Southern recorder. (Milledgeville, Ga.) 1820-1872, September 13, 1853, Image 1

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Newspaper Page TextSO. 3 7 vol. n M > ■ ijjjiiE. KNOWLES & OR ME, Editors and Proprietors. -The RucoRnER is published weekly, .and is i.iiiied with a monthly Agricultural Sup- *],,, low price of Two Dollars per an- ] in advance—if not in advance, Two i,tiB when pai _ AS r> Fifty Cf.sts -and if not within the three Poli.aRS per annum. ■ 1, rs f"T the Recorder, to receiv ' hereafter be accompanied with receive atten- ritli the mo- ,*1 r< fereucc. , rs wishing the direction of their paper ' V'v ill notify us from what office it is to be - ‘ r terms will bo strictly observed.— * ;W will old arrearages be reduced. Our KL;,c that application will be made to the Court ' »r leave to sell Land or Negroes, must ' fished weekly for two months, mtions for Letters of Administration must be i thirty dags—for Dismission from Adminis- montldy sir months—for Dismission from w ho have not regularly done so, are res- invited to settle up and thus avail them- „ 'ilie advantage of our reduced rates. . tisemests conspicuously inserted at the Those sent without a specification of ,’\. r of insertions, will be published until ; ; ;!i'o,it. and charged accordingly. of Land and Negroes, by Administrators, or Guardians, are required by law to be i, n"the first Tuesday iri the month, between f ton in the forenoon and three in the h. at the Court-house in the county in which . rfv is situate. Notices of these sales must ; , iu'a public gazette forty days previous % jay of sa!e - for the sale of Personal Property must at least ten days previous to the day of to Debtors and Creditors of an Estate . nublisbed forty days. I®' 1, L . ill t. biSien, Ltnsliip forty days. Force gri ts for Foreclosure of Mortgage must be pub- iiwndd’J for four months—for establishing lost fall spore of three months—for com- from Exec • j. titles from Executors or Administrators, a howl has been given by the deceased, the ’Imre of three months. j> rations will always be continued according the legal requiremeuts, unless otherwise fried. g business in the line of Printing will meet •'' prompt attention at the Recorder Office. Litters on business must be post-paid. SAHESETK 22GPS5ir7S, irJOUSE AND COMMISSION MERCHANT, ©jl B . continue the Warehouse and General Commission Hit- ' u; iunreal commission no- ^ ^ Ids old stand on Campbell gSjRMj • Particular attention will be the STORAGE and SALE of COTTON, ■tii Goods, Grain, Flour, Bacon and other WPUCE, purchase of goods, receiving and for- i ; - , shipments of Cotton to New-York, Charles- *inl Savannah. Cash advances on produce in Store, and all rea- facilities afforded customers. Charges will iu conformity with the established rates of .amission Merchants in this city. As oist 30,1853 35 6m* EU'GSSTE h. ZXZXfZIS, ; iracy at Law mid Solicitor in Equity, Vienna, 33oo!y County, Georgia. Anjnst 30, 18o3 35 tf M. & R. M. JOHNSTON, Attorneys at Law, SPARTA, GEORGIA. THE undersigned will practice law in Hancok, adjoining counties, and in the Su» i ind the Court. Fd.l, 1853. MARK JOHNSTON. R. M. JOHNSTON. 7 iy FRE£fViAN So BENSON, MANUFACTURERS of ANUSES, SYRUPS, & c. No. 1*2, Cotton Avenue, Macon, da. EDDIXG PARTIES AND FAMILIES fur nished with Plain and Ornamental Cakes •rt notice, on reasonable Terms, for Cash. CHAS. II. FREEMAN. RICHARD A. BENSON. Tv IT, 1-53. 20 12m w. D. ETH ERIDQE &, CO., FiCTORS AYD fOUUISSlOY MERCHANTS, Savannah, Georgia. W. D. ETHERIDGE, S. F. GOVE. April 15,1-51. 35 tf FOR SALE. 1 VERY likely woman a bouse servant, and * in r ! children. Apply to J. G. HOWARD, or App; KEUI1EN PRINCE, at my plantation. Jurc-JS 1'53 26 33t Agency st Brunswick. 1 SUBSCRIBER will attend to the purchase sale of CITY LOTS in Brunswick. E. M. MOORE. 'vick, Aug. 25, 1853. 36 Cm |aOiC05I2B, JOHISSOSJ & CO., (ME IX STORE, and landing by recent ar- ■ rivals— S—oiillhds. prime to choice Porto Rico, 25 “ *• “ “ New Orleans, 10 “ fair St. Croix, lOOBbls. Stewart’s B. 100 “ « C. 50 “ “ A. 20 Boxes “ Loaf, 5u Bibs. “ Crushed, 10 “ “ Ground. —500 Bags fair to prime Rio, 75 “ Old Cuba, 50 “ “ Java, f, 25 “ “ Brown Java, p-OUr—-iO Bbls. Hiram Smith—New Wheat, 300 “ Baltimore, 75 “ Pure Gennessee, 50 Half Bbls. “ Extra. 1—75 Casks Choice Sides, 50 “ “ Shoulders, r , 25 “ Sugar Cured Hams Extra, perk—25 Bbls. Moss, 50 “ Prime, .y, t 50 “ Rump. Passes—50 Hhds. West India, 75 Trees. “ “ 50 Bids. New Orleans, 25 “ West India, 10 “ Stuart Syrup, r-lp and Starch—200 Boxes Pale and No. J, I. 50 “ Peal Starch. ["Indies—50 Boxes Sperm, j - 100 “ Adamantine, ;■ N ar **'\ ». 50 “ Tallow, J bra,lJs - L®Hacco—200 boxes various brands. I Ws—20.000 very choice Spanish, LHijOOO half Spanish, I 100,000 American. **&W?-100 bales Gunny, », 35 “ Dundee, r® ’-UO coils Weaver’s, I t.,. “ Kentucky. »JJe—JO bales three ply. ^S-50 boxes Bunch, lAltar ’ " ’ boxes Bunch. ®ttus—5 frails soft shell. -»iS—lo bags Brazi!, Sari n 1 .°, ll 'igs English Walnuts. 1(1 Bjils. No. 1 Leaf, Ojj., J 0Kegs do. do. P'0 boxes New-York, extra assorted. |5> 3 ,, r °0 “ Savannah. 2 °rs—‘-5 Bbls. Butter, 25 “ Sugar, tap. 10 “ Soda. ‘ Tu and Domestic Zsiqnors— J qr. casks Brandy Seignette, 5If- pipes Lazarac Brandy, 18J5, ./ 'i r - casks pure Malaga Wine. !| “ “ pico “ “ L. I J . Gin, .. ’’ Connectiei 50 “ onnecticut River Gin, l h New-Bngland Rum, t! ii ^'''"'-Orleans Whiskey, choice Mobile NNpes Holland Gin, h sai e on domestic Bra avorablc terms at av ann „i . 