Newspaper Page Text
VOL. 2.
Written for the Georgia Citizen.
THE SILVER CLOUD,
OR
JUAN DE LEON’S BRIDE.
.4 Tale of the early settlement *>f Florida.
BY MISS C. W. BARBER.
(concluded.)
The voyage to her did not seem long. She
lingered always by the side of her loved one,
aud never tired of listening to his voice—never
wearied of gazing with him into the deep dark
waters that curled arouud the sides of the ship
or tracing with him at night, tlie stars which
glistened on their immeasurable thrones of blue.
The colonists, at first, reverenced her as the
wife of their Governor but as they grew more
familiar with her from day to day, her innumer
able graces won all hearts, and her influence
among them became as the keen eyed Friar
had well prophesied, ‘no light thing.’ But
there was one who looked upon her as he would
have regarded some celestial being, had it
strayed to earth. This was Okeek, the In
dian of whom Aleta had spoken in her conver
sation about the fete.
lie was a powerful warrior and chief in his
native land, but when the pale faces came to
his cabin, he gave them the pipe of peace, and
allured by their wonderful tales of life in Spain,
Be at hist decided to accompany the ship on its
return. In Spain he lived nearly a year, but
although he saw much to please him, his heart
went back to the boundless forests and rude
uncivilized hordes in his native land. He had
embraced the first opportunity of return
ing, and now he trod the deck of the ship, with
a proud step, and gazed with eager eye, to
wards the land whither he was bound.
Soon after her embarkation, Madaline had
by some courteous act, won the affections of
this forest King! he watched with pleasure her
slight form, as she glided about the ship, and
in his poetical imagination be saw some resem
blance between her and a beautiful cloud that
was spreading its silver wings in the eastern
hoavens. He always after that, called her ‘The
Silver Cloud.’
This singularly beautiful appellation, was
adopted by one and another of the colonists,
until before she reached America, Madaline was
known wholly on ship-board by it.
Even the Governor, De Leon, as he watched
her white robed form, or as he threw his arm
around her waist, and drew her to him, mur
mured fondly—‘my bride —the Silver Cloud !’
Nor was Madaline unmindful of the vow she
had made De Guvnian. All the influence that
she acquired, she consecrated to holy objects—
even the untutored savage, listened with deep
reverence to her mild voice, as she spoke of the
Great Spirit, and unfolded to his mental vision,
some of the glorious truths of the Christian
faith.
In return, the chieftain dwelt upon, and pic
tured the exceeding beauty of the Western
World whither they were journeying. He told
her of its mighty rivers rolling their silver
currents to the gulf—he spoke ot the peerless
Magnolias lifting their snowy blossoms to
wards the Sun—of the deep hued orange groves,
and of the mocking bird that filled the Flori
dian forests with its matchless mimicry. For
hours Madaline would listen and wonder over
his eloquence. ‘Where did he learn it ?’ she
would ask herself: ‘a wonderful land that must
be, where untutored savages speak in such
strains as these.’
Sometimes she questioned him of the foun
tain, of which De Leon had spoken to her—the
fountain of immortal youth, Okeek shook
his head.
‘I know of none such,’ he said ‘on earth.—
Far, far beyond the blue heavens, and the glit
tering stars —in that bright home where you
say the Great Spirit gathers the souls of those
he loves, it must bubble, I think, and throw out
its waters sparkling and pure. There the red
browed Indian, the dark Spaniard and the Silv
er Cloud shall bathe in it. Seek it not my
(laughter, seek it not on earth !’
It was towards the last of summer 1521, that the
two ships bearing the Spanish colonists, anchored on
the coast of Florida. The savages crowded the shore
to look once more upon the pale faces, who had come
to dwell among them. They admired the manly figure
°f the Governor, and examined with curious eyes,
over and over again, the ships—those great winged
creatures that could ride the waters which they thought
boundless, and could move like things of life. They
f’ it sure that they came from the Great Spirit, and
“hen they saw the bright form of Madaline, dressed
! o a snowy robe, and coming forward with unfaltering
*teps to tread the shores of the new world—her cheek
slightly flushed with excitement and her eye glistcn
-1D n with emotiou they called her a heavenly visitant,
ond bowed before her with acts of solemn worship. She
sr.iiled upon these untutored children of the wilderness,
find motioned to them to arise. She called to her side
V’keek. and hade him to explain to them, that she was
sot angelic—no not even a child of the Sun. They lis
tened and were satisfied, but Okeek spoke of her as
I the Stiver Cloud,’ and by this name only, she became
known among them.
As time passed on, her influence over them became
s most unlimited. The colony flourished* beyond De
I-ooa's most sanguine expectations, and the features of
I e wilderness were fast assuming the expression of
civilized life,
k was near the beginning of the next August, that
>ut broke from the Spanish settlement —a shout that
ct'de even the inland forests reverberate. There had
“ ’“P from Spain been descried upon the waters. It
r ‘ ’Ught new colonists, and all welcomed its appearance
’~h joy. The Governor and Madaline, watched from
” its approach, and wondered what news and
‘~“ trs it would bring from home.
Madaline’s eye moistened with painful emotion, as
re membered that to her there probably was no
’ r, i of remembrance sent from her native land. Iler
remained, for aught she knew, ignorant of the
“‘■d she had chosen for a home. By Aleta she did not
1 (obe remembered, for in her heart she execrated
memory. She was dwelling upon this painful topic
••en her eye fell upon a form, stepping upon shore
‘_n die thought was peculiar. It disappeared, and
? s bc knew her eyes must have deceived her—it
not bc the person of Alonzo the Moor!
one WUS l bfee months after this, when Madaline sat
hi beneath the shadow of a graceful elm,
o'.aii &t 0 ne3r ier dwel,in g- The waters es the
“ cre beating with a ceaseless murmur upon the
hea/ n ° ( f r k° m ber.and the moon rode through the
j et s nS C3r and unc * ou d<?d. She felt a weight upon
n ot night—she knew not why. She could
tvj( an j Lven the blue sky looked ominous of
notes of a solitary whipporwill, that
Pr >ncJi fir r begS perdon in tbis instance, for distorting a
the I ' eon ’* coion J’ was never prosperous, in
not ottain an >’ th,n S H * e permanent
• o Honda, until some time after this.
sang above her head, she thought she discovered some
thing like a warning voice. She listened uneasily, for
the step of her husband, who was absent upon busi
ness, and who stayed, she fancied far later than usual.
