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a jTamfla- Jiefrgyaper: ©cOotefr to iUteratute, tfte Sifts, Science, StericttUttre, jHeclmnico, Attention, jFoteisn auO ©owestic XnteUfaence, 2£mtncur, *c.
BY C, R. HANLEITER.
‘* Much yet remains unsung!’
From the “ Orion ”
SONNETS.
BY till BENJAMIN.
I.
When in the silence of the grave I sleep,
When on my brow the valley-clod is prest,
And life's warm current frozen in my breast,
Ah, who for me will turn aside and weep ?
Will any one my memory fondly keep ?
Will any say, “Would that he had not died,”
He whom we loved with love so pure and deep,
That e'en in death it could not all subside ?
Let me delude my fancy with the dream
That such there may be, that not undeplored
<1 shall sink down beneath Oblivion's stream,
But that some heart my name and fame may hoard,
-Like treasures for a season —though at last
Mingled they be with the forgotten past.
11.
‘Seek for high conquest! let there be a strife
For what is just and noble in thy soul;
-Never submit to Error's stern control,
But follow the commander Truth through life.
Not by the rattling drum, the screaming fife,
The clanging trumpet, are his soldiers led;
Not with fierce passion are their bosoms rife;
No field encumbered with the ghastly dead,
No smoking city tells how sword and fire
Have scattered ruin, misery, despair;
But his small army march in silence where
Smile joy and plenty, and to Heaven aspire
Glad hymns of freedom, such as filled the air
When Israel’s rescue rang from Miriam's golden lyre.
New-York, 184S.
“ Sometimes fair truth in fiction we disguise;
Sometimes present her naked to men's eyes.”
THE PHANTOM OF THE LATE -
MR. CUTHBERT.
[Altered from the French of Eugene Guinot for the
Southern Miscellany.]
Many a young man, vain of liis liberty,
gaily exclaims, “ Never talk to me of mar
riage till after forty, at least, let me enjoy
my youth untrammelled with a wife: it will
be soon enough to think of one when youth
is over, and the infirmities of age appear.”
But happily for society, these selfish pro
jects are very uncertain and fragile. No
one is ever so well entrenched in celibacy
as not to leave some point unguarded
through which the enemy may unexpected
ly enter.
George Dearborn, young, rich, and hand
some, had made a vow to remain a bachel
or while youth and fancy lasted. Conse
quently, he valiantly resisted all attacks on
his liberty, and though beset, on every side,
by interested mothers and attractive daugh
ters, he withstood them all bravely, till a
young widow entered the field, when affairs
soon assumed a different aspect. A widow
may be compared to a two-edged sword, it
requires a skillful hand to play with either
of them unwounded. George only meant
to joke, and he found himself taken in
earnest —the playful contest turned to seri
ous reality, for when she found him well en
tangled in the snare, the lady graciously
offered terms of truce.
“I am not displeased with your senti
ments,” said she, “ and to end our disputes,
and prove ray good will, I consent to marry
you.”
The conqueror found it impossible to re
cede without exposing himself to ridicule,
“ and after all,” said he, “ why should 1 wish
it,” she has every advantage of intelligence,
beautv, and youth, her disposition is excel
lent, and her affection undoubted.”
The projects of the bachelor yielded to
these considerations.
A few days after his marriage, our hero
received a visit from his dearest friend, Fre
deric Powell, who had just returned from
Europe.
“I suppose you have come to congratulate
me,” said George.
“There you mistake,” replied Frederic,
“you know that I was always noted for
frankness—but I will spare you all useless
reproaches, and only remark that I think you
have been very imprudent.”
“What!” cried George in alarm, “have
you heard any thing injurious to my wife!”
“No,” replied Frederic, “during her first
marriage, she lived almost constantly in the
country, and was little known in the city,
but for the last three years that she has re
sided here since her widow-hood, her con
duct has been irreproachable. That praise
lam happy to give her. The only fault I
have to find with her, is, having had a first
husband.”
“Ah, my friend,” Baid George, smiling,
“I thought you more philosophical! Have
you those prejudices!”
“Not as you understand them, perhaps.
