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A FAMILY NEWSPAPER,-DEVOTE!) TO LITERATURE, SCIENCE, ART, POLITICS k GENERAL INTELLIGENCE.
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MIBCEL L A N V.
Written for the Georgia Citizen.
love strong in death.
BY AUNT JENNY.
[concluded.]
I wrote to my parents ns my father-in-law elect
ail vised and received a speedy and cordial re
ply, witii the consent and approbation of my
parents to the projected match. Ihe month
tied like a dream, and the time of parting came.
The other lovers were not to be parted, as they
all lived in H. but myself, and Lily and I tried
mutually to cheer each other. In fact we were
to meet again soon, for after traveling two or
three months, and visiting home, I was to re
turn to X. X*. and take passage from that city
for Europe, and then I intended paying my be
trothed another visit. When at length the day
came for us to separate, I said, as I gave the
parting hand to Lilv, ‘we shall meet again- soon,
my love, we will write frequently to each other,
and in two years we shall meet no more to part,
and even then a feeling of indescribable sad
ness and foreboding came over me. and I seemed
to hear a voice within me whisper. ‘1 he
time you look forward to so confidently will
never arrive.’ But I would not listen to the in
ward monitor. I tried to scorn a belief in pre
sentiments, as I told Lily my feelings, but she
looked sad and seemed to be oppressed with
melancholy thoughts. W ell, I concluded my
tour through the rest ot the States, and at
length the Ist, of December, found myself once
more at home. I remained here long enough
to make my arrangement tor my European
tour, and to discuss my future plans with my
parents, who were much pleased w ith niy de
scription of Lily’s beauty and accomplishments,
and about the first of January I again left home,
to be absent two years —I proceeded directly to
X. Y. and there engaging a passage in the
Steamer Asia, I left my baggage at a hotel and
crossed over to Vermont to see my Lily. I re
mained a week with her, a happy time, w hich en
deared us more than ever to each other, and I of
ten wondered that so lovely and perfect a char
acter could have felt for mo such devoted love
as she did. We parted —she in tears, I feeling
the same presentiment of evil as before, but Lily
spoke hopefully cheerfully, of the future, and 1
would not throw a gloom upon her spirits by
revealing my fears. Morever what bad Ito re
veal 3 In sooth nothing but vague thoughts of
.coming sorrow. X\ r e exchanged miniatures (lier’s
tv as beautifully taken, 1 have it vet., and will
show it to you when my tale is done) promised
to write constantly, and I left her. I returned
to X. \. and at the appointed time, went on
board the r.oble Steam Ship, to cross the At
lantic. Onr voyage was prosperous and speedy.
I suffered but little with sea sickness. 1 here
were several among the passengers with whom
I had some acquaintance, and others with w hom
1 soon become familiar, and the time passed
very agreeably—much more so than I had anti
cipated. I shall not dwell upon my travels in
Europe. Suffice it to say, I visited the most in
teresting parts of the continent, together with
England, Ireland and Scotland, and saw suffi
cient to fill me with admiration and delight. I
saw ‘ n Italy the glorious monuments and re
cords of the past. I climbed the snowy moun
tains of Germany and Switzerland, and travers
ed the vales af sunny France. I heard frequent-
* l0!11 my American friends, and notwith
standing the gloom that still occasionally weigh
ed down my spirits, when I thought of Lily, I
received none but favorable and cheering intel
>gence of her. She wrote me in a style of
parity, confidence and affection, that my
■we for her grew day by day. I saw in each
jitter new cause for admiring and respecting
Ler intelligence and purity of mind. Two years
passed away, more speedily than 1 had deemed
Possible when I left home, and I was ready to
return to my native land. My heart beat high
* T 'th hope and anticipation as I embarked for
America. Our homeward passage was as fa
orable as bad been my last across the great ex
panse of waters, and in due course of time we
entered X. York Bay. And never had the
“ith its buildings and spires, seined so
J -autitul to me. My heartbeat almost painful
o with joy. .My parents were to meet me in
-New \ork city—from whence we were to pro
ceed together to Vermont, where all arrange
were to be made for the marriage of Lily
a *id myself, together with my friend Barton and
Fanny. Gertrude who had been married a few
Months before was to be present, and after the
ceremony, the two new married couples were
proceed on a bridal tour through N. England,
Montreal, the Lakes and Ac., spending a month
at Saratoga; and at the dose of the summer, I
to take my bride to her Southern home
‘ tare my parents had made arrangements for
our reception. It was the last of May when I ar
rived in New Y’ork, a little more than two years
from the time I left. I found my parents at
the Astor House, where our meeting was jov
ful. I was too impatient to remain there long,
and in a few days we started for Vermont, in
one of the North R. Steamers fur Vermont, via
I roy Ac. Ihe day had been very warm, and
after supper, my parents, myself and some ac
quaintances went on deck. There with a cigar
in my mouth 1 promenaded backwards and for
wards, engaged in conversation with an old col
lege chum, whom I had unexpectedly found on
b >ard the Steamer. There, engaged in reminis
cences of the past and plans for the future, we
did not heed the flight of time. The moon
shed her silvery light over the lovely scenery of
the ‘highlands’—the sky so soft and blue xvas
‘bespangled with those isles of light, so wild
ly, spiritually bright’ and in short, it seemed
almost a scene of magic beauty. The light of
hope was shed with splendor over all to me,
and when my friend looking at his watch, said
it was midnight, and observed that we bad out
staid every body else, and proposed retiring. I
declined, and lie left me. I felt strangely ex
cited. 1 knew that I could not sleep, and I con
tinued pacing the deck, and gazing upon the
lovely scenery each side of me, for an hour or
two.