At length she was aroused by T a quick firm tread at her
elbow. She looked up half alarmed, but smiled when
she saw it was Okeek, the chieftain. ‘The Silver Cloud
gives you friendly greeting,’ she said, arising and hold
ing out her hand : ‘have you seen the Governor to
day V
There was a shadow upon the brow of the chieftain
—-a settled gloom such as Madaline had never seen
there before, lie did not reply to her, but sank down
upon the roots of the tree, and looked away towards
the ocean. ‘I fear my friend is ill,’ said Madaline.’
‘Can I do any thing for him V
‘ Okeek is not ill—Okeek needs no medicine-now.’
‘But something ails him,’ said Madaline sinking
down and taking his huge red hand between her soft
palms- will he not tell the Silver Cloud his troub
les V
The large, black, eloquent eye of the Indian, now
turned and rested full upon her face. ‘The Silver
Cloud is pure,’ he said, ‘as a snow-flake— -beautiful as a
star—fragile as a lily, and gentle as the spotted fawn.
But there is a blood hound upon her track. Okeek
seeks her to-night to whisper in her ear, beware! be
ware !’
‘To what do you allude?’ said Madaline eagerlv.
‘Has any ill befallen my husband. 1 pray you tell me
instantly. It is only through him tbat I can be wound
ed. He stiys later to-night than usual.’
‘lt is for you that he shall be wounded,’ said Okeek
solemnly—‘because he loved the Silver Cloud, and
gathered her to his bosom, he and his people must be
swept away like the leaves of the forest. Strange that
so pure a thing, should distill poison from its bosom J’
‘I do not understand you’ said Madaline, ‘and yet
your metaphorical language distracts me. Speak to
me plainly and quickly. For De Leon I would lay
down my life. Tell me how he is to suffer for my
sake.’
‘Alonzo the Moor is upon your path. He is among
the children of the Forest, instigating them to evil
deeds, lie tells them that your husband is cheating
them out of their lands, and he is urging them to burn
your settlement, and murder your people. He is
succeeding in his wicked designs. In vain I have raised
my voice in counsel, in your behalf. My brethren are
like the uncounted pebbles on the sea shore. They
have raised the tamahawk of war and extermination,
and I cannot influence them to lay it down. But the
Silver Cloud must be saved. She shall not fall into the
hands of the bloody Moor who seeks her person—per
haps her life. My bark canoe is moored by a grape
vine, to yonder cliff. Fly with me, or in two hours
hence you will be in his hands.’
A faint, shrill scream broke from the lips of Mada
line, and sbe fell back, nerveless as an infant. The
brawny arm of the savage lifted her, for even then his
quick ear detected the war whoop in the distance. With
the speed of lightning, he bore her to the boat, and
laying her in the bottom, he seized the oars, aud the
tiny bark canoe shot like an arrow over the tide.
IV hen Madaline opened her eyes, and realized where
she was, she raised her face, and in piteous accents
plead with Okeek to take her back, that she might
search for her husband. The chieftain shook his head
gloomily. ‘You would share his fate,’ he said.
‘ Let me share it,’ said Madaline impulsively, ‘Let
me die in his arms—it is all I ask.’
The savage rowed on and made her no reply. She
covered up her face, and in the agony of despair,
prayed to die. But the griin King of Terrors would
not come to her relief. All that she could do, was, to
suffer on, in silence.
Towards morning they reached a small Island. The
chieftain paused, and lifting Madaline by the hand, as
sisted her on shore.
An Indian woman who was cultivating a small patch
of maize near the coast, came forward, and invited
them to her cabin. She spread before them her most
savory meat, and urged them to eat, but neither tasted
a mouthful.
‘ I will leave you here,’ said the chieftain, ‘and re
turn to look for DeLeon. He is probably dead, as the
Moor will seek his life first of all. But I will avenge
his death—l will slay the Moor ere 1 return, and bring
you the corpse of your husband.’
True to Ins word, the faithful chieftain again, under
cover of night, sought the late settlement of the Span
iards. It was now a heap of ashes. Mangled forms
were scattered about, and scalps hung suspended from
the branches of the trees. The massacree had been
complete. Few had escaped to tell the fate of
their colony. But the corpse of Leon was not to be
found. Perhaps they had taken him captive, and were
reserving him for torture.
Stealthily the chieftain crept among the blackened
trees, and smouldering ruins. Nothing escaped his
keen vision. At length he decried a form in the moon
light, with an uplifted hatchet in its hand. In the dim
ness of the hour, he could not make out who it was.
But just as the tomahawk was about to descend on its
mission of death, an arrow, sent from Okeek's unerring
bow quivered in the heart of the Moor. He fell back
with a groan of mortal agony, and breathed with a
deep curse his last.
‘ Lie there and rot!’ said the Indian as he kicked
the yet quivering body from his pathway, and lifted the
form of De Leon from the ground.
The Governor exhibited no sign of life, but after a
while the chieftain thought he discovered the faint trem
bling of a pulse in his wrist. lie resorted to every
means in his power, to restore him to animation, and
finally succeeded. De Leon spoke, and murmured
the name of his wife. He evidently thought she was
bending over him.
The Indian did not pause long, with his precious
burden, he bore the Governor as he had borne Mada
line to his boat, and sought again the Island, and the
cabin shore where he had left the ‘Silver Cloud.