But tell me, were you acquainted with the
late Mr. Cuthbert!”
“No.”
“ Then you do not know the lady you have
married.”
“I know that she is young, beautiful, and
perfectly amiable, and although she has been
four years the wife of another, will be sure
to captivate even your fastidiousness.”
“I admire the tone of indifference with
which you speak of that! Imprudent fel
low ! what do you know of the difficulties
and expenses bequeathed to you by that
reign of four years to which you have suc
ceeded!”
“Oh! I have no fear of the past.”
“ Are you well informed respecting your
predecessor’s character, habits, temper, See.”
“No, I have never met with any one who
was particularly acquainted with him: but
there is his portrait in that handsome frame
by the window; look at it.”
“ I observe that he was no beauty, there
you have the advantage of him; but his ug
liness may have imposed obligations on him
which should make you tremble. It may
have required attentions, cares, and sacri
fices from him, which you will be expected
to continue.”
“I am resolved to be a kind husband; I
shall do my best, and that is all that can be
expected from me.”
“We shall see! besides, why is this por
trait here! when a reign is over, it is cus
tomary to remove all emblems of the depart
ed monarch.”
“Oh! that is the work of an eminent
painter; and we value it as an object of art,
for the merit of the painting which is ex
quisite ; and quite abstractedly from the
original, who is dead, never to trouble us
more.”
“ I hope he may not!”
“What! do you believe in ghosts!”
“Yes, I believe thdt spirits may be con
jured up. I believe that the phantom of a
first husband often stares his imprudent suc
cessor in the face.”
The next day, as the two friends were
riding out together, Frederic invited George
to enter a cemetery which they passed.
“ The dead,” said he, “ should teach the
living.”
After ranging for some time among cy
press trees and monuments, they stopped
before one of them.
“Do you know who reposes here!” said
Frederic.
“No,”replied George.
“ Look there then, and read.”
George read those words, engraved in
golden letters on the marble:
“Here lies Henry Adolphus Cuthbert, a
good man, and a model for husbands. His
inconsolable widow has erected this monu
ment.”
“There!—the inconsolable does you hon
or,” said Frederic, “you have overcome the
grief that was to have been eternal! But
the lesson which I just spoke of is entirely
contained in the preceding line— a good
man, and a model for husbands. Remem
ber what I now tell you, you will hear of
this epitaph in your house-keeping: this fu
neral eulogium will be made the rule of
your life, and many a weary year you will
have of it, unless you sink under the burden,
and give your wife an opportunity of be
coming your inconsolable widow.”
An incredulous and rather contemptuous
smile was the only rely to this sally.
“ You do not believe me!” said Frederic.
“ How can I; am I not the happiest of hus
bands !”
“Oh yes, you have your honey moon, like
every one else.”
“Frederic, if I did not love you so much,
I should quarrel with you!”
“Oh, that is no more than I expect!”
On that day George dined alone with his
wife, and while looking at her, and listening
to her, he recollected his friend’s imaginary
fears.
“Poor Frederic,” said he, “no doubt he
means well, but he has strange ideas!”
“Apropos,” said the lady, “you rode out
on horseback this morning!”
“Yes, my love, while you were at your
mother’s.”
“ Did not one of your friends accompany
you !”
“Yes, Frederic Powell, a most agreeable
young man.” #
“Very agreeable, I have no doubt, but I
have heard the gentleman spoken of, and
between ourselves, I must say, that I think
MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, JUNE 11, 1842.
him a very unsuitable acquaintance for you
at present.”
“And why so!”
“Oh, you know that, as a bachelor, you
might associate with those whom you ought
to renounce on your marriage.”
“ But Frederic is not ”
“Oh, say no more,” interrupted the lady,
“ I know all about him, and am sure that I
should not like him. He would be quite
out of place in our society, and I do not
wish him to be introduced here.”
“ But if you could see and know Frederic,
you would soon give up these prejudices
against him.”
“I certainly shall not see him.”
“Yet consider, Louisa, he is one of my
earliest friends.”
“Very well, continue the friendship, I
cannot prevent that you know; I ony request
that you will not force his acquaintance on
me.”
