Newspaper Page Text
VOLUME 11. j
BY C. R. lIANLEITER.
poErmr.
‘• Much yet remains unsung ”
TIIE WIFE.
I could liavestemm'd misfortune’s tide,
And borne the rich ose’s sneer,
Have braved the haughty glance of pride,
Nor shed a single tear:
K could have smil’d on every blow
From Life's full quiver thrown,
“Whiled might gaze on thee, and know
I should not be “ alone.”
‘.l could —I think I could have brook’d.
E'en for a time, that thou
Upon my fading face hadst look'd
Witlilcss of love than now;
For then I should at least have felt
The sweet hope still my own,
To win thee back, and, whilst I dwell
On earth, not be “ alone.”
To maik thy strength each kour decay,
And yet thy hopes grew stronger,
As, filled with heaven-ward trust, they say,
“Earth may not claim thee longer;”
Nay, dearest, ‘tis too much —this heart
Must break, when the u art gone ;
It must not be; we may not part;
Oh! I could not live “ alone.”
§ELE©TE[n) TALES
THE LOVE-LETTER:
Or little Lucy and Aunt Lu.
y MRS. A . M . F. ANNAN.
One might liave thought the picture had
heeti studied, so graceful was that of the
family group assembled on the portico of
North Hall ; but it was a scene of every
day—old Mr. Ethcrwood, full of the airs
and whims of an obstinate valetudinarian,
reclining in an immense chair, cushioned to
tlie extreme of luxury, his dressing gown
of richly quilled damask, folded round his
stooping figure and attenuated limbs, and
his long gray hair falling from beneath his
velvet cap, and mingling with the transpa
rent ruffles that covered his bosom. So al
so was the position of his gentle daughter,
Lucy, his only child—Aunt Lu she was call
ed, to distinguish her from a younger inher
itress of the name. She was kneeling at
his side, a lovely, devoted-looking woman,
and smoothing his fleecy white stockings,
the work of her own fair hands, under his
embroidered slippers, with as much tender
ness as if his passive feet had been those of
an infant. The remaining figure, however,
presented anew aspect. This was the
grandchild and niece, little Lucy still, for
.though nearly eighteen and well grown, the
affectionate watchfulness of her aunt had so
preserved her girlish simplicity of charac
ter, and consequently of appearance, that
she looked full two years younger. She
stood leaning against a column, and twisting
in her lingers the fringed blossom of a pas
sion-flower which festooned it, and though
her eyes were fixed upon the gilded wires
of a bird-cage suspended among the vines,
it was evident that neither the sparkling
glances nor the coaxing twitter of its little
.inmate attracted from her a single thought.
The old gentleman had watched her anx
iously for some minutes, and at length te
marked :
“ I have not seen you feed your bird this
morning, Lucy.”
“No, grandpapa, but Auut Lu did not
forget it.”
” It is well that Aunt Lu thinks of every
thing, or now that Clement Noel has gone,
there would he many things forgotten.”
Lucy’s face glowed as brightly as the rose
colored ribbon round her neck, wl'j’* Mi ( 0
her grandfather, was very fis
he had spoken k’Tiuiy and Vvitn perfect sin
gleness of mcac 11 ,g i and, after u pause he
‘resumed :
t
1 ‘am afraid you are not well, child—
what is it ails you I You know how it wor
ries me to see any thing about me looking
out of the usual way.”
“There is nothing the matter with me,
s i,-— a t least, I have only a little headache!”
A woman’s answer.
“ Dear child, you can’t make me believe
that; when people have headaches they al
'ways complain, I never knew anybody that
•didn’t; end you have not said a word about
fit before. You know that my greatest carth-
My solicitude is about your health, yours and
your aunt Lu’s; I am always trembling lest
you should inherit some of tny own distress
ring maladies. I feel confident that if your
lather had lived long enough, he would have
died of some of them. And now you look
listless, your eyes are dull, and I have heard
you sigh heavily a dozen of times. Have
you any difficulty of breathing, particurly
of nights ? It would be a shocking thing if
you should get the asthma.”
“ Oh, dear no, grandpapa.”
