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a jFatnUs J&eto#i>aiwr: fflrOotea to JUteraturr, tftr art#, Science, agriculture, JWtchauic#, Eimcattou, JForciau ana Domestic JutcUißcnce, ®utuour, Kt.
BY C. R. HANLEITER.
“ Much yet remains unsung.”
From the “ Family Companion.”
TO A LADY-ON PARTING.
BY SAMCKT. WOODWORTH.
Though milder skies allure thee hence,
And smiling, native scenes invite,
When fancy, to thy view presents
A glowing picture of delight;
No flowery vales nor verdant scenes
So sweet a fragrance can impart,
As friendship's tender evergreens,
Nourished by memory in the heart.
In ours, those plants shall ever bloom,
Freshen’d by tear-drops of regret.
While one sweet hope will light the gloom—
The hope that thou wilt not forget.
But should new friends and joys efface
The forms of those thou leav’st behind,
0, let the humble lines I trace,
Recall the picture to thy mind.
New-York, 1842.
[Mfl^©HLL^lNlYo
“ Sometimes fair truth in Action we disguise ;
Sometimes present her naked to men’s eyes.”
THE TALISMAN.
[Altered from the French for the Southern Miscellany.]
It was past midnight, and the last wed
ding guest had departed, when Alfred How
ard, the bridegroom, tapped lightly at the
door of a luxurious apartment, and enter
ing, threw himself at the feet of a lovely
woman who there awaited him.
“Rise, Alfred, I entreat you,” said the
lady, extending her hand to him.
“ No, no,” replied the young man, still,
however, keeping possession of the beauti
ful hand, “ here let me stay and hold you fast,
to assure myself that you will not escape
from me, that all this is not an illusion, for I
feel like the hero of one of those fairy tales
which charmed me in childhood, and now
at the summit of my felicity, expect some
spiteful fairy to appear, and snatch my trea
sure from me.”
“Oh,” said the lady smiling, “you have
me safe enough, and no magic could make
me happier than I am as the true and faith
ful wife of Alfred Howard.”
It was not however without reason that
■our hero imagined himself treading enchant
ed ground; for within three short months
inexplicable good fortune had raised him
from a state of friendless obscurity to one
of wealth and happiness beyond his wildest
dreams.
As he was one day passing through a prin
cipal street in Philadelphia, a splendid
equipage before him suddenly stopped, and
an elegant woman leaning from the window
called to him,
“Good morning,” said she smiling, “come
up here, I have something to say to you.”
The footman had already let down the
steps, and Alfred in utter bewilderment
seated himself beside the lady; when the
carriage immediately rolled on.
“ Sir,” said she, in a sweet voice, “ I re
ceived your note this morning, but notwith
standing your refusal, l still hope to see you
at my party this evening.”
“To see me, Madam!” exclaimed Alfred
in astonishment.
“Yes, sir, you Oh! excuse me,”
said she, “I think Yes certain
ly, 1 have made a strange mistake, but you
resemble one of my friends so much that I
took you for him.——Heavens, what must
you think of me! yet the resemblance
is so striking that any one might have been
deceived.” •
before this explanation was concluded,
the carriage stopped at a house which Al
fred recognized as the residence of an opu
tent merchant who had died about a year
before; and the lady at his side was this gen
tleman’s widow and the sole heir to his im
mense wealth.
Alfred handed her from the carriage, con
gratulating himself on the happy chance
Vvhich had introduced him to her acquain
tance ; accepted her invitations, and fascin
ated by her grace and loveliness soon be
came her constant and welcome visitor.
The rich and beautiful widow was of
course surrounded by admirers, but they
were all speedily dismissed, and affairs so
arranged, that one month from their first in
terview, saw her the affianced bride of the
humble student.
Such wonderful good fortune astonished
every person, but no one so much as he who
Was the object of it. He was a modest
man, yet in his perplexity he more than once
Q Pplied to the little mirror in his simply fur-
nished dressing-room to discover if any
thing in his appearance could warrant such
a happy prepossession in his favor. The
result of his observations was, that though
not positively ugly, he had but slight pre
tensions to beauty; and his dress, though al
ways neat and gentlemanly, was not such
as to permit him to attribute his success to
the tailor; he could therefore only suppose
that he was loved for himself alone, or that
Mrs. A was under the influence of a
charm. Any way it was a blissful dream,
from which he trembled at the idea of awa
king.