“ What! a disagreement between us al
ready !”
“ Whose fault is it, sir! I must acknowl
edge I did not expect this opposition to my
wishes; what I asked seemed so trifling
and reasonable; but past experience misled
me.”
“What do you mean!”
“ I mean, that when I married poot Mr.
Cuthbert, he instantly, on the first expres
sion of my wishes, renounced all his old ac
quaintances, and broke with several inti
mate friends who were not exactly suited to
my taste.”
Poor George was completely silenced by
Mr. Cuthbert’s name, and the remembrance
of Frederic’s prediction. Yet the honey
moon had run but half its course.
These clouds, however, were soon dissi
pated : in a short time afterwards all was
forgotten, and George had regained his state
of blissful satisfaction, when his wife one
day said to him—
“ Winter is approaching, have you thought
of our parties!”
“What parties, my love!”
“ Dancing parties, to be sure—you know
how I love music and dancing.”
“ I know that you dance and sing like an
angel!”
“Very well, the angel should have an
opportunity of practicing her accomplish
ments.”
“Certainly, and as far as my fortune per
mits, I wish you to enjoy every pleasure—.”
“Mr. Cuthbert had precisely the same
income as yourself, and in his time I gave a
dancing party once a fortnight all through
the season—and more than that,” added the
lady, “he always allowed me the use of a
caniage; a convenience which you have
never thought of procuring me. My poor
Adolphus would never have neglected a
thing so essential to my comfort.”
This was the second time that the first
husband’s phantom had appeared to his suc
cessor, and as George was unwilling to fall
behind him in generosity, the carriage was
procured, and the parties determined on.
He now rarely saw his friend Frederic,
and when they met, it was almost in se
cret.
“I do not invite you,” said he, “because
my house offers so few attractions, that you,
would soon weary of our society.”
“Is it to you that I am indebted for this
kind of consideration,” said Frederic, smil
ing, “ or to your good lady !”
Mrs. Dearborn was one of the most ele
gant ladies in S ■■ ■. She dressed very
expensively.
“ How many new dresses! ” exclaimed her
husband one day.
“Is that a compliment or a reproach!” in
quired the lady.
George made no reply, and she added—
“ Dear Mr. Cuthbert was always charmed
to see me eclipse every one else; he never
thought his idol could be too richly drqgt.”
Soon afterwards the bills were brought
in, and formidable bills they were. George
testified some surprise.
“What,” said he, “so much for feathers,
flowers, and ribbons!”
“Do you think it too much!” said she.
“ Pray look at the amount, and judge for
yourself!”
“Oh! I am no judge; Mr. Cuthbert never
troubled me with these details; my bills
were carried to him and he paid them;
that was all I knew about the matter.”
The phantom, which at first, had only
appeared at rare interval, now began to
multiply its visits, and finally established
itself constantly in the house, interfering
with every proposal, cutting short every ar
gument; it was the sovereign arbiter in
every dispute; held its successor completely
under the yoke, made him supple and ebe
dient; in fact, nearly ruined him.
The tyranny of the ghost became insup
portable, and poor George had no consola
tion, but in a stolen visit now and then to his
friend Frederic.
“Ah!” said he, “you judged rightly, Mr.
Cuthbert persecutes me strangely; his epi
taph has, indeed, proved a programme of
my duties, and I feel myself sinking under
their weight.”
“You will not be the first victim. I pity
you from my soul, and am strongly tempted
to wish that the salutary institutions of the
Hindoo were in force amongst us.”
If, at times, George endeavored to revolt,
Mrs. Dearborn would turn to the portrait,
and exclaim,
“Oh, my Adolphus! you would never
have afflicted your Louisa thus, tor you were
kind and indulgent—you loved me, and
sought my happiness!”
How could a good natured man resist
such appeals!
One evening, at a ball, George chanced
to meet an old gentleman, who had known
his wife during her first marriage, and who
said to him,
“Heaven is just, it owed Mrs. Dearborn
a second husband like yourself, as a recom
pense for her former unhappiness.”