187, I8i> and 191 Bav Street- '^HhjVust 23,1853 34 4t* r\p *^°0 Coils Rope! [\J *■ 0 quality, at the lowest Market price, by ^tont 0 „ \ H. VAN MATER. 1 ton . August 23,1X53 34 tf Wilt Thou be Trnc ? BY ELIZA COOK. “ bc tnie? ’ ? we ^ of the flower BuTtlves ttat falfSfo dS tl D th ° festivo sccue S Af t Uia t fall betoro the parting hour - ock us, and tell how vain the words have been, “ Wilt thou be true ?” " And trne u” 7 C ask U of thc Billow, And launch our bark upon the crystal tide ; But many a sea-weed shroud and coral pillow ave met the lips that trusted wliile they cried, “ Wilt thou be true ?’’ Tbit r ^ • , we ^ itof the Heaven T ,„V f* S " r :r S a11 b ?» ht and Beaniing on our way Lut clouds that gather, dark and thunder-riven, 3 iu us i egret that e’er we asked the ray, “ "VN ilt thou be true V* M ilt thou be true ?” we! ask it of my bosom, Let thy warm faith believe Affection’s sigh; And thou shalt find it shame the scented blossom, rp. , . ‘ oiu Bceniea Dioss V Jie sparkling ocean and the smiling sky : “ Wilt thou be true ?” Curious Rhymes. 5Vliat is earth, sexton— A place to *!ig graves, What is earth, rich man— A place to work slaves; V hat is earth, gray beard— A place to grow old; What is earth, miser— A place to dig gold; What is earth, scltool-boy— A place for my play; What is earth, maiden— A place to be gay; YV hat is earth, seamstress— A place where I weep; What is earth, sluggard— A good place to sleep; What is earth, soldier— A place for battle ; What is earth, •herdsman— A place to raise cattle; What is earth, widow— A place of true sorrow; What is earth, tradesman— I’ll tell you to-morrow; Y\ hat is earth, sick man— ’Tis nothing to me, What is earth, sailor— My home is the sea; What is earth, statesman— A place to win fame; What is earth, author— I’ll write there my name; What is earth, monarch— For my realm ’tis given; What is earth, Christian— The gateway of heaven ! A Mother’s Last Prayer. BY MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS. “First our flowers die—and then Our hopes, and then our fears—and when These are dead the debt is due, Dust claims dust—-and we die too.” I was very young, scarcely beyond the verge of infancy ; the last and most help less of the three little girls who were gath ered around my poor mother’s death-bed.— AV hen I look on the chain of my varied ex istence—that woof of gold and iron woven so strangely together—the remembrance of that young being who perished so early and so gently from the bosom of her family forms the first said link which ever gives forth a thrill of funeral music when my heart turns to it—-music which becomes more deep-toned and solemn as that chain is strengthened by thought, and bound to- o j o— J getner by the events of successive yc The-first human being that I can rem rears. b 1 remem ber was my invalid mother, moving lan guidly about lier home, with the paleness of disease setting on her beautiful features, and a deep crimson spot burning with painful brightness in either cheek. I remember that her stop became unsteady, and her voice fainter and more gentle day by day, till at last she sunk to her bed, and we were called upon to witness her spirit go forth to the presence of Jehovah. Thti: took me to her couch, and told me to look upon my mother before she died. They words had no meaning to me then, but the whisper in which they were spoken thrilled painfully through my infant heart, and I felt that something terrible was about to happen. Pale, troubled faces were around that death pillow—stern men, with sad, heavy eves—women overwhelmed with tears and sympathy, and children that hud dled together shuddering and weeping, they know not wherefore. Filled with wonder and awe I crept to my mother, and burying my brow in the mass of rich brown hair that floated over her pillow, heavy with the damp of death, but still lustrous in spite of disease, I trem bled and sobbed without knowing why, save that all around me was full of grief and lamentation. She munnered and plac ed her pale band on my Lead. My little heart swelled, but 1 lay motionless and fill ed with awe. Her lips moved, and voice, tremulous and very low come faintly over me. These words broken and sweet as they were, left the first dear impression that ever remained on my memory—“Lead her not into temptation, but deliver her from evil.” This was my mother’s last prayer ! In that imperfect sentence, her gentle voice went out forever. A oung as 1 was, that prayer had entered my heart with ix solemn strength. I raised my head from its beautiful resting place, and gazed awe stricken upon the face of my mother.. Oh, how an hour had changed ! r ihe crimson flush was qucnced in her cheek, a moisture lay upon her forehead, and the grey, mys terious shadows of death rv ere stealing o\ er each thin feature, yet lier lips still moved, and her deep blue eyes were bent on me, surcharged with spiritual brightness, as if they would have left one of their vivid, un earthly rays, as the 6eal of her death-bed covenant. Slowly as tlie sunbeams pale at nightfall from the* leaves of a flower, went out thc star-like fire of lier eyes ; a mist came over them, softly as the dews migut fall upon that- flower, and she was'dead.