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MILLEDGEVILLE, GEORGIA, TUESDAY, MARCH 28, 1871.
Number 12.
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ZVIXL&XSDOEVZXiZiB
OR
Byron and His Sister-
Though the day of my destiny’s over,
And the stay of my fate hath declined,
Thy soft heart refused to discover
The faults which so many could find,
Though thy soul with my grief was acquain*
ted,
It shrunk not to share it with me,
And the love which my spirit hath painted,
It never hath found but in thee.
Though human, thou didst not deceive me;
Though woman, thou didst not forsake;
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me;
Though 'andered, thou never could’st shake
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me;
Though parted, it was not to fly;
Though watchful, it was not to defame me,
Nor mute that the word might belie.
From the wreck of the past which hath per
ished
Thus much I at least may recall.
It hath taught me that what I most cherished
Deserved to be dearest of a'l.
In the desert a fountain is springing,
In the wild waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of thee.
Likes in Lord Bvros’s Bible.—These
lines were copied from the fly leaf of Lord
Byron’s Bible—probably the very one bis
sister gave him, as the Marquise de Boissy
writes this was the one he daily used:
Within this sacred volume lies
The mystery of mysteries.
Oh! happy they of human race,
To whom our God hath given grace
To hear to read, to feel, pray,
To lift the latch, and force the way;
But better bad they ne’er been born,
, Who read to doubt, or read to scorn?
(The folio icing Story, written by a y’fted
Southern writer, is entered as a competitor for the
8100-00 prize offered by Messrs. R. A. Har
rison ,j- Dro., for "-'Jhe best original contri
bution” furnished their papers, during the pres
ent year.
MISTRESS ELSIE.
ter thinking of my own clear home, f or m my heart, I was far from L-m-
R.
SPARTA, GA.
& P
CHAPTER III.
It was near night when we arrived
at the gteat town, and so dark, I
could see nothing but gloomy walls
rising on the right hand and on the
left, as we rode along. A great
clock was striking the hour, and
sounded so loud and angry like, I
c ied out —
‘ Dear uncle, will the horse take
fright?”
“At nothing, lest it bp at thee,”
he said, making rnv ignorance a lit'
tie jest.
Presently we rode into a small
paved court, the which I remember
very’ well, since 1 hurt my feet no
little as I alighted on llie hard pav'
ing stones—being used to soft green
turf, I had not calculated the differ-
cut way one must alight on city
stones.
A boy carried the horse away, and
my aunt met us at the door. She
was round and short, as was my un
cle, and spoke very kindly to me,
bidding me take my bonnet off, say
ing as I did so,
“She is every whit thy niece, good
man !” At which I knew not wheth
er to be glad or sorry , out I made
a low courtesy, and my uncle nodded
his head, to signify his willingness
to have me resemble him in looks,
I thought.
Everything struck me as very line
and grand. T he walls had no end
of closets in them; the chairs were
stuffed until they could hold no more
wool; and the bedsteads were so
high and dismal-looking, hung round
about w’ith curtains, that I had n
great mind not to sleep on mine at
all. The which my aunt reproved
me for. and said I “must not give
myself such airs!” but in my heart
I knew I dreaded witches, nor
thought on “airs” all night.
My aunt was a great house-wile,
and my uncle was some kind of a
magistrate, and never ceased from
talking of politics and great folks.
On all occasions he brought home
men to sup with him, who wore wigs
and chains as he did: and together
tliev would drink wine and talk ol
the government and the country, un
til a late hour of thl night. At such
times, my aunt and I would sit in
her house-wile’s room, and mend
the linen, or knit great stockings for
her to wear,—whilst every now and
then, sounds of loud talking would
float back to us.
Sometimes to keep me better com
pany, she would tell me tab s of the
north country, which had been her
home; and often as she talked I
would lose all that she was telling,
of the turf and the hill-sides, the
clear springs, and the birds that built
nests and sung at our cottage win*
dows ; of the sorrowful, sorrowful
church-yard, where the daisies grew
between two lowly graves—unno
ticed day after day ; and above all,
of my good John Gray, whom I could
see so distinctly in my mind, help'
ing every body who w r as friendless,
and taking no thought for himself.
Once or twice a tear fell down
my cheeks, and my aunt seeing it,
would say something on this wise :
“Tush, Elsie, my girl, ’lis’nt a
thing for thee to cry about, if my
cousin.did beat me twice a day!”