Finally, I seated myself on a bench and fell
inti> deep and delicious reverie. All was still
save the dash of the water against the vessel,
and gradually a feeling of the deepest melan
choly succeeded my previous state of joyful and
hopeful reverie. I strove, in vain, to throw it
off. I could not account for it, and starting up
I exclaimed aloud, though in a low voice, ‘This
i folly, why should I give way to sadness and
foreboding, when happiness is so near?’ Alow
deep, painful sigh w as the seeming echo of my
words. It sounded as if heard from'a distance
—though plain and distinct. I looked around
in astonishment, and a few feet from me I saw
the form of Lily Barton. She looked a little
.taller and paler than when 1 had last seen her.
She had on along white loose dress, not like a
shroud, neither like a common frock, and her
hair hung over her shoulders in loose dishevel
ed curls. I was astonished—awed—not frighten
ed. I gazed a moment, when raising her hands
on high, and with a look of devoted love she
said in a voice which like the sigh, seemed to
come from a distance—‘My beloved Charles!
we shall meet no more on earth! God bless
thee, dearest, till we meet there, (and she point
ed her finger to the sky) never more to part
farewell,’ and her hand slowly dropped by her
side, and very gradual y she faded from my
sight looking at last like a thin wreath of va
por in human form. For some minutes I stood
transfixed. Idid not, for a moment doubt, that
I had been in the presence of the spirit of Lily
Barton. 1 doubted not that she was dead, and
throwing myself back upon the bench and bu
rying my head in my hands, and in a trance of
intolerable anguish, I remained fixed like a
statue till morning. . Superstitious l had never
liecn, but I fi-lt that if God so willed, it was pos
sible for such a communication and visitation
to he made, and I felt overcome with grief.
In answer to tiie enquiries of my parents, as
to the cause of my haggard and melancholy
countenance, I replied thatl felt a presentiment
of some coining calamity : their expostulations,
and representations of the folly of being influ
enced by dreams, visions and presentiments
were unavailing. I continued in gloom, till our
arrival in B . We stopped at a Hotel, un
til l should apprise Mr. Barton’s family of our
arrival, and thither I immediately bent my
steps.
A few minutes’ walk brought me to the house,
and so little doubt had I of finding Lily dead, I
was not surprised to see the blinds closed and the
house looking dark and gloomy. A servant
appeared when I rang the (jell—one Iliad nev
er seen. I stepped into the house, unheeding
her respectful apology for requiring my name.
I abruptly told her to tell Mr. Barton to come
to the drawing-room. I suppose my looks
alarmed her fur she left, immediately, leaving
me at the door of the drawing-room.
In a few moments Mr. Barton appeared, with
so much anguish in his face, l could have doubt
ed no longer (had I still hoped) that my fears
were well grounded. He elapsed my hand in
silence and his features worked convulsively,
and he groaned and turned aw ay, after trying,
in vain, to conquer his emotion sufficiently to
speak. I said, calmly, ‘show her to me if she is
not buried.’ He led the way and I Wowed,
tearless, almost senseless. He opened a door
into a back parlor, and I saw her stretched out
cold and lifeless. Motioning her father to leave
the room, I lifted the sheet from her face, and
knelt before the beautiful marble like image of
mv beloved Lily, in silent anguish.
I knew not how long 1 had remained gazing
upon her face, when someone knocked softly
at the door. I arose, pressed my first and last
kiss upon her cJd lips and left the room. Mr.
and Mrs. Barton were at the door, where they
had waited, they told me fur an hour, anxious
ly listening tor some sound, and fearing I had
fainted they knocked. They led me to the
drawing-room where the rest ot the tamily
were collected. They met me with sobs and
tears, and then informed me how she had been
seized a week previous with a sudden and terri
ble fever, and after suffering greatly, had died
the Monday night previous, (the same time l
saw her spirit.) A few minutes before her death
when restored fully to her senses, she adJressed
a few words to her fiiends —bade them farewell
—expressed tier confidence in her Saviour’s love
—bade them all farewell —and then with a deep
sigh, with her dying breath raised her hand
and exclaimed in clear, distinct tones ‘My be
loved Charles! We shall meet no more on
earth. God bless thee, dearest, till we meet
//)ere (pointing upwards) never more to part!
farewell.’