— Even then I knew not the meaning of the solemn change I had witnessed, but when they bore me from my mother s death-bed, my heart was filled with fear and misgn- ing. All were overwhelmed with the weight of their own sorrow, and I was permitted to wander around my desolated home uncheck ed and forgotten. I stood wondering by as they shrouded my mother, and smoothed the long liair over her pale forehead. Si lently I watched them spread the winding sheet, and fold those small pale hands ever her bosom, but when they closed the blinds and went forth, my little heart swelled with a sense of unkindness m shutting out the sun-slune, and sweet summer air which had so often called a smile to her bps when it came to her bed fragrant from the rose thickets, and the white clover-field which la 7 beneath tlie windows they so cruelly da. rkened. Thc gloom of that death-ohqm- MILLEDGEVILLE, GEORGIA, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 1?, 18H, ber made me very sorrowful, but I went to the bed, turned down the linen, and laid my band caressingly on thc pale face which lay so white and motionless in the dim light. It was cold as ice. I drew back afrighted, and stealing from the room sat down alone, wondering and full of dread. They buried her beneath a lofty tree on the high bank of a river. A waterfall rais es its eternal anthem near by, and the sun set flings his last golden shadows among the long grass that shelters her. I remem ber it all; the grave with its newly bro ken sod—the coffin placed on its brink.— The clergyman with liis black surplice sweeping the earth, and the concourse of neighbors gathered around that grave, each lifting his hat reverently as the solemn hymn swelled on the air, answered by the lofty anthem singing up from the waterfall, and the breeze rustling through the dense boughs of that gloomy tree. Then came the grating of the coffin as it was lowered into its narrow bed, tlie dull hollow sound of the falling earth, and those most solemn words of “dust to dust, and ashes to ashes.” With mournful distinct ness were all these things impressed on my young mind, but my mother’s last prayer is written more forcibly than all, in charac ters that but deepen with maturity. It lias lingered about my heart a blessing and a safeguard pervading with a music that cannot die. Many times, when the heed lessness of youth would have led mo into error, has that sweet voice, now hushed for ever, intermingded with my thoughts, and like the rosy links of a fairy chain drawn me from my purpose. Oft when my brow has been wreathed with flowers for the fes tival, when my cheeks has been flushed, and my eyes have sparkled with anticipa ted pleasure, have I caught the reflection of those eyes in the mirror, and thought of the look which rested upon me when my mother died—that broken supplication to Heaven has come hack to my memory, the clustering roses have been torn from my head; sad, gentle memories have drank the unnatural glow from my cheeks, and thoughts have been carried to my lost pa rent, and from her, up to the Heaven she in habits. The festival, with attractions have been lost in gentle reflection, and I have been “delivered from temptations.” Again when the sparkling win-cup has almost bathed my lips, amid merriment and smiles and music, has the last said prayer of my mother seemed to mingle with its ru by contents, and I have put away thc gob let that I might not be “led into tempta tions.” When my hand has rested in that of the dishonorable, and trembled at the touch of him who says in his heart there is no God, as that voice seemed to flow with its luring accents, I have listened to it, and fled as from the serpent of my native for ests. Again and again, when the throhhings of ambition have almost filled my soul, and the praises of xay follow men have became a precious incense, the still small voice of my mother’s prayer has trembled over each heart-string, and kindled it to a more healthy music. In infancy, youth and wo manhood that prayer has been to me a holy remembrance—sweet thought full of melo dy, not the less beautiful that there is sad ness in it. Downfall of Cardinal Wolscy. BV r> AUBIGNE. While Cranmer was rising notwithstand ing his humility, Wolscy was falling in de spite of his stratagems. The cardinal still governed the kingdom, gave instructions to ambassadors, negotiated with princes, and filled his sumptuous palaces with his haugh tiness. The king could not make up his mind to turn him off; tho force of habit, the need he had of him, the recollection of tho services Henry had received from him, pleaded in his favor. Wolsey without the seals appeared almost as inconceivable as the king without his crown. Yet the fall of one of the most powerful favorites re corded in history was inevitably approach ing, and we must now describe it. On the 9th of October, after tlie Michael mas vacation, Wolsey, desirous of showing a hold face, went and opened the high court of chancery with his accustomed pomp; but he noticed, with uneasiness, that none of the king’s servants walked before him, as they had been accustomed to do. He pre sided on the bench with an inexpressible depression of spirits, and the various mem bers of the court sat before him with an ab sent air; thefe was something gloomy and solemn in this sitting, as if all were taking part in a funeral; it was destined indeed to he the last act of the cardinal’s power. Some days before, (Foxe says on the 1st of October) the dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, with other lords of the privy-council, had gone down to Windsor, and denounced to the king Wolscy’s unconstitutional rela tions with the pope, his usurpations, “ his robberies, and the discords sown by his means between Christian princes.” Such motives would not have sufficed; but Hen ry bad stronger. Wolsey had not kept any of his promises in the matter of the divorce; it would even appear that he had advised the pope to excommunicate the king, and thus raised his people against him. This enormity was not at that time known by the prince; it is even probable that it did not take place until later. 