And even now, though a bishop bad sanc
tioned their union, and the laws of his coun
try confirmed it, neither religion or law had
power to dissipate all his doubts; and he
still knelt at her feet, holding her fast by the
hand, in fear that the charm would be bro
ken.
“Rise, dear Alfred,” said his wife once
more, “and sit here by me, for 1 have some
thing to tell you.”
The young man at length obeyed, and
the lady commenced thus:
“Once upon a time ”
“Oh Heavens!” cried Alfred, “am I to
hear a fairy tale after alii”
“Be patient, and listen tome. There
was once a young girl whose parents, though
formerly wealthy were by unmerited re
verses, reduced to poverty. They resided
in Augusta, but in their distress, the hope
of better days brought them to this city.—
Nothing is more difficult than for a man ac
customed to the enervating indulgencies of
wealth to lay the foundation of anew for
tune. This, the father experienced, and
after struggling a few years with various
disappointments, died from discouragement
and want.
“The mother soon followed her husband,
and their daughter, then only fifteen years
of age, remained alone in the world—
friendless and penniless.
“If a fairy was to be introduced into my
story, this is the time when she should have
stepped in, but no such personage appeared,
and the poor girl, who as I have said, was
left without friends or protectors, sought in
vain from strangers for the opportunity of
exercising that industry which constitutes
the riches of the poor.
“Famine menaced her; she had already
passed two days without food, and beggary
seemed her only refuge from vice—when
dressing herself in an old garment of her
mother’s, the only inheritance that remained
to her, with her face carefully concealed,
and her figure bent to simulate age, she
went forth into the street When there, she
stretched out her hand, but alas! that hand
was too young and fair, it would have be
trayed the disguise, and returning to her
miserable abode she enveloped it in a coarse
bandage, as if to conceal some loathsome
deformity.
“ The poor child stationed herself against
a post, as far as possible from any lamp, and
several times timidly petitioned for a penny,
‘only a penny to buy a little bread,’ but in
vain. The night was cold and rainy, and
the watchmen had already begun their
rounds, when the unhappy girl, perishing
with hunger, once more held out her hand,
and addressed a young man, who stopped,
searched in his pocket, and threw her a
piece of money, apparently pitying her mis
ery, yet unwilling even to touch her hand.
“At this moment, a watchman who had
probably witnessed the occurrence, sudden
ly made his appearance, and shaking her
rudely by the shoulder, exclaimed,
‘Oh, begging! you must come with me,
my lady!’
“ The excessive alarm of the poor girl
probably excited the young man’s compas
sion, for laying his hand on her arm which
a few moments before he had avoided even
touching with his glove, he said to the watch
man,
‘ This woman is not what you suppose, she
is an honest woman, I know her.’
‘But, sir ’
‘I repeat to you that I know her
my poor old woman,’ said be in a low voice
to the trembling girl, ‘take this half dollat,
and get out of the way as soon as possible,
you appear too feeble to fall into such rough
hands.’
“ The money glided from his hands into
mine,” continued the bride, ‘‘and by the
lamps of a carriage, which at that instant
passed, I distinctly saw your face.”
••My facet” exclaimed Alfred.
MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA SATURDAY MORNING, JUNE 4, 1842,
“Yes, my husband, it was I, whose life
and perhaps honor, you then preserved.”
“You!” said Alfred, “soyoung, beautiful
and delicate, you a beggar!”
“Yes, I have once received charity, only
once, and that was from yourself. The
next day a woman whose pity I had inspir
ed, procured me the place of sempstress
with a respectable dress-maker, where in
the exercise of my humble duties I soon
became cheerful and happy.
“One day as I was at work in the little
apartment where we received orders, the
rich Mr. A entered, and seated himself
at my side. He was a man nearly fifty years
of age, rather unpiepossessing in appear
ance, and equally distinguished for his great
fortune and his eccentricities.
‘Young lady,’ said he, ‘ I know all your
history, will you marry met’
“ I started with astonishment, as you may
well suppose.
‘Yes,’ said he, ‘I have abundant wealth,
which I am not disposed to bestow on my
nephews, and it does not suit my taste to be
surrounded only by servants. I knbw that
my age and unsocial habits would not be
likely to excite love by the most assiduous
course of wooing, and I have, therefore, been
thus abrupt. But do not let this alarm you.