1 listened without supnse. I could not weep,
my anguish was terrible and seemed like a hea
vy weight on heart and brain. I returned to
the Hotel, and communicated my tale of woe to
my parents, who were shocked and sorrow
stricken. That afternoon Lily was buried. XX hen
the earth was thrown on the coffin, some blessed
tears came to my relief—and saved me from
insanity, for I could not have endured that ter
rible silent anguish much longer, and retained
my reason. We staid iu B , a week, and
with a lock of Lily’s hair, her miniature, and the
remembrance of her loveliness and devotion,
with a load of woe on my heart, I left with
my parents for the South. 1 was brok
en in health and spirits, and for months 1 se
cluded myself from all society, not wishing
even to see my parents. I nursed my sorrow
and wrapped myself in selfish gloom, praying
for death, and desiring nothing. At length the
sorrow depicted on the countenances of my par
ents awoke me to the selfishness of brooding
over the sorrow sent by the band ot God, and
I prayed, meekly and humbly, for resignation
and cheerfulness, and my prayer was answered.
MACON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, JULY 10, 1852.
My health was re-established and I learned to
be content and thankful, though my heart was
still crushed & I now feel more joy in the thought
ot meeting Lily in heaven than any thing else.
I shall never marry, I can never love again,
and I would not seek the love of one that I could
not return. My heart lies in ruins—it can love
no more —its affection is buried in Lily’s grave.”
I listened with sympathy, and as Duval con
cluded, I wept, lie meanwhile proceeded to
take from his pocket a miniature iu a gold case,
and unclasping it he handed it to me, reveal
ing to my gaze a face of rare, almost unearth
ly beauty. 1 uever saw a face so lovely. I
could well imagine that a being so beautiful in
face and character would rivet the love of a tal
ented, impassioned nature, like that of Duval,
lie then opened the opposite side of the case
and showed me a curl of hair, of silken texture
and brilliant beautiful color. I expressed my
warm admiration at the loveliness of the face
and curl of hair, and my sincere sympathy for
his sorrow, and with a grateful look, and grasp
of the band at parting, he left.
For an hour or two after his departure, 1
mused upon his strange tale, hut could not ar
rive at any satifactory conclusion in regard to
his vision. Whether it was a dream —an opti
cal illusion (the imagination supplying the
voice) or the actual visit of the spirit of his be
loved, as lie believed, I could not, of course,
determine and I retired feeling the warmest
sympathy fur his misfortune and sorrow, and
fell asleep, dreaming of talking with a room full
of spirits.
JST. B.— A few weeks after I heard the above
tale, Duval called to bid me adieu, as lie was
going to leave the village, and lie requested me
to bold a correspondence with him. I willing
ly consented, and after few months had passed,
durng which we had exchanged several letters,
which were a source of pleasure and improve
ment to me, fur he was gifted in writing, I no
ticed that lie had ceased almost entirely to
mention his loved and lost Lily, and finally at
the end of six months or a little more, I received
from him a beautifully embossed envelope, con
taining a card tied with white satin ribbon and
printed with the names of Mr. and Mrs. Charles
Duval! Y'es reader, the broken heart was ce
mented ! A few months after he returned to
the village where I remained, with his bride —
and although her face was not as spiritully love
ly as was that of his lost Lily, she was a beau
tiful, graceful and interesting woman—and she
evidently loved her‘leige lord’ devotedly; and
lie seemed to return her affection fully and en
tirely. I doubt not they will jog along through
life very comfortably together ! Their senti
ments and dispositions harmonize—their for
tunes and connections are mutually good. She
is aware (as he has since informed me) that he
once loved, and was betrothed to another. I
quite approved of his breaking bis resolution
of celibacy. He had qualities which war
well in domestic life and I believe be will be
much happier, and do more good as ‘Benedick
the married man’than he would have done had
he remained a lonely, sorrowful old bachelor,
brooding over the past and hugging it to his
heart instead of an affectionate, loving compan
ionable wife. Broken hearted swains! Go and
do ye likewise. Xt cede inalis.
The Cavalry Officer.
The period of Napoleon’s career, when at its
j zenith, is full of romantic adventures as con-
I nected with the history of the officers whoserv
lod under the great captain. lie was quick to
: observe merit and prompt to reward it, and this
| it was that made his followers so devoted to
him, and so anxious to distinguish themselves
by prowess in battle, and strict soldierly con
duct in the emperor’s service.
Colonel Eugene Merville was an attache of
Napoleon’s staff. lie was a soldier in the true
sense of the word—devoted to his profession,
and brave as a lion. Though very handsome,
and of fine bearing, he was of humble birth
a mere child of the camp, and had followed the
drum and bugle from boyhood. Every step in
the line of promotion had been won by the
stroke of his sabre; and his promotion lrom
major of cavalry was for a gallant deed which
transpired on the battle field benenth the em
peror’s own eye. Murat, that Prince of cavalry
officers, loved him like a brother, and taught
him all that his own. good taste and natural in
stinct had not led him to acquire before.
It was the carnival season in Paris, and young
Merville found himself at the masked ball in
the French Opera House. Better adapted in
his taste to the field than the boudoir, be flirts
but little with the gay figures that cover the
floor, and joins but seldom iu the giddy waltz.
But at last, while standing thoughtfully, and
regarding the assembled throng with a vacant
eye, his attention was suddenly aroused by the
appearance of a person in a white satin domino,
tire universal elegance of whose figure,manner
and bearing, convinced all that her face and
mind must be equal to her person in grace and
loveliness.
Though in so mixed an assembly, still there
was a dignity and reserve in the manner of the
white domino that rather repulsed the idea of a
familiar address, and it was some time before
the young soldier found courage to speak to her.
