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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