I am perhaps better and gentler than I
seem, and if kindness can excite your grati
tude, it is all I expect. From what I have
heard of you I wish to make you my wife,
and it now only depends on yourself to
prove that you can support affluence with
as much dignity as you have endured its op
posite extreme.’
“Iloved you,Alfred,” continued the lady,
“ though I had only seen you for an instant;
I found it impossible to forget you, and a
secret presentiment ever whispered to my
heart that our lives were destined to flow in
one stream.
“ I looked at Mr. A——, so unsuited to
my taste —so unlike you!—and reflected
that his singular proposal must have origin
ated in some family difference which I was
to avenge. This I felt unwilling to do; and
if the gentleman did not receive a positive
refusal, be at least perceived so much of
my reluctance, that as it is in the nature of
man to be stimulated by obstacles, he re
doubled his importunities.
“But I still thought of you; your image
was constantly present to my imagination;
and the remembrance of one whom I had
seen only a moment, and who had never
seen me, nearly caused me to sacrifice your
future fortune and my own. But I had
been trained in too rude a school to nourish
romance. Though Mr. A was not a
man to be loved, there was in his character
a degree of stern integrity and moral eleva
tion which commanded respect, and his gen
erous intentions towards a friendless orphan
won ray sincere gratitude. Your cherished
image was therefore put aside, and I became
Mrs. A .
“You may well call it a fairy tale! What
a caprice of fortune! I had now become
the wife of one of the richest men in the
Union; and while rolling in my carriage
through the street where only a few months
before I had begged for food, I often fixed
my eye on the post against which I then
leaned, and thought of your generous inter
ference.
“ Mr. A lived but a few months after
his marriage, but I have the satisfaction of
believing that my grateful attentions cheered
his latter days. He left me, as you know, all
bis fortune; and I then made the resolution
never again to marry any one but the man
who had succored me in my greatest dis
tress. Ah! that I had but known your
name!”
As she said this, the. happy wife drew
from her neck a gold chain to which was
suspended a small locket resembling a min
iature case; opening this, she took out a
half dollar piece which she placed in her
husband’s hand.
“ It is the one you gave me,” said she; “ I
have always preserved it in memory of you,
though I often feared that we never should
meet again. Oh! with what delight I at
length recognized you in the street —how
eagerly I stopped the horses, and leaning
from the window seized the first pretext I
could imagine to call you to me! I had but
one fear—l feared you might be already
married—in that case you would never
have heard this story, and my only happi
ness would have consisted in secretly enrich
ing and befriending you.”
■ She paused, and looking at her husband I
who stood silently contemplating the little
coin which had thus guided him to happi
ness—she said with a smile brightened by a
tear,
“You see, Alfred, that though no magic
lurks with me, you have bestowed a Talis
man.”
Macon, May, 1842.
THE ROMANCE
OF JESSIE, THE FLOWER OF DVMBLANE.
The poet Tannahill is justly celebrated
for his many sweet Scottish songs. His short
life of poverty, and unfortunate death are
probably known only to the peasantry of
his own country and the curious in biogra
phy. Poor Tannahill, stung with indigna
tion from a sense of mortified pride and, as
he conceived, hopes blasted irremediably,
rushed from a merry circle where he had
spent the evening, and rashly put an end to
all his earthly troubles by drowning himself
near the place of his nativity.
Many months previous to his death he had
become gloomy and abstracted, and con
templated self-destruction with a fearful
composure. The following words solemnly
addressed, and written by a brother poet on
the eve of committing a similar act, were
ever on his tongue.
“ad ccei.um.
“Good Heavens! the mystery of life explain,
Nor let me think I bear the load in vain,
Lest, with the tedious journey cheerless grown,
Urg’d by despair, I throw my burden down.”
