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m LIBRARY
cfpj? oi)t’or(]m ArrttftiuVr.
• t ‘"•■ ‘ - ‘ • ‘ ■ ‘ . + ■*’ “ /•
JOAN H. SEALS, Editor and Proprietor.
babies’ Jkprlment
Bryan, Editress.
“Rena’’ gives our Crusader a warm and grace
ful welcomed Atlanta. It is quite as accepta
ble and gratifying as if she had not already
greeted u&tt propria persona. *
Man, when secluded from society, is not'a
more solitary being than the woman who leaves
the her own sex to invade the privileges
of others. She seems, in such circumstances,
like one in banishment; she appears like a neu
tral being between the sexes ; and though she
may have the admiration of both, she finds true
happiness from neither.
The mind of man being very narrow, and so
slow in making acquaintance with things, and
taking in new truths, that no one man i*capable,
in a longer life than ours, to know all
truths; it becomes our prudence, in our search
after knowledge, to employ our thoughts about
fundamental and material questions, carefully
avoiding those that are trifling, and not suffering
ourselves diverted from our main even pur
pose by those that are merely individual.
BROWN & CO’S. GOLD PEN.
Most ladies find it difficult to procure gold
pens with points soft enough andjfine enough to
suit their delicate chirography. We ourselves,
after many trials of these, had returned to the
less durable steel pen and old-fashioned “grey
goose quillbut a few days since, the gentle
manly agent of Brown’s Gold Pen Manufactory,
in New York, presented us with a pen, which has
suited us so admirably that we have no hesita
tion in recommending it to all. Address Brown
& Cos. Broadway New York. *
The last number of the Bainbridge Argus con
tains the Valedictory of Miss Annie R. Blount,
its Assistant Editress. She will be associated
this present year with Mr. Blackburn, of the
Lumpkin Palladium. Miss Blount has already
or herself considerable reputation as a
chaste and prolific writer, and we congratulate
the proprietor of the Palladium on having secured
her services. Our warm-hearted friend, Mr. Rus
sell, of the Argus , gives a kindly and touching
farewell to his fair Associate. His paper will re
commence with its new volume on next March.
-We wisjihim the success he so well deserves. *
God alone is creative. Man may combine, but J
he cannot create, either ideally or substantially.
All the forms of beauty and grandeur that rise
beneath his hand are but combinations and mod
ifications. Human genius has reared the pyra
mids and the Coliseum, and chiseled forms of grace
and beauty from shapeless marble, but neither
genius nor ingenuity can create out of nothing
the merest atom of matter.
Neither can the mind create. Human intellect
can imagine nothing that does not exist. The 1
bolded fancy can build its airy structures only 1
as the eagle does, out of the materials it may col- ‘
lect. It can choose from the elements of beauty 1
or deformity which lie around it, and arrange 1
these into structures beautiful, sublime or gro
tesque. These have been called creations of ’
the term is incorrect. They are com- 1
binations, not creations. * (
CAN’T QUIT IT. 1
This mania for scribbling is rather a dangerous 1
disease. It is a very “ Old Man of the Sea,” 1
when once it takes possession of an unfortunate, 1
refusing 1&> be shaken off and clinging persist- 1
ently to its victim; albeit, under its domination, ‘
his purse grows “smaller by degrees and beau
tifully less,” and his elbows peer independently
from his coat sleeves.
Once be attacked by this “ cacoethes scribendi,”
and your fingers ever afterwards take the St.
Vitus Dance at the sight of a pen, while an ink
as irresistible as a glass of rum to a
tippler.
There is a fascination about the occupation
that renders it impossible to throw it aside.
There seems a little imp forever jogging your
elboflP, crying, “write! write! write! remorse
lessly as the viewless pursuer of Sue’s “ Wan
dering Jew.” But then, authorship has its pecu
liar advantages. “ The pleasure of composi
tion,” about which Bulwer is so enthusiastic, is
not a myth, and an author at the high tide of
inspiration, with his beloved pen between his
fingers, is a bein.'j to be envied.
What does it matter to him, if pork is at a
premium, and poetry below par? He is bliss
fully oblivious of mundane things, elevated
“above the Marthas in these low grounds of sor
row,” as the old Hard Shell preacher in our wire
grass region used to say. *
OUR NEW YEAR’S GIFT.
There were many gifts of elegant bijouturie
in the sunlight of that New Year’s
morning, in the pleasant boudoirs of many stately
homes. There were bracelets clasped upon
rounded arms, and neckerchiefs tied by softfingers
manly throats, and crystal flagons of ex
quisite perfumes placed upon the toilettes of fair
young girl3 ; but her offering was a handfull of
sweet violets, laid upon the page of our open
book.