Madaline’s joy when she found out that her husband
lived, cannot be painted by the dull point of this pen.
In her gratitude she kneeled at the feet of Okeek, and
kissed again and again his hands. Over De Leon she
hung like one enchanted. Alas that love like hers
could not save its idol ! The poisoned arrow had ran
kled too deeply. Death claimed him for his own.*
They hullowed a narrow grave, and laid the Gov
ernor to liis last deep repose, and before many moons
had waxed aud waned, the Silver Cloud faded too from
earth. The Indian chieftain watched her dying pil
low, and wept when her cheek took the marble hue of
death. He hurried her beside her husband, and over
their graves may still be seen two rude monuments of
stones:
“ Peace to the ashes of the dead !
Departed spirits there may tread—
Let flowers spring up with sweet perfume
To deck a loug remembered hero’s tomb.”
*De I-eon died upon the Island of Cuba, from the effect of a
wound, received in an affray with the Indians.
‘Pappy, the corn’s up.’
( The corn up! Why I only planted it yester
day.’
‘I know that—but the hogs got in last night,
and guv it a lift you hadn't counted on.’
Scene closes with a grand tableaux—in the
midst of which Fappy seizes a poker and rush
es out.
“ 3ntopenifent in nil tilings —Unifral in nntjjing”
MACON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, JUNE 28, 1851.
LRiVA HAKRIi.
A TALE FOUNDED ON FACTS WHICH HAVE OCCURRED
IN GEORGIA.
Written for the Georgia Citizen, by a Lady of Macon.
“Have you any letters,” said Mrs. Weston, to
her husband, as he entered their handsomely furnish
ed room, on his return from the Post Office, one eve
ning. i have one’ said he, ‘which brings the sad intelli
gence of my only sister's death. ‘Emma will have no
home now,’ continued he,‘unless we give her one, with
us.’ ‘‘How old is Emma’said Mrs. Weston. ‘About
twelve years old,’ was the answer. ‘I shall not object
to taking charge of her so much,at that age, as I should
if she were younger. It would be too great a task for
me in my present state of health, to undertake the care
of a younger child,’ said Mrs. Weston. ‘Emma will
give you no trouble,-for-I know her to be one of the best
children ; I think I shall leavi 1 for M. to-morrow night.
It will be necessary for me to go there, and settle my
sister's business ; and try, if possible, to save enough
to educate Emma.’ ‘lf her mother has not left enough
to educate her, I do not know how she will be educat
ed. for it as much as we can do now, to keep Rosa and
Edward at school,’ said Mrs. Weston. ‘I know,’ an
swered her husband,‘that my expenses are as much as
1 can meet, but Emma must have a home with us, for
she has no other near relation to take her. I have not
much hope of saving any thing, for her, os her father
was so much in debt when he died, that it took all ex
cept the house and lot to pay his debts ; and this was
only saved through the kindness of a friend of Mr.
Harris’ who advanced SSOO, for my sister, and offered
to wait with her five years for it. She hoped in that time
to be able to pay tbe amount. But it has been only six
months, and I am suro that there lias been none paid
on it. I shall sell the house aud lot, and pay this debt
immediately.’ ‘I should thiuk the house and lot and
the furniture, would sell, for more than enough to pay
that debt,’ said Mrs. Weston. ‘The furniture will not
sell for much, as my sister disposed of every thing at
her husband's death, that she could possibly spare.—
She only kept what was absolutely necessary for her
and Emma, which I know was very little, as she intend
ed to dismiss her servant, and do her own work. Poor
woman, I expect she has had a hard time. Although
it requires but little to support them, I know that little
has been hardly earned ; and I doubt not but her
death was brought on earlier by too close confinement
toiler needle. Freproach myself that I have not given
her more attention, since her husband's death. But I
have been so liarrassed with own affairs, that I have
had time to think of no one, except my own family.’
The last sentence was said to satisfy a guilty conscience.
But that exacting monitor was not so easily silenced.
Her whispers though soft, caused a tumult of unpleasant
reflections to arise in the mind of Mr. Weston. Mem
ory carried him back to the days of his childhood, when
he, and his sister had played happily together; and
the dying injunction of his mother to love and care for
that sister, haunted him, while he vainly tried to find
rest ‘in the arms of Morpheus.’ He endeavored to
justify himself for his neglect by thinking of the unsu
al press of business. But then the thoughts of his
pleasure trip, during the past summer marred the solace
he n(ight have derived from this excuse. lie well
that few were the thoughts given to that poor
widowed sister, while he and his family for months
mingled with the gay crowd that assembled at one of our
most fashionable w atering places. Tbe death of his
sister was enough to cause deep sorrow; but, to feel
that he had cruelly neglected her, added a keener pang
to his intense grief. As these reflections ‘forced their
way without the will,’ Mr. Weston became miserable
indeed. He arose in the morning sad enough, and
spent the day in making preparations, for his departure
that night. And now while he is gone we will give
the reader a description of his wife and two children.
M rs. w. was one of the many, who consider ‘keep
ing up appearances,’ or, in other words ‘living fashion
ably’ to be of greater importance than all things else.
