridge was not tiie only one who labored
under a sad mistake, wheti he mistook the com
monest man for a philosopher, and was only un
deceived when the apple dumplings were set up
on tho table, by his exclamation, “them's the joek
ies for me!” Not long since, a fashionable attir
ed female, upon whom some devoted parents had
lavished money on the fair exterior to pay for a
year’s tuition where grammar was taught, seated
“herself at the dinner table of a lar<re hotel. She
was at the first glance pretty, decidedly so. Her
eyes sparkled, her cheek glowed with a natural
tinge, her neck was like alabaster, and upon it
glittered n chain of uncommon richness; her band
was delicate, and a brilliant ring shone upon the
front finger; and I was about congratulating my
self upon a short acquaintance during my stay,
when suddenly the charm was dissolved by a gen
tleman on the opposite side of tho table, who in
terrogajpd the damsel by asking if the horse she
had rode was not rather a fiery minimal ? and this
brought out the vulgar reply, “Oh, yes, we put her
right through!” Truly the appearances was all
changed now. I saw only a coarse, ill bred girl,
where a few moments before appeared, to my un
sophisticated gaze, a lovely female I
Certain I am, young ladies would study refine
ment of spirit and manners, if they but fully un
derstood the immense advantages which accrue
from them. The golden lever, with the most
massive chain, the diamond of unsurpassed bril
liancy, sparkles in vain, where the mind is in a
crude state, needing far more labor and care to
refine it than has been expended upon those showy
jewels. Nothing compensates for this loss; and
it is sure to aim a fatal dart upon the vacant head
and uncultivated heart Pardon mo if I relate an
anecdote as my friend told it to me :
“I was,” said he, “begginning to look around for
a wife. Among my acquaintances was a young la
dy upon whom much money had been lavished to
give her a thorough education. She had read Vir
gil, couldspeaksoM; Italian,was mistress ofFrench,
and could warble like a foreign amatttef; at least, so
said her mother. I had heard she knew some
thing of household affairs, and, to tell the whole
truth, I looked upon her with a keen eye. She
certainly did appear well; but one evening I was
rallying her upon some trifle I had forgotten when
she suddenly turned round and gave me a slap,
arid declared she did not care the first red cent
about it .”
“Heavens!” said thy friend, “how my love
did cool! I never thought of marrying her a
gain!”
Thus one cant phrase spoiled a young lady’s
prospects of wedlock, to our knowledge; and this
is enough to causo all others who aspire to that
state, to cultivate refinement of thought, which
will invariably lead to a refined utterance.
Olive Branch.
The Hogs of St. Bernard.
Avery clever foreign correspondent of the New
Buffalo Mercury lately visited Mount St. Bernard,
and gives the following account of his first visit,
with his companions, to tho famous convent on
its summit:
We were to pass the night there, as travelers u
sually do, but were in great doubt how to proceed
to claim the hospitality of the-father. While
standing at tho door in perplexed consultation,
one of the monks appeared, and the cheerful,
kindly tone of his welcome put an end to every
doubt. We were shown at once to rooms, eve
ry accommodation put in our reach, our wish
es inquired after, and the dinner hour mentioned
to us. We found tho dinner parlor already full.
A little after seven dinner was served, two monks
attending at the table to do the honors, tho super
ior of the two near the head, next the only lady of
the party —an American woman, byd.be by. Bet
ter hosts I never wian to find, for they are cer
tainly unrivalled in their art of exercising hospi
tality and defusing general cheerfulness. All this
too is gratuitous. Custom, it is ture, prescribes
that you should leave an offering in the poor’s
box of their chapel, but the amount rests with you,
as no one sees you, and nothing is said or done to
intimate that it is looked for.
Thousands of poor travelers also pass there an
VOL. I.—NO. 26.
Tiimlly, whom they feed and even clothe without
any payment in return. They spend their live*
there. These monks, at an elevation of some thou
sand feet, through dreary winters, at a serious risk
of health and life, doing good to ail who ask it
at their hands; and whatever you may feel to*
wards the Catholic clergy generally, you cannot
help honoring these men, as noble and heroic
Christians, as well as admiring them for perfect
and accomplished gentlemen. Only three or four
of the famous dogs are at present at the Hospice.
They are handsome with large intelligent looking
heads, very gentle and familiar with strangers,
seeming to be pleased with notice. Except in color
(which is a yellow brown) they are very much
like the Newfoundland dog in appearance. The
paws are larger and heavier, however, and the
eye not as small as in the pure Newfoundlander.
Os course they are much noticed and admired.
| and very many have been purchased in time past.