And all the while, she did not wist
that I was erving for my own sor
rows which were ever present, not
for tier’s that were past and gone,
anti which, moreover, I had not lis
tened to, nor knew if I hey were great
or small.
I saw very little of the - bustle
which, I had heard, went on every
day in the great streets around me ;
lor my aunt was most c£relul not to
allow me to go out, unless I Bad Ja
net or Donnel to wait upon me, and
it was seldom the former could be
spared from her spinning wheel, or
the litter from his attendance upon
my uncle, who liked to know that
Donnel was busy curling his wig or
rubbing up his golden chain, incase
he needed them to wear at a mo-
ment’s notice.
Donnel was ever a kind bod}’ to
me; and I call to mind many little
posies he bought of the poor flower-
girls. to give me when I grew lone
some and sick at heart, shut up in
that dismal city house— and of Ja
net, his wife, there lingers a loving
remembrance—lor she, too, was
most, good to me. Often I would
spin her task that she might go and
bring me a little tuft of grass, or a
handful of wild flowers, which I
struggled to make live, in a pot in
my window.
Many tim«s when my uncle had
his company in the best room—and
they grew merry over their wine—I
thought I could heai that word “I u-
ritan,” rLing above other words, as
if they were making it a matter of
discussion between them; and my
first thought was to regret thai. any
one should speak lightly, and around
the wine tankard, of something I
held sacred, even though I did not
understand the lull meaning of the
word. Mv secord thought was to
wonder it in any way, their talk con
cerned John Gray; never remem
bering that ail these line towns folk
knew nothing of my good shepherd
lad, who tended his lather’s sheep
upon the hill-sides, and ever and
anon, as opportunity offered, ex
pounded holy writ to such of his
companions as would listen to him.
Dear steadfast, faithful John Gray !
If at this late hour it be a sin to re
call thee, may the good Lord wipe
the memory from my heart, for my
poor hands have tried in vain.
Once, as the argument waxed
louder in the best room, and I heard
an oath or two mixed up with their
angry words, I said to my aunt,
“Dear madam, what may these
things lie? They do amaze me migbi-
ily, seeing I nevei heard such harsh
speaking amongst good friends be
fore.”
“It does not concern either me or
thee,” she made answet, “but, an
you must know, ’ti3 all about some
new kind of doctrine, neither here
nor there, to a decent minded maid
en !”
“What call they this new doc
trine, dear madam ?” I was bold e-
nough to ask, for without knowing
why. it seemed to concern me, wheth
er very “decent” or not.
“God rest your curiosity, child,
they call it the ‘devil’s own work;’
and, if you take my counsel, you
will not pry into that; some folk
call the followers ‘Puritans!’ Now
do not speak again until I bid thee,
else I call thee an ugiy name for
such ill-mannered ways, inquiring
nio all unwholesome things like
this!”
And straightway 1 began to sew,
thuugh long were the stitches and
crooked the seam 1 made that day ;
don town, and when the thread re
fused to pull through the linen, it
was by reason of my sorrowing tears.
CHAPTER IV.
Not many days after, as I stood
by the lattice, near sunset, spinning
lor Janet, whilst she went to gather
me a few green things,—grasses or
even leaves, I heard the latch of the
gale click, and saw her returning to
me empty handed. As she drew
near she pul her finger on her lips
as a token I must keep still, and
when she was quite near me whis
pered in my ear,
“Such things as I have seen and
heard, Mistress Elsie!”
“Have you no leaves or grasses?”
I asked, not heeding her words at
all, for the disappointment weighed
upon me.
“I forgot them, dear lady ; not be
cause I did not wish to please thee,
but by reason of the strange sight,
which I ran back to tell thee I had
seen !”
“Was it a show?” I inquired, not
taking much interest, for Janet was
simple minded, often making much
of every little—
“Nay, mistress, no show—least
wise, no funny show.”
“Then what did you see?” I said,
growing impatient at her mysterious
way.
“Never mention it to Donnel if I
tell thee, dear mistress. : the good
man gave me a lecture only yester
night, because I did not mind my
business, as he th iught I should.”
“Nay, I shall keep it safe,” I
made reply, for I was beginning to
tyke some little interest.