She was confined to the house most of the time, by
imaginary imbecility. Her visitors were generally re
ceived in her elegantly furnished sitting room; while
she reclined gracetully upon a crimson couch, by which
stood a small table, decorated with a boquette of flow
ers, the last new Novel, the ‘Ladies Book,’ and last but
not least essential, a beautiful bottle filled with Cologne
which was the only perfume that she could have near
her, and this was almost necessary to her existence. She
was careful to have her last wrapper made, exactly like
the ‘lnvalid’s Wrapper’ in the last Lady's Book. She
was naturally a pretty woman, and displayed good taste
in dressing; always carefully selecting that which was
most becoming. The many compi ments paid her, by
her visitors were received in the most interesting man
ner imaginable. She was frequently told by some of
her dear friends , if they made so beautiful an invalid,
as she did, they would not mind being sick part of tbe
time. It will not be necssary, for us to name other pe
culiarities of her disposition, as the sequel of this story
will show them forth plain enough. Wo will leave
her to speculate upon the manner in which she can dis
pose of Emma, so that she will not become an addi
tionable expense to the family. Rosa the eldest child,
was n pretty sprightly interesting girl of thirteen. She
could dance beautifully, and perform remarkably well
on the piano. She already evinced a taste for reading
which encouraged, by her mother. She was a sensible
child, but her taste and judgment were seriously per
verted ; and her ideas of respectability accorded pre
cisely with those of her mother. Edward, was a fine
looking intelligent little fellow, ten years old, with whom
we shall have very little to do, in our story.
Mr. Weston's feelings were not at all relieved, by the
history that Emma gave of the last six months of her
mother's life. Mrs. Harris had been unable to work,
two or three months previous to her death. Besides
the Doctor's bill, other debts had been necessarily con
tracted. By the time these debts were settled, and
the advanced money paid, there were only SIOO left,
for Emma's education. Soon after the business was
settled, Mr. Weston was with his family, and Emma
established in her new home. Emma Harris had not
a face that many would call beautiful at first sight, but
she had one, that all would call intelligent. Her
large grey eye, with their luxurient silken lashes, were
not her least attractions. They had naturally a pen
sive expression, but could show forth the loveliest emo
tions of happiness, whenever a glance of sunshine flit
ted across her path. She had no golden ringlets to
boast of, like her cousin Rosa. Her hair was dark
and did not curl, but tbe intellectual brow, which it
encircled was a compensation for the absence of ring
lets, of any hue. She had a mild disposition, and possess
ed good judgment, for one so young. Emma felt very
lonvly now, and, that she was a dependant in her un
cle’s house, but determined to make herself useful, and
try to win the love of the family. A few days after
Mr. Weston’s return, he requested his wife to have
suitable clothing purchased, and made up for Emma,
to wear to school as he wished her to commence her
studies as soon as possible, He determined to atone
for the neglect of his sister, by kindness to her child.
He had no other thought, but to take Emma into his
house, and have her treated just as Rosa was. He
was one of those men who left every thing appertain
ing to the house, subject to his w ife’s control. She
made bills and he paid them, without asking any ques
tions. lie had great confidence in her skill in man
agement, and thought she was an excellent wife, for
she always kept his home neat and oc mfortable, and bad
hie meals ready when he came fr them. She did
not require much of lps attention, and when he chose
to remain out until twelve o’clock, at night she never
questioned him as to the cause of his absence. He
treated her and her affairs, just as she treated him,
with perfect indifference. Ilis heaven below was his
counting house and the billiard room. We have said
that every thing about the house was under Mrs. W’s.
control. Os course Emma was placed there too, and in
doing this and paying her bills, Mr. Weston did all that
be was capable of doing. If he had ever known what
sympathy and kindness were, the fountain from which
these feelings flowed had long since frozen over, and
his wife came with no thawing smile to melt the ire, and
cause those refreshing streams to gusli forth, which en
liven and give to fyome, a tint of heaven. Mr. and Mrs.
Weston’s case, was not a rare one! For human hap
piness, there are too many siuular- ones. In due time
Emma commenced going to sftiool and all things went
on very agreeably. Mfls. Wljsoon found tbat Emma
could make herself very often thought that
it was wise in Mrs. Harris, to have taught her to sew,
so neatly.
One Saturday afternoon, about six months after Em
ma came to her uncle’s, Mrs. Weston told her and Rosa
to get their clothes and mend them. ‘Why cannot Liz
zy do my mending, this afternoon, as usual V said Rosa.
‘I do not see the use in having a seamstress if you have
to sew for yourself.’ ‘Rosa my dear,’ said her mother,
‘the cook is sick, and Lizzy has to take her place to
day ; besides, it is time that you had learned to sew
for yourself; Emma does all her own mending, and
much of her plain sewing also.’ Rosa reluctantly
obeyed her mother, but complained all the time, that
‘she did not know how to mend any tiling.’ ‘Let me
see what you have done Rosa,’ said her mother, after
an hour had elapsed. ‘O dear, that will never do, you
will have to take it out.’ ‘I have not time to do it, for
I ought to be ready to go to dancing school now, and I
cannot bear to be late.’ ‘I do not wish you to neglect
your dancing, nor do I feel well enough to sew this af
ternoon. Ask Emma to do it for you.’ ‘I will do it
aunt,’ said Emma, ‘I will soon finish all I have to do
for myself.’ She did it, and did it cheerfully ; and be
fore two years had passed it was her regular business
to do the mending on Saturday for all the family.
Emma did not go to dancing school, because Mrs, W.
thought they could not afford it, and it would cause Em
ma to have a desire to attend dancing parties, as she
grew older, which would be, an extra expense. Mr. W.
never thought any thing about it; but poor Emma did,
for she desired to go very much, yet never expressed
such a wish, for she felt that she had no right, to any
thing more than her uneie and aunt offered her. At
the end of two years, Mrs. Weston concluded that
her health was bad enough to require someone to
stay with her all the time, and consequently proposed,
that Emma should remain at home one quarter. This
was the excuse offered for leaving school; but the true
reason was, that Emma’s school bill was SSO per an
num, and Mrs. Weston did not wish her to be educated
from Mr. Weston’s income. She promised to make
Emma continue her studies, and recite to her. Besides,
she would have her to read aloud, an hour or two,
each day. This course Mrs. Weston doubted not, would
be of more advantage to Emma than going to school.