“Is your digestion good ? do you ever
feel any nausea after eating, or atiy burning
sensation here? look, Lucy, just here? Be
always on your guard against dyspepsia, for
it would make you miserable for life. You
must be abstemious. I’ll give you some of
tfiy bran bread fur dinner, and you must al
ways take tapioca, after this, for your break
t [ISt
“ Indeed, grandpa, it is quite unnecessa
ry.”
“ Or perhaps you have taken cold—young
people are always so deplorably care ess.
Have you any shooting pains in your imbs.
& jFiinrtlg Jirtosimpcv : Bcfcotefc to ILittvxtnvt> &flrtcultttre, SfHecftanico, iSttur&tiou, iForetj&n aufc 3Uomcot(c XnteUtflcnce, scc.
Among other engravings which we have
procured from New-York for the adornment
of the “Miscellany,” are some of rare ani
mals, which we have selected with a view to
the instruction and entertainment of the
young student of Natural History. The
Giraffe, which we give in our present num
ber, is one of the most beautiful, as well as
the nearest of quadrupeds. It was known’to
the Persians about two thousand years ago,
and we are told of its exhibition to the Ro
mans in the time of Julius Caesar; but, not
withstanding the assertions of Ancient His
tory, and wonderful descriptions of Pliriny,
Straflo and others, who wrote of the stately
Giraffe, its existence has been considered
fabulous—a creation of the poet’s fancy— ]
until within the last few years, since when
two specimens have been exhibited inEurope
and this country by a company of enterpris
ing Americans. We doubt not that most of
our readers availed themselves of the op
portunity of seeing the beautiful animal
(since dead) that was exhibited through
Georgia in 1838-9. Such as did will read
the following sketch with peculiar interest.
The Giraffe is found in the Great Kali
harri Desert of South Africa, in latitude 25
30 S., and longitude 25 E. Its average
height, when full grown, is eighteen feet,
though some have been seen in their native
wilds upwards of twenty feet. The length
from the tip of the tail to the head, is 15 feet;
girth, 10 feet; length of four legs, 6 feet 2
inches; hind legs, 6 feet. The Giraffe is a
gregarious, herbaceous, and ruminating
quadruped, entirely suigcncris in its stric
ture and some of its habits. In its general
contour, it unites several traits of the os
trich, the antelope, the camel, and the slag.
The curve of its toweringneck, whichsome
tim<:s gives it a height of more than twenty
feet, throws the grace of the swan into the
disproportionate elongation of the ostrich.
Its delicately moulded head, greatly impro
ved upon that of the camel, has much of the
shapely beauty of the auetl : ; pe>
nd, and luH eye, f : ; (lgc d with long
Sl - j uurhe? f ’favais that of the famed gazelle.
1(5 lore legs are as admirably symetrical as
tho3c of the stag, and are as long from the
cloven hoof to the joint of the shoulder as
the neck is from its base on the shoulder to
its junction withthe head. Thegreut depth
of the shoulder, from the camel-like protu
berance which crowns it, to the joint of the
clevicle, usually creates the impression that
the legs of this quadruped are most dispro
portionably long when compared with its
liind legs, especially as the line of its back
descends from the neck to the tail in an an
gle nearly equal to that presented by a stag
thrown upon its haunches. In reality, how
ever, the fore and hind legs are within two
inches of the same length.
1~~ •. —._ ’ — ’ ~ r ~~ | t— ■
The front aspect of this creature, present
ing an orbicular, double convex chest, rest
ing upon its long perpendicular legs, and
surmounted by a soaring neck, which bears
the creature’s gentle and vivaciously expres-
any burning and stiffness about the ancles ?
any aching in the toes ? any—”
“ Any symptoms of gout, dear grandpa
pa ? Oh, no—no !”
And Lucy’s languid face brightened for
an instant with the merriest of smiles, and
her voice rang with a momentary laugh,
which was echoed by her aunt Lu.
“ Indeed, I am quite well—and to prove
it, I wHI go and get your hat and wrappings
ready for your ride.”
“ The foolish child can’t deceive me,”
said Mr. Etherwood, who, after having stu
died symptoms for twenty years, had no
want of confidence in h:s own sagacity ; you
must have noticed the change, daughter Lu
—her pale face, her slow step, her low voice,
her fits ot stupor, now of restlessness, her
disinclination to her usual employments—if
it is nothing more, it must be an affection of
MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, JUNE 10, 1843.