They were blue as the eyes that smiled on us
through their silken lashes; they were sweet as
the breath of Juue; but there was a spell in their
fragrance —a magic that sent Thought wander
ing back through the lights and shadows of many
New Years, to sit down at the feet of Memory,
and dream of the long-ago when the Mays were ful
lest of bloom and beauty, and the violets were lar
ger, bluer, sweeter than they are now, or ever can
seem again.
Alas ! for the waste fields, with their short,
sVfeet grass, and the young violets, crowding in
the corners of the serpentine fences, and embroi
dering the banks of the central pond. Alas ! for
the 'lime when it was joy enough to weave the
long stems of the violets among the rich braids
of our mothers hair. “Oh le bon temps, que ce
siccle de fer !”
The waste fields are far away, and the childish
feet ihat trod them would make a deeper impress
now, in their velvet turf; there are threads of
silver now in the dark braids of her whose hair
we loved to deck, and even vioiets call up mourn
ful memories from the “ vasty deep” of the soul.
Ah ! our New Year’s gift of winter violets—the”
spell of your fragrance and your beauty has
turned the pages in the book of Memory back to
the bright alphabet of youth, and it is no marvel
that there are drops in your blue cups which are
not of morning dew. *
“ What care I for the men, Sailor ?
lam not their mother ;
/Yell me of my boy, my boy—
* Os him, and of no other.”
You have read that ballad of the lost sailor,
and you have felt that there was the poetry of
truth in the way in which that poor mother
wrestled against despair, with her love, stronger
than death,’ striving to beat dfwn the wild fear
which rose in her heart—fear that almost amoun--
ted ,to certainty;• by her eager questionings of the
returned seAman, and refusing to listen to his
tale of the lost ship, or even to comprehend the
extent of her loss when told that
t’ • - ’ . ’
“ Every man on board went down—
Every man aboard her.”
Still, the mother’s heart clung to its faint hope,
with the desperation of undying love; still the
thin hand clutched the arm of the pitying sailor,
and though there was despair in the wild eyes
that searched his face, yet, the white lips still
uttered their half pleading, half impatient cry,
“ Tell me of my boy, my boy—
Os him, and of no other.” •
It may be that the lost lad was a pure-hearted,
loving boy, who slept in his rude hammock with
his mother’s Bible beneath his head, and her im
age in his dreaming heart; or, it may be that,
wild, reckless, disobedient, he had left her with
a curse upon his lips, impatient of her gentle res
traint.
It mattered not. Had he been a convict, with
the brand of shame upon his brow, and the stain
of blood upon his soul, the grief and love of that
mother would have been the same, and, true to
the instincts of her nature, the same cry would
have gone up from her breaking heart,
“My boy’s my boy to mel”
Oh, the love of a mother—the purest, strongest,
truest feeling under Heaven !
Well may the mother be called God’s repre
sentative ; for his divine love finds its earthly
type in the patient, long suffering, all-forgiving,
all-enduring love of the mother. Not till the
damp mould is lying above the breast that pil
lowed our helpless infancy, can we stand alone
in life. Till then, though friends and fame and
fortune desert us ; though hope and Heaven
itself forsake us, there is a bosom still ready to
receive and shelter us ; an eye still ready to weep
over our misfortunes or our crimes ; a lip that
will not shrink to press itself upon our haggard
brows; that will grow wan and pale with its
constant, patient prayers in our behalf. Friends
may give sneers for smiles, kindred forget the
ties of blood, the wife of your bosom turn from
hearth and home, with all her tenderness changed
to bitterness and scorn ; but, God be thanked!
there is a love—an earthly love—that never can
dim or die; that, slighted though it be; tram
pled under foot in the hurrying bustle of life;
unvisited by the breath of hope; unfed by the
dews of gratitude, still blooms like the desert
flower; still lives and suffers and prays, and
weeps in the lonely night time, and toils in the
dreary day—content to go unrewarded even by
a smile ; to wear deep furrows in the unkissed
cheeks; to go on, patient, uncomplaining, spar
ing all reproaches, save the silent ones of sun
ken eyes and pallid brows and faltering steps.