Some alarm being given, there wms a violent
rush of the throng towards the door, where, un
less assisted, the lady would have materially
suffered. Eugene Merville offers his arm, and
with his broad shoulders and stout frame wards
off the danger. It was a delightful moment;
the lady spoke the purest French, and was wit
ty, fanciful and captivating.
* b\h ! lady, pray raise that mask, and reveal to
me the charms of feature that must accompany
so sweet a voice and so graceful a form as you
possess.’ t
‘You would, perhaps, bo disappointed.’
‘No, I am suro not.’
‘Are vou so very confident V
‘Yes I feel that you are beautiful. It cannot
be otherwise.’
‘Don’t be too sure of that,’ said the domino.
‘Have you never heard of the Irish Poet Moore s
story of the veiled prophet ot Ivhorassan—how
when he disclosed his countenance, its hideous
aspect killed his beloved one? How do }ou
know that I shall not turn out a veiled prophet
of Ivhorassan?’
‘Ah, lady, your every word convinces me to
the contrary,’ replied the enraptured soldier,
whose heart began to feel as it had never felt
before; he was already in love.
She eludes his efforts at discovery, but per
mits him to hand her to her cariage, which drives
off in the darkness, and though he throws him
self upon his fleetest horse, he is unable to over
t&lv6 her.
The young French colonel becomes moody;
he has lost h?s heart, and knows not what to do.
He wanders hither and thither, shuns his former
places of amusement, avoids his military com
panions, and in short is miserable as a lo\er can
well be, thus disappointed. One night, just,
after he had left his hotel, on foot, a figure mus- 1
fled to the very ears stopped him.
‘Well, monsieur, what would you with me?’
asked the soldier.
‘You would know the name of the white do
mino ?’ was the reply.
‘I would indeed!’ replied the officer hastily.
‘How can it be done ?’
‘Follow me.’
‘To the end of the earth, if it will bring me
to her.’
‘But you must be blindfolded.’
‘Very well.’
‘Step into this vehicle.’
‘I am at your command.’
And away rattled the young soldier and his j
strange companion. ‘This may be a trick,’ rea- |
soned Eugene Merville, ‘but 1 have no fear of j
personal violence. lam armed with this trusty
sabre, and can take care of myself.’
But there was no cause for fear, since he soon ;
found the vehicle stopped, and he was led blind- j
folded into the house. XVlienthe bandage was ;
removed from his eyes, he found himself in a ,
richly furnished boudoir, and before him stood j
the domino, just as he had met her at the masked ,
ball. To fall upon bis knees, and tell her how j
much lie had thought of her since their separa
tion, that his thoughts had never left her, that
he loved her devotedly, was as natural as to
breathe, and lie uid so most gallantly and sin
cerely.
‘Shall I believe ail you say ?’
‘Lady, let me prote it by any test you may
put upon me.’
‘Know, then, that the feelings you avow are
mutual. Nay, unloose your arm from my waist.
I have something more to say.’
‘Talk on forever, lady ! Y'our voice is music
to my ears.’
‘Would you marry me, knowing no more of
me than you now do ?’
‘Yes, if you were to go to the altar masked !’
he replied.
‘Then I will test you.’
‘How, lady V
‘For one year be faithful to the love you have
professed, and 1 willbeyouis —as truly as Hea
ven shall spare my life.’
‘O cruel, cruel suspense!’
You demur.’
‘Nay, lady, I shall fulfil your injunctions as 1
promised.’*
‘lf at the expiration of a year you do not hear
from me, then the contract shall be null and void.
Take this half ring,’ she continued,‘and when I
supply the broken portion, I will be yours.’
He kissed the little emblem, swore again and
again to he faithful, and pressing her hand to
his lips, bade tier adieu. He vas conducted
away again as mysteriously as bo had been
brought thither, nor could he by any possible
means discover where he had been; his com
panion rejecting all bribes, and even refusing to
answer the simplest questions.
Months rollon. Colonel Merville is true to
his vow, ami happy in the anticipation of love.
Suddenly he was ordered to an embassy to Vi
enn;*, the gayest of all the European capitals,
about the time that Napoleon is planning to
marry the Arch Duchess Maria Louisa. I lie
young colonel is handsome, manly, and already
distinguished in arms, and becomes at once a
great favorite at court, every effort being made
by the women to captivate him, but in vain ; he
is constant and true to his vow.
But his heart was not made of stone; the
very fact that he had entertained such tender
feelings for the white domino, has doubtless
made him more susceptible than bes re.
At last he met the young baroness Caroline
Von Waldorff, and in spite of bis vows she cap
tivates him, and he secretly curses the engage
ment he had so blindly made at Baris. She
seeems to wonder at w hat she believes to be his
devotion, and yet the distance that he main
tains. The truth was, that his sense of honor
was so great, that, though he felt he really lov
ed the young baroness, and even that she re
turned his affection, still he had given his word, •
and it was sacred.
The satin domino is no longer the ideal of his
heart, but assumes the most repulsive form in
his imagination, and becomes, in place ot his ;
good angel—his evil genius !