TACCQM® TT Ini 1 © Q AIF!F [E B
sive head, high above its wondering behold
ers, the privileged occupant of a loftier
sphere of vision is unique and striking.
This extraordinary elevation of the neck
and head, viewed in connection with the gi
gantic dimensions of the whole frame, pro
duces an impression of mighty stature arid
agility combined, and as no other animal
can convey, and which invariably exceeds
expectation. The large dark spots which
dapple its soft, sleek skin, are not like those
of the leopard, although it is indebted to
those for a moiety of its ancient and still
common name Camelopard. They are ra
ther square and irregularly angular than
circular, and are arranged with much regu
larity. On the head are two small blunt
horns, about six inches in length, tipt with
small tufts of erect hair, and standing neat
ly parallel to each other. It has another
protuberance, besides these, midway be
tween them on the frontal bone, hut nut
much elevated, and two others on the occi
pal, on each side of the mane, as if this re
markable creature was originally designed
to have five horns. The ears are beautiful
ly formed, and the animal having an acute
sense of hearing, turns them with spirited
flexibility in the direction of distant sounds.
The male and female differ so little in ap
pearance from each other that they can
scarcely be distinguished at a distance of
twenty paces. The prevailing color of both
when young is that of a brownish red,
which depons with increased age. The fe- ;
male has four teats, bears one foal at a birth,
and gestates a whole year.
Its ordinary food is the foliage of trees,
and particularly the leaves of a species of
mimosa, called by the natives harncel-domn ;
but it will eat those of the oak, the brier,
and nearly all others of an astringent flavor,
showing a decided preference for those that
arealso aromatic. In its domesticated state,
it will oat hay, clover, and fine straw, like
the horse ; hut in the absence of its natural
green food, it is found necessary to supply
it occasionally with esculent roots and juicy
fruits. Its tongue is very long and black,
coated with a hard impervious skin, and
possessing a tapciin- contractiuiiiu’ admi
raoiy adapted Iq its gatneribg its favorite
food front among the involved and formida
bly prickly branches of the mimosa. Its
ordinary speed is equal to that of a high
bred horse, and the length of its majestic
strides, when in full career, perhaps exceeds
the powers of any other animal. Although
timid at the approach of man, it defends
itself with much valor against the attacks of
inferior animals, and even of the lion, kick
ing powerfully with its heels, or tearing on
them and striking with its fore feet with
great rapidity find precision. Such is the
force of a blow from its extremely long legs,
that it has been known to split the skull of
a lion in pieces.
In the freedom of its native plains, and
when roving in those splendid beards in
which it is chiefly seen, with its unrestrain
ed disposition and powers in full display,
the Giraffe is an animal of transccndaul
magnificence and interest. Exquisitely
gifted with the senses of sight, scent, and
hearing, the approach of the hunter never
fails to startle the browsing groups from
the nerves. As I am going to town to exe
cute a certain new plan of my own, I’ll just
stop at the doctor’s and ask him to come out
and give her an examination. Look at your
watch; is it time for the carriage to be
round ? I’ll go at once, for it is very impru
dent to allow such things to gain ground.—
I must take care of her, as she is my only
grandchild, and I don’t expect ever to have
another. She has been in this state —let me
see—ever since the day Clem left us, and
that was Monday.”
Miss Etherwood never opposed her fath
er's hobbies, so she muffled him up in his
own peculiar fashion, and assisted him into
the carriage. Then, as she stood looking af
ter him, she smiled to herself to think that,
with all his skill in discovering causes from
eflects, the question had never struck him
whether the event from which he so care
their woodland retreats, and to send them,
with their lion-like tails arched high upon
their haunches, in full speed over the vast level
plains in which they rove. Having acquir
ed a distance which commands a good cir
cuit of view, the collected heard wheel round
lifting their lofty necks tothe bigheststretcb,
until some tall and patriarchal chieftain of
the group, gives the signal for farther retreat
or for dignified and more leisurely return
to the clusters of trees on which they feed.