13ut Henry knew enough, and he gave his attorney general, Sir Christopher Hales, orders to prosecute Wolsey. While the heart-broken cardinal was displaying his authority for the last time in tlie court of chancery, the attorney-gen eral avas accusing him in the King’s Bench for having obtained l’apal bulls conferring on him a jurisdiction which encroached on the royal power, and calling for tlie appli cation of thc penalties preemunire. The two dukes received orders to demand the seals from Wolsey ; and the latter, inform ed of what had taken place, did not quit liis palace on the. 10th, expecting every moment the arrival of the messenger of the king’s anger; but no one appeared. The next, day tlie two dukes arrived : “ It is the King’s good pleasure,” said they to the Cardinal, who remained seated in his arm-chair, “ that you give up the broad seal to us and retire to Esher” (a country- seat near Hampton Court). Wolsey, whose presence of mind never failed him, demand ed to see the commission under which they were acting. “ We have our orders from his Majesty’s mouth,” said they. “ That may be sufficient tor you, replied the Car dinal, “ but not for me. The great seal of England was delivered to me by the hands of my sovereign ; I may not deliver it at the simple word of any lord, unless you can show me your commission.” Suffolk_ broke out into a passion, but Wolsey re mained calm, and the two dukes returned to Windsor. This was tlie Cardinal’s last triumph. The rumor of liis disgrace created an im mense sensation at court, in tho city, and among the foreign ambassadors. Hu Bel- lay hastened to York-place (Whitehall) to contemplate this great ruin and console his unhappy friend, lie found Wolsey, with dejected countenance and lustreless eyes, “ shrunk to half his wonted size,” wrote tlie ambassador to Montmorency, “the greatest example of fortune which was ev er beheld.” Wolsey desired “ to set forth his case” to him; hut his thoughts were con fused, his language broken, “ for heart and tongue both failed him entirelyhe burst into tears. The ambassador regarded him with compassion : “Alas,” thought he, “his enemies cannot but feel pity for him.” At last the unhappy cardinal recovered his speech, but only to give way to despair. “I desire no more authority,” ho exclaimed, nor the pope’s legation, nor the broad seal of England — .1 am ready to give up eve ry thing, even to my shirt I can live in a hermitage, provided the king does not hold me in disgrace.” Thc ambassador “ did all he could to comfort him,” when Wolscy, catching at the plank thrown out to him, exclaimed : “ Would that the King of France and madame might pray tlie King to moderate liis anger against me. But above all,” lie added in alarm, “ take care tlie King never knows that I have so licited this of you.” Hu Beliay wrote in deed to France, that the King and madame alone could “ withdraw their affectionate servant from the gates of hell;” and Wol sey being informed of these dispatches, his hopes recovered a little. But his bright gleam did not last long. On Sunday, the 17th October, Norfolk and Suffolk re-appeared at Whitehall, ac companied by Fitzwilliam, Taylor, and Gardiner, Wolsey’s former dependant. It was six in tho evening; they found the Car dinal in an upper chamber, near the great gallery, and presented the King’s orders to liim. Having read them, he said : “ I am happy to obey his Majesty’s commands; then, having ordered the great seal to be brought him, lio took it out of tlie white leather case in which lie kept it, and hand ed it to the Bukes, who placed it in a box, covered with crimson velvet, and ornament ed with the arms of England, ordered Gar diner to seal it up with red wax, and gave it to Taylor to convey to the King. Wolsey was thunderstruck; he was to drink the hitter cup even to the dregs; he was ordered to leave liis palace forthwith, taking with him neither clothes, linen, nor plate; thc dukes had feared that he would convey away his treasures. Wolsey com prehended tlie greatness of his misery ; he found strength, however, to say : “Since it is tlie king’s good pleasure to take my house and all it contains, I am content to retire to Esher.” The dukes left him. Wolsey remained alone. This astonish ing man, who had risen from a butcher’s shop to the summit of earthly greatness— who, for a word that displeased him, sent his master’s most faithful servants (Pace for instance) to the Tower, and who had governed England as if lie had been its monarch, and even more, for he had govern ed without a Parliament—was driven out, and thrown, as it were, upon a dunghill. A sudden hope flashed like lightning through his mind ; perhaps the magnificence of his spoils would appease Henry. Was not Esau pacified by Jacob’s present? Wolsey summoned his officers ; “ Set tables in the great gallery,” said he to them, “ and place on them all I have intrusted to your care, in order to render me an account.” These orders were executed immediately. The tables were covered with an immense quan tity of rich stuffs, silks and velvets of all colors, costly furs, rich copes and other ec clesiastical vestures; the