Oh, the love of a mother ! Not till the pale .
face is hidden away beneath the coffin lid, do we
feel how deep, how self-sacrificing, how divine
has been that devotion, which, amid the allure- j
ments of pleasure and the pursuits of wealth, we
have slighted and neglected. •
A week ago, the last day of the old year looked 1
upon a bloody tragedy, enacted in the streets of !
thiscity. A reckless and desperate man, wrought *
on by passion, took the life of his fellow mortal
without granting him a moment’s warning, and ■
there was blood and vengeance in the eyes of the 1
excited mob that gathered around him, and be- 1
sieged his prison through the night. They thirs- ‘
ted for his life ; their voice was for instant death,
regardless of law and tardy justice, and their :
cry of “ away with him!” drowned all dissenting \
tones. Even the friends of the youthful crimi
nal stood aloof from him, whose hands were 1
recking with innocent blood; and there were 1
tears in gentle eyes through sympathy with the
young Avife thus widowed, and her helpless or
phans, while from many homes there went up
prayers to Heaven in their behalf. But there
were none for the murderer in his cell, and in- i
dignant comments followed the utterance of his i
name. Yet was there not one who, neglected as i
she had been, half forgotten by her only son, in i
his mad pursuit of pleasure, yet, forsook him not j
in his hour of bitterest need ? Miserable, sinful, 1
forsaken and in prison ! What mattered it to I
her? Her woman’s heart was true to its holiest t
trust. God himself had stirred the fountain, 1
whose waters might rest never more. The head, i
now bowed so heavily on his wasted hands, had ]
lain against her heart in its pure, infantile slum- i
bers ; had looked up to her with its sinless eyes *
and lisped her name with its innocent lips. Ah! i
the mark of Cain upon his brow could not efface i
the memory of the kisses she had printed there, i
and guilty though he was, unforgiven by man, ,
hunted, cursed, forsaken, he wa3 still “her boy.” j
By all she had suffered and prayed for him, he t
was dear to her still; and though she could not i
fly to his side and take the erring and repentant i
one to her faithful bosom, she could lie bn her ;
couch of pain and weep and plead for him, that ,
the crime, unpardoned by man, might be for- i
given in Heaven. * \
[COMMUNICATED. J j
TO THE GEORGIA TEMPERANCE CRUSADER. (
Welcome, most welcome to our hearts and our (
homes,
Noble Crusader! We greet thee with song; 1
And not sad the strain w e would tremble for thee. ]
But a glad and joyous note we’ll prolong. }
Oh ! yes; we would greet thy pages, all glowing ‘
With the rich gems of thought and truth so <
pure; ]
And we fain would twine thee, a lovely wreath
gleaming, ‘
With the hues.of bright crimson, white and i
soft blue, .
That illumine thy banner, far floating in light,
As the pinions of some proud bird on high; *
And a pale white star gleams amid the soft folds.
Like a silvery radiance in the .blue sky.
’Tis the star of Temperance, hail! all hail!
To greet its soft beams in concert we’ll sing;
Oh! may its pure light ne’er be shadowed with
tears.
But smiles of sweet jov to our every heart bring.
May the forces you march against King Alcohol,
In one firm phalanx invade his domain,
Till brave, strong arms and fraternal kind hearts
Shall free our fair earth of the fiend’s dark
stain.
Oh! may kind Heaven e’er sustain the “good
cause,”
That chases away the orphan’s sad tears;
That bringsglad sunbeams to the inebriate’s dark
*home,
And brightly dispels the mother s fond fears.
The hands that wield the pen tor thy pages,
We know will sustain thy worth and thy truth;
Oh! may their lifeway e’er be circled with joy,
Happy and free as the glad dreams of youth.
May the muses guard well their “ sanctum sanc
torum,
And round it entwine their garlands so fair;
May their drawer be filled with rolls of bank bills,
From good subscribers during the year.
And oh! Crusader, there is one who presides
Over thy pages, for which we doth sing;
And no pen can e’er paint, no tongue can e’er tell,
What joy to my heart her presence will bring.
Yet welcome, most welcome,again wegreetthee,
Noble Crusader! Oh! kind be thy fate,
And may’st thou e’er find a band of true hearts
In our own Steam-City of the Empire State.
Atlanta, Go.. R*na.
FOB THE CULTURE OF TRUTH, MORALITY AND LITERARYEXCELLENCE.
THE VICTIM OF MESMERISM. |
’ BY !UIT K. BRYAN
“We have read a chapter from the book of
Stars,” said Pierre, as they descended the wind
ing stairway ot the observatory. “What say
you, shall we go in and try the laboratory? The
new gaj is ready for your experiments ; or will
you recreate a little with a few pages of Hum
boldt ?”
“Nay,” said young Thorndale; “the night is
delicious, and the moonlight falls soft as on my
own native islands. Let us sit here, beneath the
trembling shadows of this willow. I had rather
hear you talk than read Humboldt or Plato, for
there is a fascination in your voice, my master,
and your words carry my soul away, whither
they will. I marvel not that the people call you
so eloquent.”
The smile that flitted over the dark face of the
Professor was tinged with bitterness.