If the hunter is bent upon pursuit, he will
now breathe his steed awhile, knowing that
its speed and bottom will soon be taxed to
the utmost point. When prepared for the
start, he spurs forward, with his lasso, or
noosed rope, ready coiled in his right hand
for the exercise of his skill. He soon finds
that the immense strides of his noble game
are leaving him far behind, and he has re
course to the stratagem which his experi
ence liaa taught him is indispensable to his
success. In common with all other wild
and timid animals, when pursued, the Gi
raffe direct their course to the windward.
The hunter, aware of this, turn his horse
three or four points from the line of their
course, as ifintending to pass them far ahead;
and thus, whilst they keep their eye upon
him as the pursued rather than the pursuer,
they insensibly approach him—the diagonal
line of bis course converging to them ; and
he comes into the midst of the heard, not
withstanding their superior speed, because
they have to run a distance equal to about
one-third of a circle more than their wiley
foe has to perform in the same time. If the
hunter has well husbanded the strength of
his horse, he now dashes towards some par
ticular Giraffe—always selecting the small
est—which he hopes to capture; and throw
ing the noose of his lasso over his head, in
stantly leaps from his horse, before the Gi
raffe has run out the full length of the coil
which he holds loosely in his hand. The
first full tension of the rope, tightens the
noose round the neck ; every struggle in
cieases the suffocating pressure, and the
captive fulls back uha liauncligs e,,a
reels *', e The hunter, still keep
ing tlic rope moderately strained, approach
es the exhausted animal, leaps astiide its
head, and using its long neck as a lever for
the control of its body, firmly holds the
creature down until the Hottentot achter ri
der, who has perchance been thrown out iti
the chase, comes lip with other cords to bind
the captive for its destination. But this op
eration is less easily completed than con
templated. Bursting every restraint and
springing from the gtound, ihe gallant piis
ouer, though a mere foal, hut a few months
old, will often become furious in defence of
its freedom, striking at the hunter with its
fore It et, and even pursuing him to the bush
or tree behind which he usually retreats,
uutil the captive’s limbs uie entangled in
multiplied coils. A wagon is then brought
flora the hunters’ encampment- —often six
or seven hours journey distant—and water,
welcome water, not often to be found on
the open and arid plains, is brought to as
suage the thirst of man and beast—a thirst
of which those who have not hunted the
swift Giraffe, in the merciless glare of a tor
rid sun, can foim but a slight idea.
fully dated Lucy's indisposition, might not
have had something to do with it. This said
Clement Noel was a fine, handsome youth,
possessing every qualification, gcutle reader,
that you expect and admire in a magazine
hero; and had been, during his minority,
two or three years gone by, the ward of Mr.
Ethcrwood. He had just bid adieu to North
Hall, after a visit of six months, to begin an
extensive tour, which he had deferred from
wpek to week during all that time, and had
left behind him the memory of his society
as that of an indispenshble household com
fort. Never was there a more useful young
man. He had performed all sorts of philo
sophical experiments for the old gentleman,
and read Zimmerman in the original, ay,
and Hippocrates himself; and had arrang
ed cabinets for aunt Lu, and constructed
Eolian harps, and classified dried plants,
and tied up living jassamins; and toward lit
tle Lucy he had said and looked a hundred
things too valuable even to be hinted to oth
er people. These she could not have failed
to understand and appreciate, yet he had
gone away without asking if she had done
so, and there was now nothing for her to do
but to pine herself into a melancholy.
Aunt Lu, with feminine intuition, had
perceived how matters stood, and that it was
timidity alone that had prevented ‘.he young
lover from declaring himself. She was the
very person to sympathize with the sorrow
ing girl, for she, too, had had her early ro
mance and disappointments; but she was
of a happy, hopeful spit it, and suppressing
a sigh which started at the thought of her
own past experience and Lucy’s present
trial, she trusted for a brighter future, and
went cheerfully about her domestic voca
tions. With all her elegance and accom
plishments, Aunt Lu was a notable house
wife, as any phrenologist would decide by
a glance at her portrait, and her niceness
and habit of systematizing were all the in
dications ever named of her having been
fore-doomed to be an old maid. Yet this
portended to be her lot. The indefatigable,
uncomplaining nurse and companion of a
confirmed humorist, whose jealous fondness
was no atouement for his exactions, she was
bound, as well by promise as by her scrupu
lous sense of duty, to devote heart and hand
to a life which, in spite of the drawbacks of
a diseased fancy, might prove almost as long
as her own.
