Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

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