For a few weeks, Emma continued her studies, but
they were gradually diseonti >und so many
lit:le things io <Io lor her no t per
sue her studies, but she still rea (jArlortion of each
day to her. The latter employ.rJEUfjileased Emma
very much. Mr. Weston’s expenses ,v-<sr*i now in
creasing, without any addition to his income. lie told
liis wife that it would be impossible for him to let Rosa
continue taking music lessons, lie had to pay more now.
than formerly for Edward’s schooling, and their dry
goods account was larger than it had ever been before.
‘Of course it is,’ said Mrs. Weston, ‘as the children
grow older, they need better clothes and more of them.
I do not wish Rosa to stop her music lessons, and
would rather economize in some other way.’ ‘Emma
lias already remained at home two quarters, instead of
one, said Mr. \\ eston. ‘I always wished her to take music
lessons, and am sorry that she did not commence when
we first took her.’ ‘I do not know how you would
have paid for it’ was his wife’s reply, for you have been
barely able to meet your expenses ; as to her going to
school again, I think she will learn as much, that will
be useful to her, at home, as she would at school.’
Mr. Weston said no more, because, lie felt that he
had done as much as he was able to do. Mrs. Weston
proposed hiring outlier seamstress, and let Rosa go
on with her music. As usual, Mr. Weston said, ‘do as
you please.’ Lizzy was hired out, Rosa’s best dresses
were made by the dress-maker. Emma’s were only
cut for her, and, under Mrs. Weston's directions, she
was soon able to make her own very well, and do most
of the plain sewing for the family. By this time her
work had increased so rnueh that it was almost impos
sible for her to find any time to read. But Emma nev
er complained, for she had no willing ear to listen to
the story of her wrongs. Nearly two years passed in
this way, and Rosa was to graduate in a few months.
Her mother had already determined to give her a par
ty at that time, as the parents of the other graduates
intended doing as much fur their daughters. Mrs. W.
economized in every way possible, to enable her daugh
ter to make her ‘debut’ into society, in a genteel man
ner. As Rosa and Emma grew older, the distance in
creased between them gradually, almost insensibly. They
were now seldom seen together ; as for poor Emma,
she never saw any visitors, but those who were in
vited into her aunt’s sitting room. Most of them
treated her politely, even kindly, for they well knew
the position she occupied in her uncle’s family. It
had been a topic of conversation more than once, and
had called forth many severe remarks from Mrs. Wes
ton's acquaintances. Emma was frequently invited to
call on the visitors. Mrs. Weston would generally an
swer for her, and say, that ‘Emma, loved home so much,
that she seldom went out except on Sunday.’ This
was always said in an affectionute tone, with an equally
affectionate glance towards Emma. Mrs. Weston like
many others thought it easy enough, to deceive the
world by soft speeches and pleasant smiles. But she
was most egregiously mistaken when sho thought peo
ple believed that Emma was led, by her own inclination,
to shun society and confine herself at home so con
stantly.
She would have felt deeply mortified, had she knowD
the opinion of her friends on this subject. As the time
for Rosa to graduate drew near, Emma had an extra
task to perform in assisting to prepare her for the suc
cession of parties that were to be given. Mrs. Wes
ton’s health was much improved by the excitement of
the occasion ; She was even well enough to attend some
of the parties. Emma had invitations to all of them,
in accordance with a resolution passed, at meeting of
Mrs. Weston’s acquaintances, a few weeks previous to
the time. She only attended two however. Mrs.
Weston’s apology for her non-appearance, was that
Emma was not fond of gaiety, she would rather spend
her evening at home, reading the works of Shakspear,
or Byron. Had Emma been asked the true reason
for her absence, she would not have given such a poet
io one, as did her aunt, for the real cause was that
Emma (true to her woman’s nature) did not like to ap
pear so often, in so short a time, in the same dress.
She knew her aunt did not want to give her another,
or she would have offered it, and Emma was too proud
to ask for one, therefore, she remained at home. Rosa’s
party was the last one given. She had made many
acquaintances among the gentlemen, and was grati
fied to see, that she received a reasonable share of atten
tion. Mrs, Weston w r as an excellent manager in such
affairs, and took great pains in bringing her daughter
into notice. She was an agreeable companion, for eith
er old or young persons, and seldom failed in securing
the good opinion of a stranger, when she desired. A 1
the acquaintances that Emma made, were by chance,
or by the design of two ladies. Mrs. Smith and Mrs.
Brown, who were two of Mrs. Weston’s most inti
mate friends, and knew exactly how Emma was treat
ed by her aunt. They made an agreement, to thwart
Mrs. Weston's plans regarding her, which they believ
ed were to keep her unmarried as long as possible.
The motives of these ladies might not have been en
tirely pure, in desiring to see Emma receive attention.
It would have required a well balanced mind, to have
known the circumstances, and befriended Emma, and
yet, to have derived no gratification from the chagrin,
they believed Emma’s marrying would cause Mrs.
Weston.
The evening of Rosa's party was a pleasant one, and
the rooms were well filled with the elite of the place.
All seemed to be happy. Flirtations were carried on,
in all pa-ts ofth? room, by beaux and belles. A mer
rier crowd we do not remember to have seen. When
the evening wa~< about half spent, Miss Rosa and Dr.
Bass promenaded in front of Mrs. Smith and Mrs.
Brown. The former lady remarked to the other ‘how
beautiful Rosa looks to night,’ ‘yes’ said Mrs. Brown,
‘that lace dress is very becoming to her. I think it the
handsomest one I have seen her wear, yet, and it does
provoke me to see her wear such a variety of beautiful
dresses, and then to see Emma Harris, in that same
plain swiss muslin, that she wore to your party and
mine also. I suppose however Mrs. Weston would
have us believe that Emma dresses plain, for the same
reason that she stays at home so much, because she
prefers it.’