“ It is not my eloquence that excites their en
thusiasm,” he said, “ but ftiy indifference. Ido
not care to please them, and they know it. It is
one of human nature’s singular perversities, to
frown at those who woo its favor, and adore
those who are indifferent to its smiles. They
will throw laurels at your feet, if they see you
only trample upon them. Bat you will learn this
in good time, boy. Listen to that whippoorwill 1%
What does it say to you, Bayle ?”
“There is a delicious sadness in its voice that
is suited to the night. It is a tale of love, half
sorrowful, but very sweet. Does it not seem so,
sir ?”
“It is the shriek of a haunting, upbraiding
spirit. It is full of concentrated agony, as the
asp’s fang is of poison, and there is a bitter threat
in its cry. God! boy, what memories it calls
up I”
“ Heavens, sir, how you tremble! Will you
go in ? Will you lean on me till you are better ?”
“Tut! it is nothing—nothing but a momentary
weakness. That bird’s cry jarred upon a pain
ful chord of memory. Sit down, Bayle. I must
talk to you to night as I never have done before.
It is my duty, and I will not shrink from it. You
spoke just now of my power to fascinate, and I
half denied it; but it is true. Would to God
that it were not! It has been the bane of my
life. lam one of the few to whom are given the
power to magnetise, to attract and absorb the
wills—aye, the very souls of others. The secret
of this strange influence has never been explained.
It is not love ; it is not fear; it is something more
subtle than either. It is an electric power that
pervades the voice—the movements —the touch,
and concentrates itself iu the eye. I knew that
I possessed this power, and there was a time
when its exercise grew into a passion. I threw
aside all studies for this betvilderingly beautiful
one of the human soul. Physical anatomy was
trite; it was the mysterious essence of life, that I
songht to dissect. I had studied all that is known
of science; but it was not enough to examine
man as a beautiful work of art—a temple, perfect
in all its parts; but I must penetrate into the
holy of holies—the inner slirine, which Divinity
has darkly veiled, and in whoso sacred solitude
is burning the perfumed taper of life, lit by the
breath of God himself.
Enough : I went to Germany, and for ten years
was a student of Mesmerism, of Psychology and
all those sciences that deal with the soul’s mys
teries. I investigated all the phenomena of clair
voyance and of so called ‘spiritualism,’ and 1 tell
you now that their secret is the power of one
soul over another—the influence of spirit upon
spirit, and upon material substance. You have
heard me lecture upon this, and yon can recall
what I said; but I dared not tell all I believed
and knew of the soul’s unimagined powers. I
should be scoffed at, as my predecessors have
been ; as were the discoverers of steam, of elec
tricity and of magnetism. The time is yet to
come when man shall be convinced that this sub
tle essence called the soul, has a strength that is
akin to that of electricity, but is more powerful
in its influence over matter and spirit.
But this is not to the purpose. I have said
that I gave myself up to those infatuatiag stu
dies that treat of Spiritual Magnetism. It was a
comparatively new field, and its very mystery
and occultness were alluring. But it is a dan
gerous thing to trifle with the holy secrets of our
human microcosm. It is assuming the preroga
tive of God, and it is profanation to seek to wield
an influence over the soul of another, exeept for
high and holy purposes. It is dangerous for
ignorance to tamper with the fiery, electric fluid ;
how much more so, then, for it to experiment
recklessly upon the more subtle and powerful
spiritual essence 1 I made many experiments in
the science, and met with a success that dazzled
me. But I found it difficult to obtain subjects
upon which to operate. Scarcely, by bribes,
could I induce even the wretched mendicants and
rag pickers of Schwartzburg, to consent that I .
should operate upon them, so averse is even the ]
most abject of human creatu. - e3 to relinquishing
their individuality. Indeed, the city was rid of
several of its worst nuisances, by their running ■
away to escape a second course of experiments. (
Once having got their will under my control, (
fhere was no escape for them but in flight. At
last I found a little German girl, scarcely more ,
than seven years old, with mild, beseeching eyes, (
and the gentlest face I ever saw. I bought her ,
of her beggar mother, and used her for experi-
mental purposes. I operated upon her daily, and ,
I soon possessed her soul, as confidently as I did ,
my own. I have kept her asleep for hours, with i
her little hands folded upon her breast, watching ;
over her, gratifying my love of power by noting
how the slightest movement of mine would make
the pale lips flutter with returning life, and then
an effort of my will would cause the awakening
spirit to shrink back to its nest. She submitted
to all these experiments with the docility of a 1
lamb, but there was an appealing look in her ‘
eyes that stung my conscience for a moment; but 1
it was soon quieted by the anodyne, that I was 1
perfecting a glorious science, destined to sup
plant all others.
But my little German subject was too weak
and mediocre to satisfy my ambition. The little
soul was frail and small as the delicate body.