walls were hung with cloth of gold and silver, and webs of a valuable stuff named baudykin, from tho looms of Damascus, and with tapestry, rep resenting scriptural subjects or stories from the old romances of chivalry. The gilt chamber and the council chamber, adjoin ing the gallery, were both filled with plate, in which the gold and silver were set with pearls and precious stones: these articles of luxury were so abundant that baskets full of costly plate, which had fallen out of fashion, were stowed away under the tables. On every table was an exact list of the treasures with which it was loaded, for the most perfect order and regularity prevailed in the Cardinal’s household. Wolsey cast a glance of liopo upon this wealth, and ordered his officers to deliver the whole to his majesty. He then prepared to leave his magnifi cent palace. That moment, of itself so sad, was made sadder still by an act of affec tionate indiscretion. “Ah, my lord,” said his treasure, Sir William Gascoigne, moved even to tears, “your grace will be sent to the Tower.” This was too much for Wol sey : to go and join his victims !**** # He grew angry, and exclaimed : “ Is this the best comfort you can give your master in adversity l I would have you and all such blasphemous reporters know that it is un true.” It was necessary to depart; he put round his neck a chain of gold, from which hung a pretended relic of tho true cross ; this was all he took. “Would to God,” he ex claimed, as he placed it on, “that I had never had any other;” This he said, allud ing to the legate’s cross which used to be carried before him with so much pomp. He descended the back stairs, followed by bis servants, some silent and dejected, others weeping bitterly, and proceeded to tlie river’s brink, where a barge awaited him. But, alas ! it was not alone. The Thames was covered with innumerable boats full of men and women. The inhabitants of Lon don, expecting to see the Cardinal led to the Tower, desired to he present at his hu miliation, and prepared to accompany him. Cries of joy hailing his fall were heard from every side ; nor were the crudest sarcasm wanting. “The butcher's dog will bite no more,” said some ; “look, how he hangs his head.” In truth, thc unhappy man, distressed by a sight so now to him, lowered those eyes which were once so proud, but now were filled with bitter tears. This man, who had made all England trem ble, was then like a withered leaf carried along the stream. All bis servants were moved; even bis fool, William Patch, sob bed like the rest. “O, wavering and new fangled multitude,” exclaimed Cavendish, his gentleman usher. Tho hopes of the citizens were disappointed ; the barge, in stead of descending tho river, proceeded upward in the direction of Hampton Court; gradually the shouts died away, and the flotilla dispersed. The silence of the river permitted Wol sey to indulge in less bitter thoughts ; hut it seemed as if invisible furies were pursuing him, now that the-people had left him. Ilcleft liis barge at Putney, and mounting his mule, though with difficulty, proceeded slowly though with downcast looks. Shortly af ter, upon lifting his eyes, he saw a horse man riding rapidly down tho hill toward them. “Whom do you think it can be ?” lie asked of liis attendants. “My lord,” replied one of them, “I think it is Sir Hen ry Norris.” A flash of joy passed through Wolsey’s heart. Was it not Norris, who, of all the King’s officers, had shown him thc most respect during his visit to Graf ton ? Norris came up with them, saluted him respectfully, and said: “ The King bids me declare that he still entertains the same kindly feelings toward you, and sends you this riug as a token of his confidence.” Wolsey received it with a trembling hand : it was that which the King was in the hab it of sending on important occasions. The Cardinal immediately alighted from his mule, and kneeling down in the road, rais ed his hands to Heaven with an indescriba ble expression of happiness. The fallen man would have pulled off his velvet un der-cap, but unable to undo the strings, lie broke them, and threw it on the ground.— He remained on his knees bareheaded, praying fervently amid profound silence. God’s forgiveness had never caused Wol sey so much pleasure as Henry’s. Having finished his prayer, the Cardinal pnt on his cap, and remounted liis mule.— “Gentle Norris,” said he to the King’s mes senger, “ if I were lord of a kingdom, tho half of it would scarely be enough to re ward you for your happy tidings ; but I have nothing left except the clothes on my back.” Then taking off his gold chain: “Take this,” he said, “it contains a piece of thc true cross. In my happier days I would not have parted with it. for a thou sand pounds.” Tlie Cardinal and Norris separated ; hut Wolsey soon stopped, and thc whole troop halted on the heath.— The thought troubled him greatly that he had nothing to send to the king ; lie called Norris back, and, looking round him, saw, mounted on a sorry horse, poor William Patch, who had lost all his gaiety since his master’s misfortune. “Present this poor jester to the king from me, said Wolsey to Norris ; his buffooneries are a pleasure fit for a prince ; he is worth a thousand pounds.” Patch, offended at being treat ed thus, burst into a violent passion ; his eyes flashed fire, he foamed at the mouth, he kicked and fought, and bit all who ap proached him ; but the inexorable Wolsey, who looked upon liim merely as a toy, or dered six of his tallest yeomen to lay hold of him. They carried off the unfortunate creature, who long continued to utter pierc ing cries. At the very moment when his master had pity on liim, Wolsey, like the servant in the parable, had no pity on liis poor companion in misfortune. At last they reached Esher. Wliat a residence compared with Whitehall ! It was little more than four bare walls.