“You surely mistake, sir,” replied George,
“the late Mr. Cuthbert was a modelfor hus
bands. Look at his epitaph! I endeavor to
follow in his steps, but I assure you it is a
difficult task, he was so excessively indul
gent, that it is scarcely possible to imitate
him.”
“I repeat to you,” said the old gentleman,
“that I saw a great deal of Mr. and Mrs.
Cuthbert when they resided in the country.”
“They had a delightful place I believe.”
“You were never there!”
“No.”
“ So 1 perceive.”
From this moment the curtain fell; and
anew world opened before the second hus
band, who proceeded with firm steps from
one discovery to another.
Soon afterwards, important business re
quired his absence from home for a few
days.
“Business which I am not informed of!”
cried the lady, “ my dear first husband never
kept anything secret from me.”
On his return, she was still out of humor.
“Do you wish to make peace with me!”
said she.
“Certainly, what are the conditions!”
“A northern tour. Mr. Cuthbert went
with me several times.”
“ When you did not pass the summer at
your delightful country seat.”
“Yes, Oh, how much I love the country!”
“ Your taste shall be gratified. I have an
unexpected pleasure in reserve for you; so
prepare for a short journey.”
“ Have we far to go 1”
“ You will see.”
The lady’s surprise may be imagined,
when she found herself transported to her
old log-house residence.
“ I have re-purchased it for you,” said
George, “and joyfully establish you in it,
because I wish to follow the excellit exam
ple of your beloved Mr. Cuthbert, and you
have precisely pointed out my line of duties
iu this memorial.”
“What memorial!”
“One written entirely by your own hand.
Look here! this is a petition for separate
maintenance, on account of bad treatment
of various descriptions, received from the
excellent Mr. Cuthbert, that model for hus
bands. His death put an end to the pro
ceedings, but I have seen your lawyer and
procured this document fiom him.”
The lady cast down her eyes in confusion,
and the phantom disappeared forever.
On returning to S-, George gladly
welcomed his old friend Frederic to his
house, who said, laughing,
“You have made a discovery; in such
cases as yours, it is highly desirable to know
something of your predecessor!”
A FRAGMENT.
Do any thing but love t or if thou hmat,
And art a woman, hide thy love from him
Whom thou dost worship. Never let him know
How dear he is : flit like a bird before him—
Lead him from tree to tree, from flower to flower j
But be not won 1 or thou wilt, like that bird
When caught and caged, be left to pine neglected
And perish in forgetfulness.
From Douglas Jerrold’s “Cakes and Ale.”
THE PRIEST AND THE HANGMAN.
Listen to the hangman and priest, talking
upon capital punishment; when could the
most eloquent essay have embodied a deep
er, yet more kindly satire, upon the axe or
the gallows? How bitter, yet bow good
naturedly, can the hangman argue—he ought
to have the lest of it:
“ Thou dost call death a punishment!”
repeated the executioner. “I live by it,
and should, therefore, with the wisdom of
this world ”
“ The wisdom of this world is arrant fol
ly,” interrupted the capuchin.
“ I am of thy ghostly opinion,” observed
Jacques Tenebrae, “as to a good deal of it.
Yet death being made a punishment, makes
my profession; and my profession—l speak
this to thee in private, and as a friend—my
profession is little less than an arrant folly;
a mistake—a miserable blunder.”
“ The saints protect me! What meanest
thou by such wild discourse !” inquired Fa
ther George.
.“Hear me out—listen to the hangman!”
cried Jacques Tenebrae. “ There is another
world—eh !—good Father George.”
The capuchin moved suddenly from the
side of the querist, and surveyed him with
a look of horror.
“ Nay, nay, answer me,” said Jacques,
“but for the form of argument. ’Twas for
that I put the question.”
“’Tis scarcely lawful even so to put it,”
said the monk. “However, let it be grant
ed—there is another world.”
“And all men must die!” asked Jacques
Tenebrae. “ Eh!—is it not sol”
“We come into the world doomed to the
penalty,” replied the capuchin. “ Death is
the common lot of all.”
“Os the good, and tho wise, and the un
wise. Eh, father!.” cried Jacques.