She was very pale, and she faded like a lily, sha
ded from the light. Finally she died. The phys
ician reported it a case of dropsy of the brain;
but Bayle, that child’s mournful, imploring eyes
haunted my dreams for years.
After that, I left Germany and returned to my
native land. In New York, I went for curiosity’s
sake into gay society, and my power of magne
tising—fascinating, as you term it—could have
made me a second Lothario ; but I did not as
pire to the distinction of a lady-killer. Hearts
were bat paltry game; souls were what I sought
to possess, and I could find but few of that
strong, yet delieate organization I desired.
One night I attended a private musical soiree,
and on entering the salon, I stood, spell-bound,
by a voice that rose from behind the ingeniously
woven screen of vines and flowers, arranged on
the temporary stage before me. It was a con
tralto of such wonderful purity and delicacy, that
Atlanta, Georgia, January 7, 1859.
it etherialized every thought and filled the room
with melody, soft and tranquilising as summer
’ moonlight. At once 1 recognized the charm of
a superior soul in that voice, though the face of
the singer was not distinguishable behind the
net-work of flowering vines, that permitted only
a glimpse of the flowing white drapery and the
glow of golden hair, reminding one of the caged
Peris of Persian story.
Later in the night, I saw her and instinctively
recognised her as the cantatrice that had so
charmed my senses. Voice and face correspon
ded. Both had the same elevated expression;
both possessed all of woman’s purity and refine
ment. Her face was fair as any water-lily, save
where the vermillion of her small mouth contras
ted with the colorless cheek, while the long,
bright hair fell around it in a shining shower,
encircling that fair head with a golden halo, like
those we see in the pictured saints of Correggio.
I do not think her features were regular, or that
others called her beautiful; nor was her beauty
the magnet that drew me within her sphere; but
it was the spirit that shone like light through a
cloud, from every lineament of her face, lighting
the depths of her fathomless eyes, and sitting en
throned upon her brow. Before I left the salon,
I had mentally determined that she should be
mine, body and soul. But it was no easy task.
I could scarcely approach her, through the at
mosphere of purity that encircled her, like the
halo round the maiden moon. Her nature in
stinctively opposed itself to mine, and her clear,
candid eyes read my own, till I shrank from
their searching glance.
But I won her at last. Her heart at least was
mine, and I deemed that I held the ruby key to
the temple of Eleusian mysteries ; but for once I
had miscalculated. I could gain no ascendency
over that perfectly balanced mind. My wife
though she was, and surrendering, as she did,
her pure heart unreservedly to my keeping, yet,
there hung between my soul and hers that veil
of reserve which is ordained by God himself. I
had no right to force my way into that inner sanc
tuary. Every individual soul has its secrets be
tween itself and its God—secrets which should
be held sacred, even from those admitted to the
closest confidences of life.
A consciousness of its separate and indepen
dent existence is the crowning glory of humanity.
Take this away', and you unthrone the monarch
man, and degrade him almost to a level with the
brute. Nothing can be more humiliating to a
proud, self-sufficient nature; and yet, to do this
is the province of mesmerism.
But so infatuated was I with my dream df
power, that I gave not a thought to this. I
was piqued at the quiet firmness with which
Blanche resisted my subtle endeavors to gain the
mystery’ of her will, (seeming all the time, with
a woman’s ready tact, as though unconscious of
my motive,) and I resolved that this spirit, so
strong in its upholding principles and its senso
of right, should yield to mine.
I determined to remove her from all influences
that could counteract my own. I had studied
woman’s nature, and I knew that, take a woman
—any woman—away from society, friends and
social tie#, and let her know that you alone are
to be her all—her world, and if you are not a
very devil, her yearning, loving heart will pour
all its rich ointment of affection at your feet, be
cause deprived of other outlets for its overflow
ing tenderness.
So I went abroad to find a solitary nest for the
bird I wished to tame, and after some wandering
I found it. There is a small, uninhabited island
off the jpast of Florida—a waste of sands and
moaning pines, the property ot a Frenchman, of
whom I found no difficulty in purchasing it.
There was a single house upon the eastern coast
—an old, rambling building, in the quaint, French
style of pointed rooffs and cables, dark and wea
ther-stained, with fungous vegetation growing
from the crevices, and madeira vines matted
around the porch. A few stunted cedars were
grouped around it, but in front stretched the des
olate waste of sand and sea, whose monotony
was unbroken, save by the passing wing of a sol
itary bird, or the fragments of old wrecks that
had been driven ashore.
Nothing but the pencil of Rembrandt could’
give you an idea of the dreary wildness of that
scene; yet stay, a poet has somewhere faintly
limned it
‘ A salt, green sea, half locked in bars of sand,
Left on the shore, that hears all night
The plunging waves draw backward from the
land
Their moon-led watery white.’