Just then, Charles Sandford a worthy, fine looking
young man, came up and enquired of Mrs. Smith, the
name of the young lady who had just left the Piano,
with a white rose in her hair. ‘That is Emma Harris. ’
said Mrs. Smith, ‘she is one of my beauties, and one
of my favorites also. I thought you bad been intro
duced to her.’ ‘I have never seen her before.’ remark
ed he ‘but should like to be introduced for I have been
watching her, for the last half hour, and I do not know
but that lam half in love with her now.’ ‘Then, allow
me the pleasure of introducing you, immediately,’ ‘most
willingly,’ said Sandford, offering Mrs. Smith his arm,
who was delighted in having an opportunity of making
two of her favorites acquainted with each other.
Charles Sandford was a young lawyer, in easy cir
cumstances, who possessed fine talents, and a good
moral character. He was fond of ladies’ sooiety, and
visited them, generally, but no one, particularly. He
paid Emma much attention that evening, and was more
pleased after lie had conversed with her, than before.
He waited on her to supper, promenaded with her,
and on bidding her good night promised to call the next
day at eleven o'clock. Emma was equally pleased with
Charles, and dreamed that night of reeeving a Bo
quet of wila flowers from him. Rosa was the belle of
the evening, much to the gratification of her mother,
who retired with but oue regret, which was that Sand
ford was not so much pleased with Rosa, as lie seemed
to be with Emma. Sandford true to his promise call
ed the next day Rosa was in the parlor with two or
three gentlemen when he came. She had not noticed
his marked attention to her cousin, therefore she thought
his visit was intended for her. Sho never supposed
such a thing as Emma having a call from such a fash
ionable gentleman as Charles Sandford. She had so
long considered Emma an inferior in the family, that
she thought every one else did the same. Sandford
waited some time for Emma ; finally thinking that the
servant had not told her, he asked for her, and enquir
ed of Rosa, if Emma was at home ? ‘I believe she is,
though I have not seen her to-day,’ said Rosa. ‘She
eat breakfast with father and mother, and I did not get
mine until ten o’clock. I was so much fatigued that I
could not ‘rise with the lark’ this morning.’ She went
into her mother’s room, and told her that Emma was
wanted in the parlor. ‘Mr. Sandford asked for her 1
suppose because I had other company, send her in, she
will assist me in entertaining them.’ Emma was called,
and her Aunt was not at all pleased to see that, she
evinced no surprise, when told that Sandford had
asked for her.
Emma blushed when she entered the parlor, and
Sandford thought her more beautiful than ever. Even
Rosa admitted that she looked unusually well. The
events of the previous evening were merrily discussed
by the company ; all seemed satisfied with the share of
happiness they had received, from the entertainment.
Rosa felt that she was the attraction which had brought
the gentlemen out, and was still of the opinion, that
Emma would not have been called for, had she not
been so much engaged with the first visitors. Mrs.
Weston did not agree with Rosa, yet she said nothing
to the contrary. But intended to keep Emma out of
the parlor as much as possible, for the future. She
thought Sandford a desirable match for Rosa, and yet
hoped that she would secure him. Sandford thought
much of Emma for the next ten days, and determined
to offer her his hand, unless a longer acquaintance,
should change his opinion. lie wished to know her
well, before asking her to become his wife, and there
fore, for the present, did not wish his real motives sus
pected, in visiting at Mr. Weston's. Accordingly, when
he called again, he enquired for both the young ladies.
Mrs. Weston sent for Rosa, but said nothing to Emma.
Sandford thought it was best not to ask Rosa for her
cousin this time. Emma felt a little surprised and dis
appointed too, when she heard her aunt and cousin
speaking of Sandford's long call in the morning. Sand
ford felt disappointed too, in not seeing Emma, he
thought probably the servant had made a mistake, or
did not understand him to have asked for both the ladies.
Ilia few days he called again, and told the servant that
he wished to see both the young ladies. The servant
delivered the message, but Mrs. Weston sent Rosa with
out Emma again, thinking that if he wanted to see
Emma particularly he would ask Rosa for her, and this
Sandford would have done, had he not been in love
with her, but he ivas afraid of betraying hia feelings by
asking Rosa, for her cousin, and therefore was doomed
to disappointment, a second time. lie did not know
how to account for Emma not making her appearance,
lie began to think that she had probably suspected his
feelings towards her, and did not wish to encourage his
visits. This reflection was any other than a pleasant one
to Sandford. lie determined however, to make one
effort more in a few days.
During this time he was invited to spend an eve
ning at Mrs. Smith's. Rosa and Emma were to be there
also. Sandford thought he could learn from Emma's
manner on that occasion, if his company were disa
greeable to her. Mrs. Smith had invited Rosa and
Emma herself, and made them promise to come, as no
other ladies were invited she would be disappointed if
they did not. Mrs. Weston knew that Sandford was
to be there, and tried to devise some means, by which
Emma might be prevented from going. When the
evening arrived, Mrs. Weston was not as well as usual,
she felt quite nervous, and made frequent use of her
Cologne bottle. She expressed fears that she would
be very sick that night, but neither Rosa or Emma of
fered to remain at home. Rosa knew that her mother
did not expect her to remain, and Emma was very anx
ious to go to Mrs. Smith’s that night, above all others,
and did not offer to stay with her aunt, although, she
felt sure, that she desired her to do so. They both
went, and left Mrs. Weston to her own reflections dur
ing the evening. She thought seriously, of losing Em
ma; the more she reflected on it, the less inclined was
she to give her up. She had great respect for public
opinion, but the determined to keep Emma single, as
long as possible. She was a calculating woman, and
I uot easily thwarted in her designs. She determined
, on her course with Emma for the future.
In the morning of the day, that Sandford was to take
tea at Mrs. Smith's, he received a letter from his moth
er, in which requested him to come home immediately,
as business of much importance demanded his atten
tion. He made arrangements to leave the next day.
lie went to Mrs. Smith’s but scarcely knew how to act
towards Emma. lie thought she had not treated him
very politely. Emma’s feelings were pretty much the
same towards him, consequently each felt embarrassed
before the other, which caused coolness in manner,
which both attributed to a wrong cause. Sandford
chatted merrily enough, when addressing himself to
Miss Smith or Rosa, but he could not manage to get in
conversation, with Emma.