Well, time rolls on ; he is to return in a few
days ; it is once more the carnival season, and ,
in Vienna, too, that gay city, lie joins in the ;
festivities of the masked ball, and what wonder
fills his brain, when about the middle ot the j
evening the white domino steals before him, in !
the same white satin dress he had seen her wear
a year before at the French Opera House in
Paris. Was it not a fancy ?
‘I come, Colonel Eugene Merville, to hold j
you to your promise,’ she said laying her hand
lightly upon his arm.
‘ls this a reality or a dream ?’ asked the I
amazed soldier.
‘Come, follow me, and you shall see that it is
a reality,’ continued the mask, pleasantly.
‘I will.’ .
‘Have you been faithful to your promise?’
asked the domino as they retired into a saloon, j
‘Most truly in act, but alas, 1 fear not in heart!’ |
‘lndeed.’ j
‘lt is too true, lady, that I have seen and
loved another, though my vow to you has kept
me from saying so to her.’
‘And who is this that you thus love?’
‘I will be frank with you, and you will keep
my secret V ‘
‘Most religiously.’
‘lt is the Baroness Yon XYaldroff,’ he said j
with a sigh.
‘And you really love her V
‘Alas ! only toodearly,’ said the soldier sadly, j
‘Neverthele-s, I must hold to you your pro
mise. Here is the other half of the ring; can (
you produce its mate ?’
‘Here it is, said Eugene Mervile.
‘Then I, too, keep my promise!’ said the dom
ino, raising her mask, and showing to his aston- J
ished view the face of Baroness Von Waldroff! i
‘Ah, it was the sympathy of true love that j
attracted mo, after all,’ exclaimed the young ,
soldier, as he pressed her to his heart.
She had seen and loved him for his manly J
spirit and character, and having found by in- j
quiry that lie was worthy of her love, she had |
managed this delicate intrigue, and had tested j
him, and now gave to him her wealth, title and
everything!
They were married with great pomp and ac- j
companied the arch-duchess to Paris. Napoleon
to crown the happiness of his favorite, made
him at once General ot Division.
“The Sandwich Islands,— The above is
the title of Pamphlet, recently published in Cal
ifornia, by Mrs. E. M. Willis Parker, of San
Francisco, the talented lady of one of the first
citizens of that place, who has spent some time
in the Sandwich Islands, and professes to know
whereof she speaks. A letter from a gentle
man in San Francisco, assures us that the state
ments in her book are too true, but will hardly
be believed by the people of the New England j
States. She states that the people ofthe Sand
wich Islands are undoubtedly the most depraxed
people on the earth—that the Missionaries are
living in idleness and wealth—that the King is
an object of pity, and the tool of whites—that the
native men are vicious beyond all conception,
and the idea of chastity is unknown to the whole
female population. The writer says that if the
pious people of New England, could see with
their own eyes, the use which is made of their
contributions, they would be incensed, to the
highest degree.
The Widow’s Will.
BT REV. A. M. SCOTT.
It was a bitter night. The snow had been
falling in fleecy flights during the greater por
tion of the day, and the cold was so intense
that little business of any kind had been pros
ecuted by the industrious and enterprising citi
zens of the village. Night had succeeded day.
The snow and sleet were still descending, and
the spirit of the storm seemed to howl around
the house, and through the fields and orchards
and forests, and the distant mountains.
Mr. Rowland had returned from his counting
house at an earlier hour than usual. Supper
had been served, and the family had gathered
around the sparkling fire. The children had
been put to bed in an adjoining apartment, and
the infant was sleeping in the cradle under the
immediate notice of its mother. Mr. Rowland
was reading a newspaper, and as the fitful blast
moaned around his commodious dwelling, he
would make some remarks relative to the se
verity of the weather. Mrs. li. was parting the
flaxen curls upon the head of the sleeping babe,
and occasionally she imprinted the warm kiss
of maternal affection upon its ruddy check.
Suddenly someone rapped at the door. It
was opened, when a little girl of about seven
years old was admitted. Her scanty dress was
tattered and torn, a ragged quilt thrown around
her slender shoulders and a pair of miserable
old shoes upon her feet. She was almost frozen.
‘You are the widow Watkins’ little daughter!’
said Mrs. Rowland, inquiringly.
The little girl answered in the affirmative, and
added that her Ma was sick, and wished Mr.
Rowland to step over and see her, for she thought
she would surely die.
Mr. Rowland owned the place on which the
sick woman resided. She was very indigent,
and but poorly able to pay the extravagant rent
which the unfeeling owner exacted- The pro
perty was once her husband’s, or rather her
own, being a gift from her father on the very
day of her wedding. Mr. Watkins was wealthy
when a young man, and was educated for the
bar, and no one seemed more likely to be suc
cessful in his profession. lie and Mr. Rowland
were associates. The latter, a few years before
the period at which we now find him, had com
menced the nefarious traffic in ardent spirits—
had grown rich—had induced Watkins to drink
—made him drunk, and by degrees a drunkard;
and when the poor besotted victim was unable
to pay his debts,consracted mostly for rum, but
par tly by neglecting his professional duties, lie,
li is former assaeiate, his pretended friend, his
destroyer, was the first to decry and oppress
him. ilis horses and oxen were sold by the
sheriff', next his household and kitchen furniture
were seized, and finally a mortgage was given
to Rowland upon the homestead of the drunk
ard, to secure the rum dealer in the payment of
a pitiful balance in his favor.