And this was the bridal home of Blanche. To
this lonely, sea-girt cage I carried my prisoned
bird
Besides ourselves, there was but a single hu
man being upon the island—a hideous old ne
gress, who spoke an unintelligible gibberish, and
moved about her household tasks like a resusci
tated mummy performing its ghoul-like rites.
Not even Blanche’s cheering presence could
bring sunshine to that gloomy place. The damp
caused the strings of her harp to snap asunder,
one by one, with a sad, ominous sound; the
mould gathered on the rich bindings of her fa
vorite books, and soon, even upon her , solitude
and melancholy surroundings wrought their
usual effect. They destroyed the healthful equi
poise of her mind, and gave it a morbid tendency.
Social intercourse is to the human organization
what air and sunshine are to the vegetable.
Shut out this, and sickly fancies and pale super
stitions will spring like fungi in damp cellars, and
attain a most unnatural growth.
When once the delicate balance of her mind
Was gone, I found no difficulty in obtaining the
desired influence over my wife. I soon had in
my power a soul almost as strong as my own,
and far more refined and elevated, and I revelled
in the intoxication of conscious power. Kingly
tyrants might command the body : my dominion
was over the spirit. I myself up unreser
vedly to this analysis of the human soul. The
experiments I made in mesmerism and spiritual
magnetism would fill volumes and startle the
world, were they published. The mesmeric phe
nomena related by Gassendi, by the Bishop of
Bordeaux and all who have written upon this
subject were but commonplace occurrences, com
pared to those I witnessed in that lonely house.
Frequently I piolonged my wife’s slumbers for
days, noting every change wrought in the body
by the returning spirit. I carried her soul through
the classic scenes of the East—among which I
had wandered, but which she had never seen —■
and enjoyed with keen delight her eloquent and
accurate description of their loveliness. I caused
her to read, with closed eyes, books placed at
the back of her head, as (lid the famous Rachael
of Springfield. I made her translate foreign
tongues, copy old inscriptions from ancient mon
uments, and paint pictures from originals which
I had seen hanging in the Louvre, or the Vati
can, whither I sent her passive mind. Once I
sent her spirit to listen to the chant of the nuns
in the convent at Madeira, and folding her hands
upon her breast, she repeated the solemn Te De-
um, in her own voice, of more than mortal sweet
ness.
She was my willing slave, body and soul, as I
had sworn she should be. In searching for the
secret of its fragrance, I had torn away, one by
one, the petals of the beautiful rose, even Us
“most curled and hidden leaf,” and laid bare the
golden heart, the seat of the subtle perfume, that
only evaporated when its shrine was thus pro
faned.
All the sacred mysteries of my victim’s life
were searched for with eagerness and revealed
to my sight; even the holy secret that had
been closely folded in her soul’s innermost cham
ber, and embalmed in pure and pious memories.
She had loved in early girlhood, and been forced
to sacrifice that love to duty; but its remem
brance lingered still, hanging, a veiled picture, in
the shrine whose privacy I had invaded.
Her soul knew no solitude—no secresy. You
can faintly conjecture how humiliating this was
to a nature so exquisitely delicate and sensitive;
with such a high sense of its own individuality
and independence. She uttered no complaint;
she urged no objection to my experimenting upon
her, but whenever I approached her, there came
into her eyes that look of helpless feat and en
treaty that we see in animals who are afraid of
us and crouch at our coming. Gradually, she
became a wreck of her former self. The look of
conscious intellectual strength that had enthron
ed itself upon her brow was gone ; the serenity
of smile and voice and manner had given place
to a nervous excitability. Physicians may tell
you what they please about the tranquilising in
fluence of mesmerism and its value as a quietus,
but it is untrue. It may soothe for a time, and
lull into unnatural quiet, but it is like pressure
upon a spring, and the reaction will be sure to
follow.
And now there was apparent in my wife the
phenomenon which I have observed to be one
invariable result of a continued course of mes
meric experiments—that of somnambulism. I
had remarked it in the case of my little German
Whilhelmine, and in that of a young girl of par
tially deranged intellect, whose malady my fel
low-student, Wolfgang, had attempted to cure by
mesmerism, but which soou ended in hopeless
insanity. Often, when awaking at midnight, I
found Blanche sitting beside the table —her pale
face rendered more pallid by her white night
dress—sketching or writing with closed eyes and
outer senses, fast locked in sleep; or I would miss
her from the room, and going down to the sea
shore, find her standing there, motionless as a
statue, with folded arms and loosened hair, the
sobbing surf breaking at her naked feet, and the
night wind fluttering her snowy garments. At
such times I would lead her quietly back, and if
she chanced to waken from her sleep, she would
express no surprise, but would bury’ her head in
the pillow and moan softly to herself, like a
heart-broken child. And I saw all this ; I loved
her with all the affection that could exist in a
nature whose faculties were all absorbed in a
single purpose, and yet I did not relinquish my
design. You think me a demon, Bayle; you
think my crime past all forgiveness.”