Theie were three young ladies, and just as many
gentlemen present, ar.d when Rosa started home, she
proposed that all should take a walk, as it was such a
beautiful monlight night, all agreed to this, and Mr.
Ashly and Mr. Benson, appeared to take Rosa and
Miss Smith. Sandford and Emma were left to go to
gether, each feeling, that probably the other preferred
th# company of someone else. Moonlight has a pecu
liar effect upon lovers. If a successful one, an exqui
site happiness, a soothing calmness of mind is realized,
that can be truly appreciated in few’ other conditions.
And who that has mourned over unrequited love, does
not know, that from moonlight, there comes a conso
lation, which causes a pleasing melancholy to steal
gently over us that almost makes us lmppy, in the very
midst of disappointment. Neither Sandford nor Emma
was insensible to the influenoe of the ‘Pale Queen’ of
night, for they had not proceeded far, before they eon
Verscdwith more Ireidom,than they had done during the
evening. Sandford felt a little encouraged before they
reached Mrs. Weston's. He determined to persevere a
little longer. Just before lie parted with Emma, he
told her that busiucss made it neecssary for him to be
absent a month, but on his return, lie would take plea
sure in visiting her, if it would be agreeable. ‘I shall be
happy to see you’ said Einma more pleasauily, than she
really intended to have done. They parted compara
tively happy. When Mrs. Weston learned that Sand
ford accompanied Emma home, she felt deeply morti
fied, lest the cause of Emma’s non-appearance in the
parlor, would be found out. She suffered some anxie
ty for several days, hut as Emma’s manner was un
changed towards her, and the servant was not called
upon for an explanation, she persuaded herself that all
was right. Rosa still received much attention from
both ladies and gentleman, she was invited to ride, to
attend concerts, and visit, by many, while Emma was
neglected by all, except Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Brown
and those ladies were the only two that Einma visited.
TO BE CONCLUDED.
Original Letter of Br. Franklin.
Philadelphia, March 1, 1755.
Sir— l am but just returned from a long jour
ney, near six months absence and And your Fav.
of Sept. 29, by which 1 have agreeable Advice
tbat you expect to be able to remit me some
thing in Smith’s Affairs very soon.
As to the Thickness of AY ire necessary or suf
ficient to conduct a large Quantity of Lightning,
concerning which you desire jnv Sentiments,
you will find something on that Dead in Pages
124 and 125 of the enclos'd Pamphlet, which
please to accept. And I may add, that in my
late Journey 1 saw an instance of a very great
Quantity of Lightning conducted by a \Vire no
bigger than a common knitting Needle. It was
at Newbury in New England, where the Spire
of the Church Steeple being 70 feet in height})
above the Belfry was split all to pieces and
thrown about the Street in Fragment; from the
Bell down to the Clock, plac’d in the Steeple
20 foot below the Bell, there was the small Wire
above mentioned which communicated the Mo
tion of the Clock to the Hammer striking the
Hour on the Bell. As far as the wire extended,
no Part of the Steeple was hurt by tbe Light
ning, nor below the Clock as far as the Pendu
lum Rod reached ; but from the End of the Rod,
downwards, the Lightning rent the Steeple sur
prisingly. The Pendulum Rod was about the
thickness of a small tobacco Pipe Stem, and
conducted the whole without damage to its
own substance, except that the End where the
Lightning was all accumulated, it appeared mel
ted as much as made a small drop. But the
Clock wire was blown all to smoke, and smutted
the Church wall which it passed in a broad
black Track, and also the Ceiling under which it
was carried horizontally. No more of it was
left than an luch and half next the Tail of the
Hammer, and as much joining to the Clock.
A'et it is observable that though it was so small
as not to be sufficient to conduct the Quantity
with Safety to its own Substance, yet it did con
duct so as to secure all that Part of the Build
ing. Excuse this Scrawl which I have not time
to copy fair. I am, with much Respect, Sir,
Your very humble Servant,
B. FRANKLIN.
P. S.—l have just been reading a similar in
stance taken from the Journal des Scavans, for
1075, page 113—viz: “En 1077 le tonnerre
ecrasa le docker de l’Abbage and Sains Medard de
Soissons ; la fondre se porta a une grande Dis
tance le long des fils d’arsclial qui communi
quoient a l’horloge; die fondit ces cordes me
talligues sans faire d’autres desordres dans tout
le trajet.”
This interesting and most welcome contribu
tion was brought to light by the London Cor
respondent of the Boston Post. In communi
cating it to that journal, he says:—“l have the
highest pleasure in forwarding to you the fol
lowing copy of a letter written by Dr. Franklin,
as you will observe, ninety six years ago. It is
copied verbatim et literatim , spelling, punctua
tion, capitals and all-.-and as near a sac simile
as my writing could make it—just as itstands in
the original. I have reason to suppose it has
never before been published.’’
For the Georgia Citizen.
Root vs Calomel.
Mr. Editor :—l notice in your last issue, a po
etic effusion from a Louisiana Mineral Doctor,
headed, “Humbug,” wherein the writer discov
ery, to a true diagnosis, many symptoms of a
form of disease known in nosology, as “caput
sufflatus’’ or swelled head. The perusal of his
balderdash forcibly reminded me of an old man
I once heard of:—“Madam,” said the old man,
“ have you any water in the house you could
give a poor old man, or a gulp of beer, I would
drink cider but had rather have rum” —so long
was he in coming to the point. And as the
scholastikos said by knowing the vegetable by
its countenance, I think I can discover from his
writing that he is the identical M. D. (Mercury
Doctor,) who a few years ago, filled all the La.
newspapers with accounts of his wonderful
“I>yspeptic Cordial” which he said cured him
self of the Rheumatism, his wife of the sick-,
headache, his daughter of the fever and ague,
and his mother of a bad cough, besides mend
ing the cellar stairs and putting the baby to
sleep. And now forsooth, after feeing every
1 printer for inserting his forged certificates of
remarkable cures of so many diseases that show
themselves “on the human hide,” he is down
upon them like a load of bricks, because other
Panaceas, Pills or Balsams, made and prepared
and labelled with “notgenuine without they
cure,” have found entrance along side his Dys
peptic Cordeal. But to Lis couplet.