One peculiarity of theirs is, that not only will they
not go near the Morgue, but they whine and show
great uneasiness when they sec any one approach
it This Morgue, or dead-house, is one of the
points of interest connected with the St Bernard,
a very sad and fearful one it is too. Here aie de
posited bodies of those who perish in the snows,
“hen they are not known and claimed by friends.
The great height of its situation prevents decom
position, and the bodies dry Up like mummies and
so remain for years. It is a dreadful sight to
look upon, but every one does it For two years
past no additions have been made, and the moul
dering relics have been thus long undisturbed.
Wo left the convent with regret, for the hours
passed there had been Very pleasant, and it seem
ed hard to turn baek at that particular spot and
wend northward again.
Counsels for the Young.
Never be cast down oy trifles. If a spider break
his web twenty times, twenty times will he mend
it again. Make up your mind to do a thing, and
you will do it. Fear not if a trouble come upon
you; keep up your spirits, though the day be a
dark one.
Mind what you run after 3 Never lie content
with a bubble that will burst; or firewood that will
end in smoke and darkness, (let that which yott
can keep, and which is Worth keepillgT’
Fight hard against a hasty temper. Anger
will come, but resist it strongly.
If yon have an enemy, act kindly to liim, and
make him your friend. You may not win him
over at once, but try again. Let one kindness ba
followed by another, till yoll have compassed
your end. By little and little great tilings are
completed; f.nd so repeated kindness will soften
the heart of stotitf.
Whatever you do,doit willingly. A boy that
is compelled, cares not hour badly it is performed,
lie that pulls off his coat cheerfully, strips Up his
sleevs in earnest, and slhgs while he works, is the
boy for lue.
Evil thoughts ate Worse enemies than lions and
tigers; for we cah keep out of the Way of wild
beasts, but bad thoughts win their way eVeCy
where. The cup that is full will hold no more;
keep in your heads ahd hearts good thoughts,
that bad thoughts may find no rooln to ehtefi
mountain Scenery.
Os all the sights that nature offers to ihe eye
and mind of man, mountains liaVe always stirred
my strongest feelings. I have seen the ocean
when it was turned tip froth the bottom by tetn
pest, and noon was like night, with the cohflict
of the billows and the storm, that tore and scattered
them in the mist and foam across the sky. I have
seen the desert rise around me; and calmly, in the
midst of thousands, uttering cries of horror, and
paralyzed by fear, have contemplated the sandy
pillars, coming like the advance of some gigantic
city of conflagration, flying across the wildere-ss,
every column glowing with intense beat, and
every blast, death; the sky Vaulted w ith gloofn,
the earth a furnace. But with me, the moun
tain, in tempest or in calm, the throne of tlnmdef,
or with the evening sun painting its dells and
declivities in colors dipped in heaven, has bech
the source of the most absorbing sensations.-
There stands magnitude, giving the instant im
pression of a power above man; grandeur, that de
fies decay; antiquity, that tells of ages unnumber
ed; beauty, beauty, that the touch of tittle ttiakea
only more beautiful; Use, eihaustlcss for the ser
vice of man; imperishable as the globe; tho mo
ment of eternity; the truest earthly emblem of
that ever-living unchangeable, irresistible Majesty,
by whom, and for whom, all things Were hlade
Croty,
Owe no man.
It may bo bad poetry, but depend upon it, it's
excellent sense. It is an old saying, that the deb
tot is a slave to tho creditor, if so, half the
world enter into voluntary servitude. The uni
versal rage to buy on credit, Is a serious evil in
this country. Many a married man is entirely
ruined by it. Many a man goes into the store
for a single article; looking around, twenty things
strike his eye; he has no money—buys on a cre
dit. Foolish man! BaV day must come, and
ten chances to one, like death, it finds you unpre
pared to meet it. Tell me, ye who have exper
ienced it, did the pleasure of possessing tho arti
cle bear any proportion to the pain of being call
ed on to pay for it when you had it not in your
power ?
A few rules, well kept, will contribute much to
your happiness and independence.
Never buy what you really do not Want. Nev
er buy on a credit “when you can do without.—■
Take a pride in being able to say, “I owo no
man.”
£*?“Let us never forget that every station in
life is necessary; that each deserves our respect;
that not tho station itself, but the worthy fulfil
ment of its duties, does honor to a man.
Suminerficld was on his death-bed,
he exclaimed, “Oh, if I might be raised again, how
I could preach ! I could preach as I never did be
fore. I have had a look into eternity.”
A good man is a friend to all the world j
and he is not truly charitable that does not wish
well and do good to all mankind in what he can.
££• Every heart has its secret sorrow, which
the world knows not; and oftentimes we call a
man cold when he i* only bad.