“ You were mad, Sir ; you were a monoma
niac—you must have bee*.”
“ I know’ it, boy, and I will suffer you to tell
me so this once, but never again; mind, never
again.
It was a monomania that possessed me, and
I had no power to struggle against it. So ab
so-bed was I, that I scarcely noticed the altera
tion in my wife, and I resolutely shut my mind
against the belief that it was my constant and
reckless experiments that had effected the change.
But the end came. She died —died in a mesmeric
sleep , Bayle. The poor, weary soul which I had
hunted, tortured, imprisoned within the steel-like
bars of my will, had at length escaped me. It
was free at last.
I would not believe that it was death, despite
the increasing coldness of the hands that lay so
heavily in mine. I bent over to listen for-the
beating of the hushed heart; I laid a curl of her
own flossy hair upon her lips and saw that it
stirred not with the breath of the soul that had
escaped me. I started back in horror, and at
that moment the piercing shriek of a whippoor
will—the first I had heard on the island—smote
upon my heart like the agonised cry of a wronged
and upbraiding spirit. Too late I woke from my
long trance, and knew that my wife was dead,
and that I had been her murderer. God in Hea
ven, boy, may you never know the concentrated
agony of remorse and despair that seared my
soul in that hour! I cursed, I raved, I prayed
with reckless blasphemy.
I would have given the dominion of the world
to call back breath to those pale lips, if only for
one moment, that they might murmur a single
word of forgiveness. But it was too late I too
late! * * * *
At length a faint hope dawned upon my des
pair. I had read of the power of mesmerism to
restore life to those apparently dead, and this
remembrance inspired me with a sudden resolve.
All that night, with the stormy winds and waves
mocking my anguish, I worked with the energy
of desperation, striding, by every means in my
power, to lure the soul back to the tenement it
had left. Near the last watch of the night, my
heart stood still, for a change came over the face
of the dead. There was no movement, no twich
ing of its muscles, but a shadow seemed to pass
over the placid features, darkening, as I looked,
into an expression of such unearthly terror and
agony, that I involuntarily hid my face in my
trembling hands. When I looked up, the features
had resumed their marble tranquility, and no af
ter effort could disturb the rigidness of death.
I buried her on the sandy shore of that deso
late island, and ever since I have been a haunted
man—haunted by a remembrance that will never
leave me; that rankles in my breast like a poi
soned dagger; that leaves me no peace, no rest;
that shrieks in my dreams; that walks with me
like a shadow in my daily avocations of business
or pleasure, and tints the gold of my sunshine
with the sickly hue of blood. Yet, I complain
not, for the retribution is just. God takes into
his own hands those crimes of which human jus
tice is not cognizant, and the guilty must sub
mit. Do you know why I have humiliated myself
to tell this to you, Bayle?”
“I partly guess it, Sir.”
“ Aye, I know you do by your trembling hand.
It is because that fatal mania has not left me yet
Struggle as I may, it comes over me at times, and
I find myself irresistibly longing to try my old
power over men. You have been strongly drawn
to me, Bayle, and I—yes, I will acknowledge it—
I have been strongly tempted to test my power
over you-; I have forced myself to make this rev
elation to you, that jwu may aid mo in subduing
this wretched desire; that, if necessary, you may
put yourself beyond my influence. Leave me, if
you will, to my desolate loneliness of heart, but
do not say that you pity me. I have borne my
sufferings alone and silently thus long, and I ask
pity of non* but God.”
New Series, Volume IV— Old Series, Volume XXV. No. 2
JOSIAH'S CHRISTMAS ADVENTURES.
BY MARY S. BRYAN.
Old Tony Snaps, a chum of mine—
A famous whisky-seller,
Who has a sign above his door,
In letters painted yellow,
And carries a plainer one beside,
In red upon his smeller,
Is a rare chap to “put you through—”
In short, a clever fellow;
But if I get from out this box,
I mean to thrash him neatly,
For on last Christmas-day, you see,
He took me in completely.
I’d rigged me in a bran new suit,
That took a half year’s wages,
Anri felt as grand as any lord,
Who has a dozen pages.
My boots and hair were slick as grease,
And shone like new mahog’ny.
And down my vest I’d poured, I guess,
A pint of rale cologny.
Says 1, a lookin’ in the glass:
“I think you’ll do, Josiah ;
So, take a turn or two, old chap,
And go to see Maria.”
And when I stepped into the street,
1 guess I did look flashy
A walkin’ down through Tatersville
A twirlin’ my mustashy.