“I was walking very orderly along
when I saw a knot of folks—men
and women collected together in a
court-yard; and from little things I
overheard from folk like me upon
tie street, 1 found out that it was a
iran speaking to the people, around
him and expounding the scriptures
in a manner none ever heard be
fore! Then I Ir^t a great desire to
g>over and hear him too; but says
l to myself, ‘Janet, woman, what
will Donnel say to the like of this?’
and I knew he would frei no little—
so 1 shut my ears and went a bit
far.her; but the farther I went the
more I wanted to know what the
strange man was saving ; so, thinks
I again, all to myself, ‘Donnel is a
good man, but he has his ways ; and,
alter all, who knows but what it
might be something to his interest
it I were to listen to this strange
man ?’ and, thereupon, with ail such
reasoning I turned me back ami
joined the folk.”
“And what heard ye Janet? come
to that right away,” I said ; but I
was full sure what she had heard.
“What heard I? good Mistress
Elsie, I heard a kind voice read
ing the blessed gospel and ex
pounding it all in such a comforting
way, as never I heard before. We
were standing around him—the men
quite near, the women some little
distance off - ,—when, in a twinkling,
persons came from behind a house
and bound the good man with fetters
and carried him off. He did not
resist them; but I saw him put his
good book in his breast.”
“And why did you not all beat the
men who took him way !” i cried.
“Beatthem! beat them Mistress
Elsie? Nay, nay, we all tan off as
fast as ever vie could, and the Lord
be praised that Donnel did not see
me as I ran, with my best gown a-
Hying in the breeze !”
“Shame upon thee, Janet!” I ex
claimed, “to think more of your
gown than of the poor soul who,
peradventure, has fallen among
thieves.”
“Aye, Mistress, ’tis all well e-
nough for thee to blame me now ;
but 1 thought on Donnel then,—nev- ^ of every thing pertaining to his weal
er once on the kind man.” j and mine,—even to the kindness of
“What has befallen him, Janet,” | Janet, in being the bearer of the let>
I asked.
aught of him at all.”
“And where were the men he tried
to teach, Janet,—where were they ?”
“Did I not say they disappeared,
Mistress Elsie?—went away like
the earth hid haply swallowed
them !”
I could not but think of John Gray,
and dread that some such ill might
befal him ; for I knew how greatly
he delighted in just such practices
as had brought this stranger to grief;
and whilst Janet finished her spin
ning, I laid rny head against the lat
tice and cried as though my heart
would surely break in two.
“Poor little mistress, I did not
think to make thee cry,” she said,
leaving her yarn and coining to com
fort me, “my tongue is over long, as
Donnel saith.” Ami while she blam
ed herself, a happy thought came to
me : I would write John a letter,
and would tell him of the danger,
and I would save him from it all!
“That’s a dear mistress, don’t cry
any more about the man ; like as not
he was a wolt in sheep’s clothing, as
some folks said he was.”
“Some folk tell great ugly lies !”
I exclaimed,
“’Tis an ugly thing in you to say
so,” she answered,—“a dreadful
word in a gentlewoman’s mouth like
yours, Mistress Elsie !”
“Ana they did a dreadful thing
to call such a good man a wolf!” ]
made answer, very angrily.
“Dear, dear!” Janet cried, “did
any one ever hear such like?”
And in my anger, ] left her to her
spinning, and wenL off by myself to
brood over all I had heard,—and I
made some things very clear to my
mind. John was a Puritan, for he
had said so, and his word was truth
itself; he had a good book, and so
hail this man whom they had bound
and carried away, none knew whith
er; and John delighted to expound
it to anv who would listen to him,
on the hill-sides—at the market—nay,
even at the church doors, if oppor
tunity favored him ; and might he
not suffer a like fate? Might not
strong men steal upon him unawares,
and take him off where I should
never hear the sound of his voice a-
gain, nor see his kind, good face ?
And as I thought thereon, my tears
fell fast, and plentiful, and I was the
more determined to write and tell
him ol his danger. Then it came to
me, that I could never gel it to him ;
but presently such a gladsome
thought occurred to me I laughed
for joy.—Janet, always ready to do
me a service, should take my letter
to the country side, just beyond Lon-
Ion town, and should give it to some
kind body to give him. For miles
and milesaround, the folk knew John,
and any would do him a service that
had ever known him ; so that matter
was settled in my heart.
Poor foolish heart to be so easy
soothed ; and poor wretched maidm
that I was, to know so little W the
ways of the world in which I lived !
To dig with mine own hands—these
hands that would have borne any
toil for his sake, the pit that caught
his feet ;—to fashion with all the
skill I knew, a net to entrap him;—
when, in this poor uneasy heart, the
love I bore him was the first and
only thing!
CHAPTER V.