“They cannot doubt a single word of what tb* papers say,
They never dreaui that primers will write anything for pay
I ©nly apply the pasquinade.
Care colonne che fate qua ?
Non sapiauio in yerita.
And hand him over to you, when per
haps he may find it “anything but civil”
to ride a printer’s devil; though he be
Chinese or Tartar. I propose giving him as a
Roland for his Oliver the origin of Quacke
ry alias liumbuggery, with a few results of his
“dirty Mineral” and perhaps he can readilv ac
count for the “spirit of the age.” Bartholomew
Parr, M. D. in bis valuable work,says, the appel
lation of Quack arose from Quacksalbar, the
German name for Quicksilver, and ou page 584
Pereira’s Materia Medica, the followingetfbctsof
the same identical “dirty Mineral”—‘‘sal
ivation, palsy, stammering, vertigo, apoplexy
and ultimately death, ulceration of the mouth,
destruction of the teeth and jaws, destruction
of the blood, general inflammation, emaciation
morbus mercurialis, fever, inflammation of the
stomach and bowels, leprosy, ulceration of the
mouth aud throat, throat distemper, eruptions
of various kinds, diarrhoeas, dysentery, inflam
mation of the eves, face and peritoneum,
chronic liver complaint, jaundice, hypochond
riasis, palsy, rheumatism, neuralgia, trembling,
wasting of the body, erysipelas, cancer , gan
grene, mortification and death, with many oth
er fatal diseases produced by Mercury.” And
now I pity bis discernment if lie can’t perceive
the reason why we find Swain, Peters, Evans,
Wistar, Little Cos. “stepping boldly on the
stage,” when we find work enough for all their
“Fixins,” labelled “purely vegetable” to kill the
effects of one article of their “dirt)- Mineral” or
perhaps he would have Prof. Chapman's reason
who says it requires seven years study to become
a Doctor, and that even then he lias to “kill
twenty patients to get into practice,” and then
“500” mere if he ever becomes “very eminent,”
and who would do all this when he could put
up a “Dyspeptic Cordial.” And again Prof.
Harrison, says, “ Quackery, walks in footsteps,
marked with blood” (and who lets blood but a
Mineral Doctor,) and if I have not yet fixed
Quackery where it belongs, I hand him over to
Profs. Gallup and Eberle, who say that giving
opium in its various forms and disguises is
Quackery in its worst forms, and I am sure ho
will not call them Root or Steam Doctors.—
And to this that the “ most horrid unwarranta
ble murderous quackery” (Chapman) has been
for three centuries the most fashionable prac
tice, and the result will be that fools will be in
fashion, “though they die for it,” unless they
heed the injunction.—
“Let all your drugs he made from root* or vegetable* good,
Discar4 *ll dirty minerals, they are poison to the blood.”
But for fear your correspondent may think
me a prose-y writer, I will little of
his own coin, merely cautioning him that it is
from a Steam Doctor and would advise him to
look closely to the safety valve next time, or it
may let much a steam into his face, as somer
what to endanger his optics. But to the
CALOMEL.
Old calomel the people hate,
And soon they will decide his fate;
With aches and pains he fills their bones,
And causes many doleful mourns.
His victims writhe beneath his power,
And fondly court the dying hour,
To free them from the iron grasp
Os poison fatal as the asp.
With indigestion—awful load,
They drag along a dreary road—
With stiffened limbs and rotten teeth,
With foul and pestilential breath.
With minds imbecile as a child—
With mania running almost wild—■
With ulcers foul as those of Job,
They wear the leper’s scaly robe.
The inquisition's pains they feel,
Without Samaria’s Son to heal ;
They never get the oil and wine
Unmixed with baneful anodyne.
Their nervous systems, racked with pain,
Are on old Molock’s altar lain ;
The bloody lancet there is plied
And tufa/ forces staud aside.
If any fears still do remain
That patient may revive again,
And on the famed lobelia call,
And use a little steam withal.
The Doctors then the people bore—
Their bowels with compassion more--*
They say “Dear neighbors do ce wise,
For your relief we’ll soon devise.
The Steamers ! they are nought hut quacks,
An ign'rant set of stupid jacks—
On their delusion you should frown.
And then tee soon could put them down.
On law-legs tee liavealwa)-s stood,
And by that means have gained our food ;
Lobelia’s power has spoiled our legs,
And now we stand on rotten pegs.
Our system too is on the wane,
And can’t in triumph rise again,
Unless the statute is revived
M hereby we long securely lived.
Our legislators you must pray
To grant us hopes of lengthen’d day,
ro make a law that we can ride —
Then won't we look genteel * (aside.)
BOTANICU3.
People who lack money, are supposed to
lack merit,while they are sometimes questioned
even as to their morality.—As Tom Hood for
cibly express it—people of affluence know no
difference between those who are naught and
those who are naughty.
Dobbs once boarded with a woman “so stin
gy of her sugar,” that when she stewed a quart
of goosoberries, they seemed sharpened to a
pint.
“The End Justifies the Means.” This
is w hat a bean pole of a girl said, when she
tied on a forty pound bustle.
‘Doctor, do you think a thin shoe is bad for
consumption?’
‘Not at all, my love—it is what it lives
on.
The Doctor rather had her that lime.
Country cousins are a good deal like fits of
the gout—the oftener they visit you, the longer
they stay. To get rid of either you must resojt
to thin diet.
NO. 13.