This calamity did not cheek the prodigal ca
reer of the inebriate. He still quaffed the li
quid poison, and still did the heartless dealer
hold out inducements to prevail upon him to
sink lower into wretchedness and shame. A
few weeks after, he was one morning found dead
in the street, lie had left the grocery at a late
hour the preceding night, in a state of intoxi
cation, The night was dark, and he probably
missed his way—fell into the gutter—found him
self unable to get out, and, being stupefied with
rum, he went to sleep and froze to death.
Rowland in a short time foreclosed the mort
gage, and the home of the drunkard's wife be
came the legal property of the man who had
destroyed her peace, and reduced her to beg
gary and want. He permitted her to remain on
the premises, exacting an extravagant rate of
rent. Mental anguish, excessive labor, want of
proper nourishment, and exposure had well
nigh worn her out, and she was fast sinking
into the grave, where the weary are at rest. No
one had been near her; no one seemed to care
for her—in fact it was not known even to her
nearest neighbors that she was sick.
Mr. Rowland felt anxious only for his rent,
there being at that time a small sum due. And
perhaps it isowing to that circumstance that he
so readily consented accompany the little girl
to the room of her sick mother. He draw on
his overcoat, and tied a woollen com
his neck, drew on his gloves, and taking his um
brella, set out through the drifting snow and
sleet, and bent his way to the widow's uncom
fortable home.
He found her lying on a miserable bed of
straw, with her head slightly elevated, the only
chair belonging to her hogse being placed un
der her pillow. She was pale and ghastly, and
evidently near the hour of dissolution. Mr.
Rowland being seated on a rude wooden stool,
she said, in a feeble but decided tone of voice:
‘I have sent for you, sir, to pay me a visit, that
I may make you the heir to my estate. My es
tate ? I know you are ready to ask what estate
I have to bequeath. And well may you ask
that. I was once happy. This house was
once mine ; it was my father's gift—my wedding
portion. I had horses and oxen, and cows and
sheep, and orchards and meadows. ’Twas you
who induced my poor erring husband to drink.
It was you who placed before him the liquid
poison, and pressed him to take it. ’Twas you
that took away my horses and cows, and mea
dows and orchards, and my own home. ’Twas
you that ruined my peace, destroyed my hus
band, and in the very noon of life *ent him
down to a drunkard’s dishonored grave. ’Twas
you that made me a beggar, and cast my poor
starving babes upon the charity of a pitiless
world. I have nothing left but these ragged
quilts; them you do not want—yet I have de
termined to bequeath you my estate. Here,
sir, as my last will and testament, I do bequeath
to you this vial of tears. They are tears that j
I have shed, tears that you have caused. Take
this vial; wear it about your vile person; and
when hereafter you present the flowing bowl
to the lips of a husband and father, remember
that you are inheriting another vial of widow's
tears.’
An hour more, and the poor widow, the widow j
of a thousand sorrows, the once favored child
of forluue, the once lovely and wealthy bride,
the once affectionate wife and devoted young
mother, lay cold and senseless in death, and her
soul had been summoned to that God who has
said, ‘Vengeance is mine, and I will repay.’
GuiU,can never confer real happiness.
No Teacher Like a Mother.
feud indeed is the picturo, gloomy the prospect,
where the sweet bonds between parents and
offspring are early and rudely snapped by death,
passion or the force of circumstances. Melan
choly and olten perilous Indeed is the condition
of a child, when the mother is ultimately called
to her account, ere the bloom of early infancy
has passed from her darling’s cheek. Yet
more deplorable when a parent’s faults and evil
habits, ill-judged severity or culpable indul
gence, have corrupted the understanding and
alienated the heart of their offspring. How
delightful is it, our after days of honored and
successful maturity to look hack on the sunny
hours of infancy ; to recall a mother’s earnest
gaze ot unutterable fondness; caresses of ten
derness and love to dwell by memory’s aid on
their mutual joy at our progress in strength and
knowledge; the result oftheir united instructions
and entreaties; on the holy precepts that from
their lips were caught, and the eternal truth
they impressed on our remembmnae, and to
feel that, whatever we may posessof life’s best
stilts, we mainly owe, next to the Giver of all,
to their devoted care.
The Right Spirit.
This is the title of a hook recently published,
which inculates the principles of action on
which success in life must always depend. It
shows what may be accomplished by persever
ance ; by resolving to go straight ahead without
delay; in storms or in sunshine; and, overleap
ing petty obstacles, to accomplish wha! is rigl.t
and desirable to he done. ’The hero ofthe tale,
afier leaving school at the head of his class, is
apprenticed to a printer; and the following ex
tract from the concluding chapter describes an
interesting incident, and will give our renders a
correct idea ofthe character of this work;
“It was ihe third year of my residence with
Mr. Simpson, that he had engaged to do a large
| amount of work for a publishing-house in the
i city. Sufficient time had been given to accom
plish it without an extra effort. But one eve
ning, towards the close of the job, the publisher
suddenly appeared in the office. He and Mr.
Simpson were alone together for some time.
When the office was closed for the evening, Mr.
Simpson told us that the work must he finished
in three days at the farthest, and that we must
bestir ourselves early enough in the morning,
ft was my duty to open the office and prepare it
for work.