— The most urgent necessaries were procured from the neighboring bouses, but Wolsey could not adapt himself to this cruel con trast. Besides, he knew Henry VIII.; he knew that he might send Norris one day with a gold ring, and thc executioner the next with a rope. Gloomy and dejected, he remained seated in his lonely apart ments. On a sudden he would rise from his scat, walk hurriedly up and down, speak aloud to himself, and then, falling back in his chair, he would weep like a child. This man, who formerly had shaken kingdoms, had been overthrown in the twinkling of an eye, and was now atoning for his perfidies in humiliation and terror, a striking example of God’s judgment. THE BRIDAL WINE-CUP. A THRILLING SKETCH. Pledge with wane—pledge with wine,” cried the young and thoughtless Harvey Wood ; “pledge with wine,” ran through the brilliant crowd. The beautiful bride grew pale—the deci sive hour had come. She pressed her white hands together, and the leaves of her bri dal wreath trembled on her pure brow ; her breath came quicker, and her heart beat wilder. “ Yes, Marion, lay aside your scruples for this once,” said the Judge in a low tone, going towards his daughter, “the com pany expect it. Do not so seriously infringe upon the rules of etiquette ; in your own home act as you please ; but in mine for this once, please me.” Every eye was turned towards the bri dal pair. Marion’s principles were well known. Henry had been a convivalist, but of late his friends noticed the change in his manners, the difference in his habits—and to-night they watched him to see, as they snecringly said, if he was tied down to a woman’s opinion so soon. Pouring a brimming beaker, they held it with tempting smiles toward Marion.— She was very pale, though more composed, and her hand shook not, as smiling back, she gracefully accepted the crystal tem pers, and raised it to her lips. But scarce ly had she done so, when every hand was arrested by ber piercing exclamation of “oh how terrible ! ” “ Wliat is it 1” cried one and all, throng ing together, for she had slowly carried the glass at arm’s length, and was fixedly re garding it as though it were some hideous object. “ Wait,” she answered, while an inspir ed light shone from her dark eyes, “wait, and 1 will tell you, I see,” she added, slowly pointing one jeweled finger at thc sparkling ruby liquid—a sight that beggars all description, and yet listed^—I will paint it for you if I can. It is a lonely spot ; tall mountains crowned with verdure rise in sublimity around ; a river runs through and bright flowers grow to the water’s edge. There is a thick warm mist, that the sun seeks vainly to pierce. Trees, lofty and beautiful, wave to thc airy motion of the birds; but there—a group of Indians gath er ; they flit to and fro with something like sorrow upon their dark brows. And in their midst lies a manly form—hut his cheeks how deathly, his eye wild with the fitful fire of fever. One friend stands be side him—nay I should say kneels; for see lie is pillowing that poor head upon his breast. “Genius in ruins—oh! the high, holy looking brow ! why should death mark it, and he so young. Look how he throws back the damp curls ! see him clasp his hands ! hear his thrilling shrieks for life ! mark how he clutches the form of his com panion, imploring to he saved. Oh ! bear him call piteously his father’s name—sec him twine his fingers together as he shrieks for his sister—his only sister—the twin of his soul—weeping for him in his distant na tive land. “ See !” she exclaimed, while thc bridal party shrank back, the untasted wine trem bling in their faltering grasp, and the Judge fell, overpowered upon his seat—“ see ! his arms are lifted to heaven—ho prays, how wildly, for mercy ; hot fever rushes through his veins. The friend beside him is weeping; awc-stickon, tho dark men move silently away, and leave thc living and the dying together.” There was a hush in that princely parlor, broken only by what seemed a smothered sob from some manly bosom.— The bride stood yet upright, with quivering lip, and tears stealing to the outward edge of her lashes. Her beautiful arm had lost its tension, and the glass with its little trou bled red waves, came slowly towards the range of her vision. She spoke again ; cv- ry lip was mute. Her voice was low, faint, yet awfully distinct; she still fixed her sorrowful glance upon the wine-cup. “ It is evening now; the great white moon is coming up and her beams lay gen tly on his forehead. He moves not ; his eyes are setfirm in the socket; dim are their peircing glances; in vain his friends whis per the name of father and sister—death is there. Death—and no soft hand, no gen tle voice to bless and sooth him. His head sinks back ! one convulsive shudder ! he is dead !” A groan ran through the assembly, so vi vid was her description, so unearthly her look, so inspired her manner, that what she described seemed actually to have place then and there. They noticed also that tho bridegroom hid his face in liis hands and weeping. “Dead !” she repeated again, her lips quivering faster, and her voice more low and broken ‘and there the scoop him a grave, and there, without a shroud, they lay him down in that damp, reeking earth. Tlie only son of a proud father, the only idoliz ed brother of a fond sister. And he sleeps to day in that distant country, with no stone to mark the spot. There he lies— with my father’s son—my own twin broth er—a victim to this deadly poision. “Fath er,” she exclaimed, turning suddenly, while the tears ran down her beautiful cheeks, “father shall I drink it now ?” The form of the Judge was convulsed with agony. He raised not his head, but in a smothered voice he faltered—“No, my child, in God’s name—no. She lifted the glittering goblet, and let ting it suddenly fall to the floor, it is dash ed in a thousand pieces. Many a tearful eye watched her movement, and transfer red to the marble on which it had been pre pared. Then as she looked at the frag ments of crystal, she turned to the company, saying ; “let no friend hereafter, who loves me, tempt me to*peril my soul for wine.-— No firmer are the everlasting hill's than my resolve, God helping, me never to touch or taste that terrible poison. And he whom I have given my hand—who watched over my brother’s dying form in that last solemn hour, and buried the dear wanderer there by the river in that land of gold, will, 1 trust, sustain me in that resolve. Will you not, my husband ?” liis glistning eyes, his sad, swcot smile was her answer. Thc Judge left the room, and when an hour after he returned, and with a more subdued manner took part in the en tertainment of the bridal guests, no one could fail to read that he too, had deter mined to banish the enemy at once and forever from his princely home. Those who were present at that wedding, can never forget thc impression so solemn ly made. Many from that hour foreswore the social glass. Andrew Jackson. In the neighborhood of Charlotte, N. C., there lived, until within the last two years, an aged lady, whose many recollections of early life were very interesting. One, we remember, afforded us great amusement.— Gates had been defeated, the shattered fragments of liis army had been swept like the debris of a tempest past lier secluded, home, her father and brothers were all out under some partisan leader, the Tories were forming a nucelus of organization about the Waxhaw, and supposing this would attract thc attention of her relatives, and seeing a young man riding from that direction, she was told by her mother to learn the nows from him. She was a buxom lass of sixteen sum mers, educated in the freedom of the coun try, and being tolerably assured of her abil ity to cope with any body, wasnothing loath to go, and gave us the following story of the meeting. Tlie lad seemed an honest, well-meaning body, but not much in the way of looks. He was thin, and awkward, and billions, and rode a grass-fed colt, that reeled about so, I wondered how in the world it carried him. “ How do you do, sir?” says I. “How do you do, mam ?” says he. Says I, “ Which way did you come from ?” “I comofrom the Waxhaws.” “ Did you see or hear anything of our peo ple down there ?” “ No,” says he, “ but there arc some Tories about there, and we pops them down sometimes.” Thinks I, you look like a funny fellow to pop any body* down, hut I did not say* so; I just asked him “Where are you going ?” “ I am going to Uncle McDowall’s ; I’ve had the chills for a long time, and I want to stay up here until I got well.” “ And what is your name ?” “ My name is “Andy Jackson.” The old lady had to the day of her death the appearance of this young man so indel ibly impressed upon her mind, that she could never realize his importance, and it always struck her as excessively whimsical and ridiculous that such a looking custom er could ever bc the President of the U. States. She had the same difficulty with respect to Mr. Polk. She had known him when a child, he would stay for months at her house and go to school with her children, and Avas so easily outdone and so put upon by* other boys of his age, that she could nev er form a high opinion of his abilites; she always, from tlie force of habit, called him little Jemmy*, and we think never mention ed him in connexion with the Presidency without feelings of irrepressible amusement Poor old lady she stood for eighteen years alone in the world ; her children and grand-children all were dead, and none could hear her indulging in reminesceuces cf her early life without a sense of how great a blessing it was to her to have so rich a store of early "memories.—Charleston Courier. Washington National Monument. As Elections for Members of Congress, &c., will be held during the ensuing months in several State of the Union, the Board of Managers have deemed it their duty to re quest the Judges or Commissioners who may be appointed to take the ballots of the voters, to put up boxes at the different lo calities where elections will be held, for the purpose of receiving such contributions as the admirers of the Illustrious Father of his Country may think proper to deposit in aid of the great Monument, now in course of erection in this city to liis memory. They feel assured that when this noble and patriotic purpose is presented to the people, they will not hesitate to give their mite for such an object; and it now be comes more necessary, as tho funds of the society are rapidly diminishing and may not soon be adequate to carry on the work. A small contribution from each citizen or voter throughout the United States, would be sufficient