Mr. Etherwood continued his morning
drive considerably later than usual, but at
last the carriage stopped at the gate, and he
advanced up the portico with an alacrity al
together uncommon, forgetting even to limp.
Aunt Lu hastened to receive him, and he
saluted her with the question—
“ What do you think I have been about
all this morning, daughter ?”
“Something very pleasant, I have no doubt,
sir, as you look stronger and more animated
than you have done for many mouths.”
“ You are right; 1 have been attending
to business for you, which is always the most
pleasant occupation I can have. After leav
ing a note fortnedocloi about Lucy, I drove
round among some of youi young friends,
and promised to send the carriages to bring
them out this afternoon, to a collation on the
grounds, in honor of your birlh-dav.
“ My birth-day ?”
“Ha ! ha ! my dear ! did you think I
had forgotten it ? This is your thirtieth birth
day; i told them all so, and that, as I knew
from your correct perception of the fitness
of things, you would now give up all youth
ful amusements and frivolities, 1 would like
them to take a lesson from you on entering
anew state of life properly. Allow me,
my dear,” stepping up to her delightedly,
and kissing her cheek, “ to congratulate you
on arriving at the period of mature woman
hood.”
Forone moment Miss Etherwood appear
ed vexed, but in another her good sense
had conquered the little weakness, and she
thanked him with her usual cheerful smile.
“ And that was not all that I did. I took
the note from Davis that you ordered him
to carry to your milliner, and handed it to
her myself, that I might have an opportuni
ty to give her some directions about your
dress for the future. I oi-J her not to send
you any more feathers and flowers, and oth
er such fantastic things, as they are impro
per at your time of life. You know, those
were the orders of Matia Antoinette, when
she had reached thirty—a very sensible
thought in her. I did not say any thing
about taking the lilac ribbon off your bon
net, and putting on gray or brown, as I
thought you would see the propriety of it,
and attend to it yourself. My dear daugh
ter, how impatiently I have waited fin - this
anniversary—no more time wasted on fur
belows”—(Aunt Lu was fond of a rich
and tasteful toilette) — ” but all shall be plain
and matronly. 1 won’t insist upon a cap,
for your poor mother used to worry me so
with sitting, hour after hour, plaiting and
puckering her caps. And 1 shall have so
much more of your society, for of course
your habits and deportment will assimilate
with your dress. 1 never felt peifectly sute
of you before! But I must go and tell little
Lucy about it; the excitement of company
will help her circulation greatly. Slie must
get herself r<*ady, for the carriages must go
to town while we are at dinner, that the
young people can return in time. I prom
ised to send them home before dark, as I
consider lete hours and night air ruinous.”
Her thirtieth birth-day! Seldom did
Auut Luindulgethoughtssosombre as those
by which this recollection was attended.—
They brought her, indeed, none of the bit
terness of feeling which it is often a wo
man’s lot to share at the prospect of advanc
ing years undignified by the ties which in
vest them with influence and authority, but
they whispered a mournful warning that the
hopes, hitherto preserving in her much of
the freshness of youth, mutt he cast away
forever. We have said that she had had
her early trials. She had loved with all the
firmness and ardor of a strong mind and a
warm heait, and her affections were her
first sacrifice at the altar of filial obedience.
The attachment that had elicited her own,
yet followed her, strengthened by time,
and enhanced in value by the ripened vir
tues of its possessor; but she had prayed
against it as a temptation when, year after
year, it was proffered to her acceptance. —
| NUMBER u.
WM. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR.
Still, to feel herself the object of a devotion
so noble, was a precious consciousness, and
she had trusted, though without self-ac
knowledgement, that she might one day be
released to reward it. But now she felt that
to cherish such a dream was a weakness un
worthy of one whose long course of self
denial should have been a preparation to
sustain her in any effort. Had not her fath
er’s peculiarities increased with his age ;
and were her patient services, even after a
very few years, to be repaid with the gift of
freedom, would she then be an offering wor
thy of one who richly deserved her in her
best and bravest days? Her thirtieth birth
day ! Would not her heart become chill,
her person changed—was it not already fa
ding 1 And she glanced at a mirror before
her. But her cheek was as round as in the
days of her girlhood, and almost as glow
ing ; her hair was as dark and luxuriant;
her eyes, they were even brighter than usu
al, for they were slightly suffused whh tears;
and her hand, the member which, per
haps, the soonest of all shows the creeping
on of time, was white and full, and tapering
as ever. Oh, no! there was no change for
the worse in Aunt Lu, and the half smile
which broke upon her face, showed that she
perceived it; but she relapsed into her sad
ness, and sat still, taking her satisfaction of
it.