“‘Tom,’said Mr. Simpson, ‘I want you to gel
up and do Robert’s work iu the morning, lie
looks pretty sick to-night, and must not come in
to the office till after breakfast.’ I had taken a
severe cold.
“ The stranger saw and marked us both, and
i heard Mr. Simpson’s direction,
j “ ‘Robert, do you lie abed in the morning; and
■ Pom by all means i>e up by lour. Here, take
! my alarm-w atch and hang it up fry your bedside.
I Be up sir, in good season.’
‘“Yes, sir,’ answered Tom, though in no
! willing tone.
‘‘When we went to bed a tremendous snow
i storm was beginning to rage and howl without.
I The cold was extreme, and the wind a furious
i north-easter, I soon forgot the storm and sank
into a peaceful slumber with the agreeable ex
pectation of lying as long as 1 chose in the mor
ning. In an incredibly short lime; as it seem
ed, so profound were our slumbers; ‘Tom and
I were aroused by the alarm-watch, one —two
——three—four! Could it be morning?
“ ‘R’s time to get up, Tom,’ said I shaking
; his arm.
‘“Get up, then,’he growled roughly.
“‘But I am sick, Tom; and you remember
| what Mr. Simpson said.’
j “No—'Porn was not to he roused, IJe was
! not going to get up such a stormy morning, so
early--not lie ! He was i#ot going to do it for
.Mr. Simpson, nor for me, nor for anybody else
—not lie! He was not going to get up, il
he never did any more work !
‘•How many are like Torn, when a demand
is made upon them for a little extra effort. No!
they are not going to work so—not they!
“Now it was evident somebody must get up;
and il must be, certainly, one of us. 1 felt I had
a right to sleep the night out that time. Be
sides, I feared it might he hazardous to get up,
for I was in a profuse perspiration, and the
storm was raging violently. But invown per
sonal considerations had no more effect upon
my bedfellow than his master’s command.
“ XV’ell, it must be done. .Make up your mind
to do it, and then do it courageously, thought I.
Out of bed I jumped, dressed myself rapidly,
without suffering myself to regret the snug,
warm quarters I had left. In spite of headache,
sore throat, and cough I went bravely on. I
plowed my way to the office through the drifting
snow, built the tire got every tiling in leadiness
tor the workmen long before they began to ap
pear, Then tying the lantern before me to see
the way, I fought with the snow till I shoveled
a respectable path from the house to the office.
Someone besides myself was up in the house.
Several times he appeared at the window, look
ing arid watching my progress.— While I was
alone in the office, a h<-avy step ascended the
stairs—not John’s, nor Tom’s, nor Mr. Farley’s,
nor Mr. Simpson’s. Lo ! the publisher himself
entered! He! such a rich man! up and seeing
about his business 50 early ! I \yas amazed. Our
office had done much work for him and we all
respected him greatly.
“‘I thought you was the hoy who was not to
cel up this morning, Robert. A stormy morn
ing this, and tough work ya have had of it,’ said
he, eyeing me keenly.
“‘My father always told me, sir, when we
had any work to do, to go forward and do it,
minding nothing about the weather, or anything
else. Only a few drops at a time,’ 1 added to
myself.
“‘Right! right !* exclaimed the publisher with
great spirit. ‘\ r ou have had a training that is
worth something—yes, worth mote to begin
life with than a thousand dollars. I see you
can put your hand to the plow, and not look
back. The great fault with ..young men now-a- j
days is, they are afraid of work. They want
to live easy, while the fact is, we cannot get !
any thing woith having; reputation, property, or i
any gorxl, without working, or striving for it. i
I must keep my eye on you, young man !’
“ Upon what apparently little accidents hang
the well-being ol men ! I say apparently little
chance-like incidents; and yet they are apart of j
the great moral woof into which our habits
weave our destinies. They are themselves the j
result of long trains of influence, and the starting
points of others. So that what many call a
lucky hit, or an unlucky turn, is in fact the true i
result of what the past has wrought out.
‘To some it might have seemed a lucky hit,
that the publisher of aud I, an obscuro ;
apprentice, should have happened to meet just j
as we did, at half past four on a stormy winter’s
morning,in Mr. Simpson’s printing-office; be- j
cause from that tirpe he became my fa6t friend, ■
“At twenty-one I was free, with a good trade
thoroughly learned.
“At twenty-two I was master of two hundred
and ninety dollars.
“At twenty.three a profitable paper and print
ing establishment, in a large neighboring town
was for sale.
“ ‘How much money did you earn last year;
Rolen?* asked the publisher, who contolved to
meet me at this time.
‘“Just two hundred and ninety dollars, sir,
clear.’
‘“Just what I expected. I have bought the
Journal office and furniture, and am going,
to set you up in business. I see that you can
take care of your own, therefore lean safely
trust you with mine. You are not afraid of dif
ficulties.’
“No, it was not a lucky hit or any hit at all,
it by this is meant a chance event. This meet
ing wasthe natural consequence of the busiuesi
habits of the boy.