to complete the Monument,—a work intended to add to their glory as well as to honor the memory of the illustrious dead. A halt dime is hut an inconsidera ble sum, and yet a half dime contributed by every inhabitant of our conntry, would rear the grand structure, now in progress, to its destined completion. It will be pitiful, wondrous pitiful, if out of twenty-five mill ions of souls who inhabit this great coun try*, rendered independent, prosperous and happy* mainly by his exertions nnd devo tion to its cause, the sum necessary to erect a Monument ivorthy of such a man could not be completed for the want of the small pecuniary aid which even,* American should feel it his pride, as well as liis duty to af ford. At the last Presidential election, the plan of obtaining contribution at the Polls, (thus testing thc patriotism and liberality of the voters and others) was attempted, though the previous arrangements were not such as to insure a very full collection, the result was as satisfactory as could, under tho circumstances, have been expected. It is therefore desirable that this system should be continued in the different States at all future elections of a local or general nature; and the Board of Managers in dulge thc hope that on this occasion at the elections to he held iu thc respective States of Maine, Vermont, Massachusetts, New York, New Jersey*, Pennsylvania, Dela ware, Maryland, South Carolina, Georgia, Mississippi, Ohio, Michigan, Wisconsin, Il linois, Louisiana, and Florida, contributions will be made in Rid of the Monument, wor thy of the Countrymen of their illustrious benefactor. GEO. WATTERSON, Secretary of the TV. N. M. S. Journals favorable to the above object, in the States where elections are to he held, are requested to publish tlie above. The Monument is now 140 feet high. Removing a Ring rnow a Young La dy’s Finger.—Dr. Castle, of Charleston, communicates to the Boston Medical and Surgical Journal the following ingenious method, devised by him, for extricating a young lady’s finger from a ring which was too small for her. We give his story in his own language: “ An interesting young lady, about sev enteen years of age, had presented to her a gold ring, which she forced over the joints of her middle finger. After a for,* minutes the finger commenced swelling, and the ring could not be removed. The family physician, Dr. , -was sent for, hut could do nothing. Tho family, and the young lady especially, were now in the greatest consternation. A jeweller was sent for. After many futile attempts to cut the ring with cutting nippers, and to saw it apart with a fine saw, and after bruising and lacerating the flesh, warm fomentations and leeches were applied, but all without affording the slighest benefit; Dr. requested my presence, with thc compliment that ‘perhaps may mechanical ingenuity might suggest something.’ I at once pro ceeded to the house of the patient, and fouiid the young lady in a most deplorable state of mental agony, the doctor embarras sed, and the family* in a high state of ex citement. I procured some prepared chalk, and applied it between the ridges of swollen flesh, and all round the Anger and succeed ed in drying the oozing and abraded flesh ; then with a narrow piece of soft linen I suc ceeded in polishing the ring, by drawing it gently round the ring between the swol len parts. I then applied quicksilver to tho whole surface of the ring. In less than three minutes the ring was broken (by pressing it together) in four pieces, to the great relief of all parties. “ In a similar manner (without the chalk) I some time since extracted a small brass ring from the ear of a child, who, child-like, had inserted it info the cavity of its ear. The operation was more plainful and tedi ous, hut was equally successful. “ The modus operandi. The quicksilver at once permeates the metals, if clean, (with the exception of iron, steel, platina, and one or two others,) and amalgamates with them. It immediately crystalizes and ren ders tho metal as hard and a3 brittle as glass. Hence the ease with which metals amalgamated with quicksilver can he bro ken. Early Rising.—In the frill of the late Air. James Sergeant, of the borough of Lei cester, is the following singular clause ; “As my nephews are tond of indulging themselves in bed in a momirg, and as I wish them to the satisfaction of my execu tor that they have got out of bed in the morning, and employed themselves in busi ness or taken exercise in thc open air from five till eight o’clock every morning, from the 5th of April to the 10th of October, be ing three hours each day*; and from seven till nine o’clok in the morning from the 10th of October to the 5tli of April, being two hours every morning; this is to he done for some years, during the first seven years to the satisfaction of my executors, who may* excuse them incase of illness, but the task must he made up when they are well; and if they will not do this, they shall not re cicve any share of my property. Temper ance makes the faculties clear, and exer cise makes them vigorous. It is temper ance and exercise united that can alone in sure the fittest state of mental or bodily ex ertion. Pa, ain’t I growing tall?” “Why “Aline Got! yot vill do Frenchman what’s your height, sonny ?” “ Seven feet, j make next ? said a Dutchman the first lacking a yard ?’ Pa fainted. | time he eaw a monkey. v

Georgia Historic Newspapers

Southern recorder. (Milledgeville, Ga.) 1820-1872, September 13, 1853, Image 1