Tannahill long had been the sport of way
ward fate, occasioned, in some degree, by
the faults within himself; but more particu
larly by the apathy and remissness of his
countrymen, who, with all theii boasted
generosity, neglected. Like most poets, he
was sensitive to excess, and deadly jealous
of his fair fame. Always suspicious of the
motives of his patrons, he was reserved and
unamiable before them. That they should
look down on him as an object for their com
miseration, or entertain him as they would
& paid creature for their amusement, was to
his haughty spirit mortifying in the extreme;
and, rather than submit to humiliating ca
price of patronage broadly assumed, he
chose to clasp poverty to his aching heart,
and, in the ragged abode of misery, was
pleased to utter those brilliant strains of
imagery and sentiment which have beguiled
many a weary hour, and yet shall enliven
the social circles in his native land (if there
be any thing in immortality) to the “ crack
of doom.”
The cause for irritation which immediate
ly preceded this act of self-destruction, was
a supposed insult given by one of his asso
ciates on the fatal evening. Talent
ways create envy, and consequently, begot
enemies, who will seize opportune moments
to mortify and annoy. This is according to
human nature, and poor Tannahill ought to
have estimated with the mind of a philoso
pher, but unfortunately for himself, he car
ried within his bosom the heart of a poet,
tremblingly “alive all over” with a high
sense of honorable feeling, rendered still
more intense by a vivid imagination.
Os his songs none have been more uni
versally esteemed than bis “ Jessie the Flow
er of Dumblane.” The beautiful imagery
of the verse, and the plaintive sweetness of
the air* gained it an immediate popularity
which promises to be as lasting as the lan
guage in which it was written.
The fair subject of this song was a bon
nie lassie in Dumblane. Her family were
of poor extraction- and Jessie was content
ed with a peasant’s lot. When Tannahill
became acquainted with her, she was in her
“teens,” a slight dimple cheeked, happy
lassie; her hair yellow colored and luxuri
ant; her eyes large and full, overflowing
with the voluptuous languor which is so be
coming in youngblue eyes with golden lash
es. The tinge which lit up her oval cheek
was delicate and evanescent, and her pulpy
lips bubbled with bliss as she gave utterance
to her heart.
Tannahill was struck with her beauty,
and, as in all things he was enthusiastical,
became forthwith, her adent worshipser. —
But her heart was not to be won. Young,
thoughtless, panting to know and see the
world, she left her poor amourante “to con
songs to his mistress’ eyebrows,” while she
recklessly rambled among the flowery
meads of Dumblane, or of an evening sang
his inspired verses to him with the most
mortifying nonchalance. This was a two
fold misery to the sensitive poet. A crea
ture so sweetly elegant, so dear to him, so
lovely and innocent, and yet withal, so en
cased in insensibility as apparently neither
to be conscious of the verses trembling on
her dulcet tongue, nor caring for the ca
resses of her lover. ’Twas too much, to
mark all this, and feel it with the feelings
of a poet, was the acme of misery. #
But the “Flower of Dumblane” was not
that unfeeling, unimaginating being which
Tannahill pictured her. She was a creature
all feeling, all imagination, although the
bard had not that in his person or manners
to engage her attention or to arrest her fan
* The air is composed by R. A. Smith, of Edinburgh.
The verses, too, arc indebted to his critical acumen—
the manuscript sons having been twice the length of
the printed one. The writer of this received his intel
ligence of the fact from Mr. fcraitb, who was on inti
mate terms with Tannahill, and often endeavored (o
cheer up the drooping spirit of the bard.
cy. The young affections are not to be con
trolled. Love, all mighty Love, must be
free, else it ceases to he love. Tannahill
was plain in his person and uncouth in his
manners, and felt and expressed discontent
ment at the cruel disappointments which it
had been his unhappy fate almost invariably
to encounter. Jessie, on the contrary, look
ed upon the world as a brilliant spectacle yet
to be seen and enjoyed,—as a vast Paradise
full of the beauty of heaven and earth,
where men walked forth in the image of
their Creator, invested with his attributes,
and where women trod proudly amidst the
lovely creation, an angel venerated and
adored. To express dissatisfaction under
all these circumstances was to her mind the
extravagance of a misanthrope, the madness
of a real lover of misery, and a sufficient
cause for her not to respect him. Both
viewed the world through a false medium,
and their deductions, although at variance,
gave color to their minds and accelerated
their fate.
Jessie could not comprehend what ap
peared to her the folly of her suitor. She
relished not his sickly sentiment; and as all
womankind ever did so, she scorned a coo
ing lover. The bard was driven to despair,
and summoning up an unwonted energy of
mind, departed, and left his adored to her
youthful aberrations.