“'Tis very certain,” answered the monk.
“If such, then, be the case,” said Tene
brae ; “if no virtue, no goodness, no wisdom,
no’ strength, can escape death—if death be
made, as you say, the penalty of tbo good,
why should it he thought the punishment of
the wicked ! Why should that be thought
the only doom for the blackest guilt, which
it may be, at the very same hour, the highest
virtue is condemned to suffer! Answer me
that!” cried the hangman.
“’Tis a point above thy apprehension,
Jacques Tenebrae,” replied Father George,
apparently desirous of changing the dis
course. “Let it rest, Jacques, for abler
wits than thine.”
“You would not kill a culprit’s soul, Fa
ther George!” asked Jacques, heedless of
the wishes of the capuchin.
“ What hoiror dost thou talk!” exclaimed
the monk.
“But for argument,” said the unmoved
Jacques. “Nay, I am sure thou wouldst
not. I have heard thee talk such consola
tion to a culprit, that at the time I have
thought it a blessed thing to die. Well, he
died—and the laws, as the cant runs, were
avenged. The repentant thief—the peni
tent bloodshedder, was dismissed from the
further rule of man; perhaps the very day
he was punished, a hundred pious, worthy
souls were called from the world: he was
discharged from the earth, and—but thou
knowest what .thou htftt twenty times pro
mised such misdoers when I should have
done my office on them.”
“ Thou art ignorant, Jacques Tenebrae—
basely ignorant: thou art so familiarized
with death, it has lost its terrors to thee,”
said the capuchin, who again strove to shift
the discourse.
“Os that anon, Father George: as for
death on the scafi’old, ’tis nothing—but 1
have seen the death of a good man, in his
Christian bed,” said said Jacques, “and that
was awful.”
“Thou dost own as much!” observed
Father George: “thou dost confess it!”
“Awful, yet cheering and ’twas whilst I
beheld it that the thought came to me of my
own worthlessness—”
“Asa sinner,” interrupted the capuchin.
“And hangman,” cried Jacques. “I
thought it took from the holiness, tho beauty
—if I may say it—of the good man’s fate—
the common fate, as you rightly call it, father
—to give death to the villain—to make it the
last punishment, by casting him at one fling
from the same world with the pious, worthy
creature, who died yesterday. Now, the
law would not, could not if it would, kill
the soul, and—but thou knowest what passes
between thy brotherhood and the condemn
ed, thou knowest what thou dost promise to
the peuitent culprit—and, therefore, to kill
a man for his crimes would be a fitting, a rea
sonable custom, if this world were all, if there
were nought beyond. Then, see you, Fa
ther George, thou wouldst hasten the evil
doer into nothingness; now dost thou speed
him into felicity. Eh?—Am I not right—is
it not so, holy father?”
“And is such thy thought—thy true
thought?” inquired the capuchin.
“ I thank my stars it is, else I had not
held my trade so long. Punishment! Bah!
I call myself the rogues’ chamberlain, taking
them from a wicked world, and putting them
to rest. When he who signs the warrant for
the exit—and, thinking closely what we all
are, ’tis bold writing, i’ faith-—must some
day die tbo, —when the ermine tippet must,
at some time, lie down with hempen string,
it is, methiuks, a humorous way of punish
ment, this same hanging.”
“1 tell thee, Jacques Tenebne,” cried the
VOLUME 1.-NUMBER 11.
priest, “ thy coarse faculties, made familiar
with such scenes, cannot apprehend their
awfulness—their public use. The example
that ”
“Ho! hold you there, father—example I
’Tis a brave example to throttle a man in the
public streets: why I know the faces of my
audience as well as Dominique did. t can
show you a hundred who never fail at the
gallows’ foot to come and gather good
example. Do you think, most holy father,
that the mob of Paris come to a hanging as
to a sermon—to amend their lives at the gib
bet] No: many come as they would take
an extra dram; it gives their blood a fillip
—stirs them for an hour or two: many, to
see a fellow-man act a scene which they
themselves must one day undergo: many,
as to the puppets and ballad-singers at the
Pont Neuf; but, for example, why, father,
as I am an honest executioner, I have in my*
days done my office upon twenty, all of
whom were the constant visitors of years’
standing at my morning levees.”