She was at length aroused by a servant
banding her a packet. She glanced at the
superscription, and hastily broke the seal.
An enclosure fell beside, but she continued
eagerly to peruse the envelope. Then she
started up, seized the fallen letter, and, with
a countenance all radiant, flew out of the
room. She had quite forgotten her own
griefs, in the prospect of being a messenger
of happiness to another—just like her I
“ Stop, stop, daughter Lu—what letter is
that?” called her father, meeting hei, but
for once bis voice was unheeded, and with
her collar half blown off in the rapidity of
her motion, and standing up from her neck
like an Elizabethan ruff, she passed him
swiftly as a bird.
Meanwhile little Lucy, at the request of
her grandfather, had made her toilette,
though carelessly and with great reluctance,
to receive the first invoice of guests, and
then gone into the garden to arrange a seat
fir>r him in his fn-voiite summerhouse. She
had broken ofT, as she strolled listlessly
along, some sprays of the brilliant pome
granate and the delicate wax-berry, uncon
sciously it seemed, though sire had a latent
remembrance that Clement Noel admired
the contrast of the rich scarlet bells of the
one with the pearl-like globule? of the oth
er, and when she had executed her errand,
she placed herself on the pile of cloaks and
cushions, with the boquet in her hands.—
She thought over again the same things she
had thought every hour for the last three
days and nights—that never had any body
been as miserable before—that she never
could he happy again in this world, and if
it were not a sin, she would wish to be out
of it—and there would be some consolation
to know that, should she die of a broken
heart, there would lie one person to grieve
forher—one particular person besides her
grandfathet and her aunt Lu.
Thus she sat, with pale face and com
pressed under lip, when her aunt approach
ed and peeped at her through the shrubbe
ry. Her light §tep had not been heard, and
softly entering the door, Aunt Lu stole close
behind the dejected girl, and reaching the
lelterover her head, dropped it into her lap.
Lucy turned round with an ejaculation of
fright, but the seal to the letter caught her
eye, and growing red and then white, she
exclaimed, “ Oh, Aunt Lu ! where did you
get it 1”
Aunt Lu assumed an expression of sur
prise at her agitation, and when Lucy made
a trembling efTort to oj en the letter, she
caught her hands, saying, “ Not so fast, my
dear ; you are riot sure that it is for your
self. It is directed to ‘ Miss Lucy Etber
wood,’ and quite as likely it may be for me.”
Lucy clasped the letter closely, and, look
ing imploringly at her aunt, drew it away.
“ This is a matter of some delicacy
pursued Aunt Lu, mischievously j “ it is un
lucky that it is not customary to use the con
venient little words 1 senior’ and ‘junior,’
after ladies names. On common occasions
we need not core to open each others let
ters, but when they come from gentlemer,
there is no telling what they may contain.”
*• It is for me, dear aunt, I know it is!”
exclaimed Lucy, nervously.
“ You should not be so positive, child ; it
appears to be the hand of Clement Noel,
and it is much more probable that he would
write to me than to you. It is amazing
what strangelliingsthese youngmen get into
their heads; supposing it is alove-letter ? At
all events as I am theelder, it isnothing but
proper that l should read it firstand as
Aunt Lu pretented to snatch it, Lucy re
treated into the farthest corner of the sum
mer-houSe.
“ Why, Lucy, child ; this is singular be
havior, about a gentleman’s letter! but we
will compromise by leaving it to chance;
this waxberiy will be for me;” taking them
from the boquet and concealing them in her
hatlds; “ now, here, which band will you
havel”
The lot fell upon auntLu, and Lucy burst
into tears.
“Ah, Lucy, Lucy!” said her aunt, ten
derly throwing her arms around her; “I have
hardly deserved such treatment at your