Soon after this period, the song of “ Jessie,
the Flower of Dumblane,” together with the
music, was published; and became a public
favorite; it was sung every where, in the
atres and parties; a world of praise was
showered upon it from woman’s flattering
lips, and men became mad. to know the
adored subject of the lay. In a short period
it was discovered. Jessie Monteith, the
pretty peasant of Dumblane, was the favor
ed one. From all quarters young men and
bachelors flocked to see her, and her own
sex were curious and critical. Many pro
mising youths paid their addresses to her,
and experienced the same reception as her
first lover. Nevertheless, at last poor Jessie
became really enamored. A rakish spark,
from Mid Lothian, adorned with education,
being of polished manners, and confident
from wealth and superiority of rank, gained
her young .affections. She too credulously
trusted in his unhallowed professions. The
ardor of first love overcame her better judg
ment, and abandoning herself to her love of
passion, she made an imprudent escape
from the protection of her parents and soon
found herself in elegant apartments near
the city of Edinburgh.
The song of neglected Tannahill was to
his Jessie both a glory and a curse, while it
brought her into notice and enhanced her
beauty, it laid the foundation for her final
destruction. Popularity is a dangerous ele
vation, whether the object of it he a peasant
or a prince, temptations crowd around it,
and snares are laid on every hand. Who
would be eminent, said a distinguished child
of popularity, if they knew the peril, the
madness, and distraction of mind to which
the creature of the popular-breath is ex
posed!
When the poet heard the fate of his be
loved Jessie, his heart almost burst with
mental agony, and working himself into the
enthusiastic frenzy of inspiration, poured
forth a torrent of song more glowing and
energetic than ever before dropped in burn
ing accents from his tongue. It is to be
lamented, that in a fit of disgust, he after
wards destroyed those poetic records of his
passion and resentment.
Ere three years had resolved their tripple
circuit after Jessie left her father’s home,
she was a changed woman. Her paramour
had forsaken her. She was destitute iu her
splendid habitation. Her blue eyes looked
pitiful on all things around her; her oval
cheeks were indented by the hand of mise
ry, and her face and person presented the
picture of an unhappy but amiable being.
How changed was the figure clothed in silk,
which moved on the banks of the Forth,
from the happy, lively girl in Dumblane,
dressed in the rustic garb of a peasant. But
this is a subject too painful to dwell on: let
us hasten to the catastrophe.
It was on an afternoon in July, a beautiful
sunny afternoon, the air was calm and pure.
The twin islands on the Forth, like vast em
eralds set in a lake of silver, rose splendidly
o’er the shining water, which now and then
gurgled and mantled round their bases.—
Fifeshire was spread forth like a map, her
hundred of inland villages and cots tran
quilly sleeping in the sunshine. The din of
the artizan’s hammers in Kirkahly and
Queensferry smote the still air; and Dum
fermline’s apron’d inhabitants scattered forth
their withered webs beneath the noon-tide
sun. On the opposite shore, Leith disgorged
her black smoke which rolled slowly in
volumes to the sea. Edinburgh Castle, like
a mighty spirit from the “ vasty deep,” reared
her gray bulwarks in air; and Arthur’s
Seat rose highly and darkly in the back
ground. The thorusses of the fishermen
like hymns to the great spirit of the waters,
ascended over Now Haven; and down from
Crainsmouth, lightly boomiug'o’er the tide,
floated the tall hark. The world seemed
steeped in happiness. But there was one,
a wandering one, an outcast, wretched aud
despairing, amidst all this loveliness; her
bosom was cold and dark, no ray could pen
etrate its depths; the sun shone not for her,
nor did nature smile around but to inflict a
more exquisite pang on the unfortunate.—
Her steps were broken and hurried. She
VOLUME I. NUMBER 10,
now approached to the water’s edge, and
then receded. No human creature was
near to disturb her purpose—all was in qui
etness and privacy; but there Avas an Eye
aboYe Who watched all. Jessie Monteith—
how mournfully sounds that name at this
crisis! But Jessie set herself down, and
removing a shawl and bonnet from her per
son, and taking a string of pearl from her
marble seeming neck, and a gold ring, which
she kissed eagerly, from her taper finger, she
cast up her streaming eyes, meekly implor
ing the forgiveness of Heaven on him, the
cause of her shame and death. Scarce
offering a prayer for herself, she breathed
forth the name of her disconsolate parents,
and ere the eye could follow her she disap
peared in the pure stream.