“And now, when poor Charley Frazer, on
beholding my comfortable home and pleasant
lands the other day, called me a ‘lucky dog, t
and ‘one of fortune’s favorites,’ I would say to
all, as I said to him, ‘Success in life—success
in any department of life—can only come from
and is the legtimate result of, a firm, unfiinch
! ing resolution to work—to work honestly and
industriously : and these habits must be formed
in boyhood, or they will never be well formed
They must be wrought at home.’ ’’
’ Corrrcpiientf.
LETTERS FROM THE XORTU.
New llavex, June 30, 1832.
Dear Doctor: —ln one of my former letters, I
condescended to notice a filthy book entitled Uncle
Tom's Cabin; and the reason why I refer to it now
is, because I wish to expose the bare-faced impudence
of those Abolition Booksellers who asserted that its
circulation was ‘without a parallel,’ by enlightening
them on the following important fact, namely, that the
first editnn of the work, entitled ‘ The North and the
South, by the senior editor of the Southern Press,
amounted to no less than three hundred thousand co
pies. But what a manifest difference between tho
two works ! The one is a relation of solemn facts —
the other is an Aboliiion fabrication of the kasesi
lice —-gotten up expressly for the purpose of debasing
the minds of the rising generation. The lantern-jawed
mothers of this whole region—those effeminate crea
tures, (compounds of consumption and mental inanity,)
inculcate the utility of the reading of it to all their
young daughters, as being only second to that of read
ing the Holy Bible. So, in order to secure the atten
tion of the children, (old boys as well as young girls,)
the publishers have gotten up a large wooden cut
presenting a Negro's Lig lint —reminding one of the
Log Cabins gotten op, by the Whigs, in the palmy
days of ‘ Tipecanoe and Tyler loo' —which is para
ded before nil the doors of the stores in which the hpok;
is kept for sale.
It is posilively asserted here, by the retailers cf tins
book, and that, too, with a chuckling gusto which
■ would have caused the fire of heartfelt shame to man
tle in the cheeks of Benedict Arnold, (even to the
’ creating of sea-sickness in the healthy stomach of a
! ‘nigger trench,') that there have been, already, seten
i teen thousand copies sold ! ! If this be the fact, it
will show the South, in acts which cannot be mistaken,
! what these people vould do if they could. A pilifui.
fanatical hypocrite come up to me, she other day, in
the street, and, with an obsequious grunt which told
| that he was not only a hog in body, bat also in soul,
; requested me to tell him, ‘ candidly , what proportion
1 of the negroes in South 1 considered absolutely happy?’
; This he had the brazen impudence to do with a de
■ ceitful smile which would have pul to shame that which
; damned the face of Judas when he sold his Lord for
thirty pieces of silver. ‘Happy /’ asked I. What
jdo you mean by happiness ? Were you ever happy
yourself? Did you ever any body here , in this
j North, that you considered happy ? Did any bodv
| here, in this North, ever tell you that he had ever seeq
I a moment's happiness in the whole course of his life?
! By this time the old su9kqr had begun to look the
j agony that he felt,
‘Happy V said Jto liyn again. Ls yon should ever
meet with any while man here in the North, with even
| as much as a clever-sized nigger’s soul in his body, who
| possesses to be any thing like a happy person, send
j him to me, and the devil, to whom you belong, may
have you, freely, for the impertinence of your question.
With this rather blistering salutation, the old nig
■ ger stealer left me. I guess, as the Yankees say here,
: ihat lie will never pester me again.
The following very pretty little poem I cut from The
Lantern, a farcical extravaganza published in New
| York, nos °ply as a captivating jeu d’ esprit , bet lo’
show you with what ingenuity some people can steal
—all the difficulty about it being the almost inevitable
necessity of being discovered by the right owner. J
will first quote the poerr, then show you where the au
thor got his ideas :
SUMMER FRIENDS.-
As the bee is to the flower,
In the honey-laden bower,
To each leaflet, in the grove.
Humming gentle songs of lore ,
Pausing only in his flight.
Where the treasure cup is bright ,•
All unwilling to depart,
Till he’s reached the very heart,
Sucking ever while he sings
Life from, the insensate things.
As the bee is to the flower,
In the honey-laden bower,
Are summer friends.
As the shadow to the boat.
On a changeful Jake afloat,
TV hen the lake is in repose,
Like a second boat it shows;
And all fortune elevates
O’er the surface, imitates
But a ripple on its breast,
Shadow trembles with unrest;
And when fiercer storms abound,
Can no longer there bo found.
As the shadow to the boat,
On a changeful lake afloat,
Are summer friends,
I f you will examine the baok number of tITe HI
volume of the Boston Museum, you will find a poem
of mine entitled Invocation to Spring , containing the
following lines:
The golden humming bird,
At jnterral, among the blossoms, flits,
Chirping, as soft its lulling wings are heard—
Swift darting—glinting buck the sun in fits—
Humming caresses to each flower it meets,
While rifling it of all its odorous sweets.
Observe the similarity in the italicized lines. Read
the following verse, and see if the same tiling oanrot
he discovered:
’The green blades of the gras*
Lean over on the margin of the brook,
And on themselves, beneath , in its clear glass,
Shadowed, at noontide , ecer tireless, look;
While their green banks above, whereon they grate,
Seem resting on their images below.’
Close shaving this —something like the trouble si-
NO. 14.