At spare moments, and with Ja
net’s assistance, I got me paper and
a quill, and wrote such a letter as I
believed would keep all harm from
him ; and lest he should not do as I
bade him,—cease expounding and
no more call himself a Puritan —
l put such loving words therein, as
1 had never courage to tell him, face
to face ; and for fear that he might
doubt the letter did indeed come
from me, I was most careful to make
mention of my dwelling place—of
my uncle, the Magistrate,—in sooth,
“Who knows what hath befallen
ler; and at the close I signed myself,
with all the grace I knew, his ‘faith.
him, <lear mistress? Some lolk said ftiend ' vel1 k “ 0 ' v '"* “ was
•death would be too good lor him >; : something better than a friend I was
some said, *a hair of his head should to him.—hut growing modest as I
not be' touched anti every body neared the ending of my letter,
looked behind them before they said Janet bore it away one summer
afternoon : and as I was wont to do,
I spun her task; and there-while,
my aunt sprinkled sweet leaves in
the linen chests, and my uncle dosed
in the sunshine.
That evening she met no one
knowing anything at all of “one John
Gray, a shepherd boy;” but nearly
every afternoon, for the space of a
week, with some pretence or other,
she made it convenient to try again,
until at last, one day, when 1 had
well nigh given over to despair, she
returned without the letter, and told
me she had come upon a kind body,
who had inquired her wants, telling
her he had seen her come full often,
and go aw ay as if she had not done
her biudii. c ; and thereupon, she
asked him if Le knew John Gray,
and spoke ot having a letter pertain
ing to important matters, to send
him by some one going to his parts ;
and, to her great joy, he said he
knew the lad so named, quite well;
and being a near neighbor of his fa
ther, honest Roger Gray, would bear
the letter in all safely to his son ;
and without more ado, Janet in
trusted it to him, taking him aside
to whisper, that it might be well, to
give it to him in private, if occasion
effered.
How 1 mind me of the songs I sang
that night; and how these eyes, so
weary with the sights and sorrows of
three score years, look back upon
that time, wheu in my heart, I trust
ed all around me,—a simple, un
skilled maiden, having no knowledge
of the craftiness of the world ! How
in my dreams I was doing John
Gray such service, and being so
thankful I could return him some of
those good deeds he had done to us,
when we had none to offer hi Ip, but
him.
My aunt praised me for the mer-d*
ing of my manners, the which she
said “was not a whit too soon in tak
ing place,” and never wisted how
that happy thoughts make comely
ways, and a light heart giveth gentle
demeanor. And altho’ I thought it
strange he did not send me an answer
to all those loving woids which I had
made bold lo write, I knew lie was
less ready wiih the quill, and so I
did not marvel very much, or feel
one doubt as to his heart and mind
lowants me—knowing as I did, how
rue and beyond all change he was.
(To be continued.)
Najnjleon’s Flower.—The violet is
the emblematic flower of the Bona-
partes, as the lily is of the Bourbons.
When Eugenie agreed lo accept
Napoleon’s offer ot marriage, she
expressed it only by appearing one
evening dressed in an exquisite vio
let toilet—violets in her hair, in her
dress, even to a bunch in her hand.
Louis Napoleon understood. Napo
leon the First, while consul selected
this as his flower. It was through
Josephine asking him to bring her a
bouquet of them on her birthday—
a desire he was not able to serve
after irreat difficulty. He cultiva
ted them assiduously while a pris
oner at ?!. Helena; and they were
profusely pitted over the grave of
Josephine. Alter his death, his
coffin was covered with the humble
flowers he loved. It is even said
that in the earlier days of Louis
Napoleon he was silently told who
his friends were by cautious display
of violets.
Opium Eating.—The subject is
again revived of opium eating in
the United States, particularly in
New York City, and the develop
ments are startling. Physicians are
called upon not to prescribe it in any
shape unless absolutely necessary,
as the habit is often contracted by
being first taken lo alleviate pain.
It is reckoned that many millions of
dollars are annually spent in that
city alone for the drug, which is
taken in the form of pills. Women
are know to use six and eight oun
ces of it in a day.
An Ohio Prodigy.—Ohio is brag
ging over a man with wonderful
memory. He is filly three years
of age, illiterate and nearly blind,
but he remembers the occurrences
of every day since January 1, 1827,
when he was nine years old. Men
tion any date to him in the last for
ty-four years, and he tells yon in
stantly what day of the week it was
what sort of weather prevailed, ai.d
what he was working at and con
versed about. A gentleman who
proposed a test provided himself
with a journal tor lorty-five years,
and after several severe cross-exam
inations proved the Ohioan to be
correct invariably*