“Is it possible ?” asked the monk.
“Believe the hangman,” answered Jac
ques Tenebrae.
“And thou wouldst punish no evil-doer’
with death!” inquiied Father George.
“As I am an honest minister of the law and
live by rope, not I: for this sufficient rea
son ; nature having made death the punish
ment of all men, it is too good a portion for
rogues; the more especially when softened
by the discourse of thy brotherhood.”
“ And thou wouldst hang no man ?” again
asked the friar with rising wrath.
“Though I speak it to my loss,” cried Jac
ques, “not I!”
“Jacques Tenebrae, for the wickedness of
thy heart,” exclaimed the capuchin, “ I com
mand thee, for penance, to pionounce every
morn and night forty aves, five-and-thirty
paternosters, fifty—”
The door was suddenly opened, and Se
raphe the gaoler unceremoniously entering
the apartment, cut short the sentence of the
monk.
The story of a Portrait.-^- Max Roden
stein was the glory of his house. A being
so beautiful in body, and in soul, you cannot
imagine, and I will not attempt to describe.
This miniature has given you some faint idea
of his image, and yet this is -only the copy
of a copy. The only wish of the Baroness
Rodenstein, which never could be accomp
lished, was the possession of the port®it of
her youngest son; for no consideration
could induce Max to allow his likeness to be
taken. His old nurse had always told him,
that the moment that his portrait was taken,
he would die. The coudilion upon which
such a beautiful being was allowed to remain
in the world, was, as she always said, that
his beauty should not be imitated. About
three months before the battle of Leipsick,
when Max was absent at the university,
which was nearly four hundred miles from
Rodenstein castle, there arrived one moriiiug
a large case directed to the baroness. On
opening it, it was found to contain a pic
ture—the portrait of her son. The coloring
was so vivid, the general execution so mi
raculous, that for some moments they forgot
to wonder at the incident in their admira
tion of the w'ork of art. In one corner of
the picture, in small characters, yet fresh,
was an inscription, which on examining they
found consisted of these words, “Painted
last night. Now, lady, thou hast thy wish /”
My aunt sunk into the baron’s arms.
In silence and in trembling the wonderful
portrait was suspended over the fireplace of
my aunt’s most favorite apartment. The
next day they received letters from Max.
He was quite well, but mentioned nothing
of the mysterious painting.
Three months afterwards, as a lady was
sitting alone in the baroness’s room, and
gazing on the portrait of him she loved right
dearly, she suddenly started from her seat,
and would have shrieked, had not an inde
finable sensation prevented her. The eyes
of the portrait moved. The lady stood
leaning on a chair, pale, and trembling like
an aspen, but gazing steadfastly upon the
animated portrait. It was no illusion of a
heated fancy—again the eye-lids trembled,
there was a melancholy smile, and then
they closed. The clock of Rodenstein cas
tle struck three. Three days after came the
news of the battle of Leipsick, and at the
very moment that the eyes of the portrait
closed, Max Rodenstein had been pierced
by a Polish lancer.— D'lsraeli.
Ludicrous Mistake. —Piron, a Frencb poet,
was accustomed to go almost every morn
ing to the wood of Boulogne to meditate at
his leisure. One day he lost himself, and
could not find his way out of the wood till
four o’clock in the afternoon, when be was
so tired that he was obliged to rest himself
upon a bench near one. of the gates. Ho
was scarcely seated before he saw people
from all sides advancing towards him; eve
ry passenger going into the wood or going
from it, whether in a carnage, on horseback,
or on toot, approached to salute him. Piron
bowed with more or lrts ceremony, accord
ing to the apparent condition of the various
persons. “ Oh! oh !” said he to himself,
“ I am better known than I was aware of.
How I wish M. de Voltaire were here this
moment, to witness the consideration I en
joy—M.de Voltaire, before whom I almost
prostrated myself this morning, without his
clbignin” to reply but by a slight motion of
the head!” While he made these reflections