The sun shone on; the green of the earth
stirred not a leaf: a bell did not toll; nor
did a sigh escape from the lips of one human
being, and yet the spirit of the loveliest of
women passed away.
BALM FOR A BROKEN HEART.
A “ broken-hearted woman,” as she calls
herself—Mrs. Laura Hunt, of Montgomery
county, N. Y., notifies the public through
the Amsterdam Intelligencer, that her hus
band Joshua Hunt, has left her bed and
board, and strayed to parts unknown; and
she forbids all girls, old maids and widows,
to meddle with or marry him, under the pe
nalty of the law. She earnestly entreats all
editors “ throughout the world” to lay the
foregoing information before their readers.
Mrs. Hunt will please to perceive that we
have complied with her request.— Courier
and Enquirer,
And we two. — N. Y. Transcript.
And we three.— Cinr.innatti Mirror,
And we four.— N. Y:Standard.
And we five.— Western Methodist.
And we six. — Zion's Herald.
And we seven.— Maine Free Press.
And we eight.— Missouri Free Press,
And wc nine.— Woodstock Whig.
Leave her bed and lioard, the villain I
And we ten. — National Eagle.
Aud strayed to parts unknown, the vaga
bond ! And we eleven.— Albany Advertiser,
And we make up a dozen.— N. Y. Com.
Ad rertiser.
He left her bed ! O, the vagrant! And
tve the baker’s dozen.— Pittsburg Statesman.
And we start him again.— Miner's Journal.
Keep him moving. Salt River is too
good for him.— Jackson Courier.
May lie have corns on his toes, and pains
in his ribs all the days of his life. ,1 Leave a
woman’s bed and board, the graceless knave!
We’ll give him the sixteenth kick.— Carlisle
Republican.
Oh, the vagabond ! He deserves an addi
tional kick, and We will give him the seven
teenth. — Cleveland Herald.
Break a woman’s heart, the fiend! Take
that too. — PainviUe Telegraph.
We underwrite the eighteenth endorser*
—Courier and Enquirer.
And we give the scoundrel the nineteenth
shove.— Eastern Argus.
And here goes the twentieth.— American
Sentinel,
And we repeat her wrongs and his shame
to our twenty thousand readers.— Saturday
Courier.
Pass him round! Start him again, the
scoundrel 1 And here goes the twenty-first
kick.— Utica Daily News.
And wo give him the twenty-second.
Brethren add your mite.— Verrcnnes Ver
monter.
Here's our—kick No. 23. Tut it into
the scamp thick and fast.— Concord Free
man.
E Oh, the awful crittur! He’ll be courting
our Peggy next. Paragraph him, brethren*
with a vongeance—Paragraph him.— Wash
ington Index.
Paiagraph him, yes, he should be para
graphed oil the wings of the wind, for run
ning from a woman’s led, or board. His
eyelids should be buttoned back to an Au
gust sun and be Hunted into the Mealstorm.
— Macon, Ga., Telegraph.
fly Paragraphed—yes, he ought to be
whipped to death with a lash made of his
own hide! We unite with Mrs. Hunt in
warning all “girls, widows, and old maids”
against meddling with him. A man who
will run from the board and bed of a woman
can’t he trusted for any thing, Joshua !
where are you 1 Have you nothing to say
for yourself ?— Southern Miscellany.
The Forget-me-not—Origin of its name.—
Mills, in his work upon chivalry* mentions
that the beautiful fioVver called Forget-me
not was known in England, as early as the
time of Edward IV., and in a note, he gives
the following pretty incident, in explanation
of the name;
“ Two lovers were loitering along the
margin of a lake, on a fine summer evening,
when the maiden discovered some, flowers
of the Myosotis growing on the water, close
to the bank of an island, at some distance
from the shore. She expressed a desire to
possess them, when her knight, in the true
spirit of chivalry, plunged into the water,
aud swimming to the spot, cropped the wish
ed for plant; but his strength was unable to
fulfil the object of his achievement; and
feeling that he could not regain the shore,
although Very near it, he threw the flowers
upon the bank, and casting a last affection
ate look upou his lady-love, be said, “ For
get me not,” and was buried in the water.”