The little boys began to star# —
I only stepped the higher,
And went into a store to buy
A breastpin for Maria.
I knew that lady of my heart
Was ’spectin’ me to dinner;
I knew the way I was got up
Would never fail to win her;
But now, alas! she’s lost to me,
And I’m a ruined body,
And all along of Tony Snaps
And his plagued whisky-toddy.
Says Tony, with his smile and bow:
“Step in awhile, old iellow;
Just take a little warming sip
Os something nice and mellow ;
’Twill loose your tongue, thaw your blood
And make your eyes look brighter.”
Says I: “I guess I will; just so
It doesn’t make me tighter.”
“No fear of that,” says he again ;
“I’d like to see the body
Whose brain would turn with just a sip
Os harmless whisky-toddy.”
And so I sipped and talked and sipped,
And Tony praised my trowsers,
And said my coat was just the thing,
My vest and boots were rousers ;
And Tony poured the flattery on,
And I kept on a sippin’,
Until the jugs began to dance,
The bottles took to tippin’,
And then I thought ’twas time to go,
But as I turned the corner
I heard them little scamps of boys
A cryin’, “He’s a goner!”
I braced myself and tried to walk
Just perpendicularly;
But still the houses waltzed around ;
I couldn’t see quite clearly;
It was an orful sight of time
Before I reached the Deacon’s;
I knocked, and as my knees felt bad.
(The walk, you see, was weaknin’)
I took a graceful attitude
Against the door-sill handy,
And felt to see if I had lost
The breastpin or the candy.
And presently I heard a step
That set my heart afire ;
1 knew, before I raised my eyes,
That it was my Maria;
And though I couldn’t see her well,
I knew that she was smilin’,
And that stirred my aftectyons up
Quite to the point of bilin’.
I thought I’d kiss those smiling lips,
And then I’d softly tell her
She was the prettiest girl on earth,
And I the happiest fellow.
I throwed my arms around her neck,
I kissed her long and loudly,
And vowed I knew old Jimmy Buck,
Had never felt so proudly.
I must have borne down rather hard,
For down we come a sprawlin’,
Her hoops a crackin’ in the smash,
And she a loudly bawlin’.
I heard a scufflin’ ot feet—
I looked, and great Jeddiah !
There stood my rival, Simon Snooks,
Supportin’ of Maria.
I gazed around in mute amaze—
Looked down and saw, Oh, Lordy!
I’d made the orfuilest mistake
Along of whisky-toddy.
’Twas fat, old lady Brown I’d kissed,
A good three hundred pounder;
No wonder that my arms had met
But just half-way around her!
And there she lay, her hoops a wreck,
And she herself a squallin’ ;
Snooks with his arms around Maria, .
A keepin’ her from failin’.
I swooned away and knew no more,
Until this mormn’ early;
I waked up in the calaboose
A feelin’ sad and surly,
And just as soon as I get out,
I mean to thrash old Tony,
And then I’ll cut this Tatersville
And go to Californy;
But Oh ! lake warning by my fate—
Take warning everybody,
And don’t you mind the chap that talks
Os harmless whisky-toddy.
Instead ol the initials, heretofore affixed to our
editorials, a star will be used to distinguish them
from selected matter. *
Some of our delicate household plants (which
by the way, are said to be more numerous at the
South than elsewhere,) would do well to peruse
Dr. Wilson’s remarks upon the importance ofex
ercise, and the derangement that takes place in
the system in consequence of neglecting this sine
qua von of health. He enumerates quite an ar
ray of evils attendant upon
“Want of Exercise. —lt weakens and disor
ders the stomach, and thus all healthful supplies
are cut off; it reduces the capacity of the chest,
and thus the blood is not properly vitalized; it
prevents free circulation in the minute vessels,
and thus assimilation and all the vital changes
affected in the capillaries are imperlectly per
formed or suspended; the muscles wither and
lose their strength ; the blood vessels become sol
id chords, and cease to convey the vital fluid;
the brain is torpid, the nerves are unstrung, the
breathing is feeble, the stomach is sluggish, and
universal derangement of the whole animal econ
omy ensues, ending in stagnation or cessation of
motion, which is only another name for death it
self. Life is motion—constant, ceaseless motisn.
Exercise promotes all the vital movements, and
stands in direct antagonism to disease, and that
torpor which merges
Tnlhe deep stillness of that dreamlesss stale
Os sleep that knows no waking joys again.”’
He insists also most strenuously upon the ob
servance of the old fashioned rule, “Early to bed
and early to rise,” so set aside by custom and
imperial fashion, and the ill effects of whose vio
lation are so plainly discernible in the pale cheeks
and worn, jaded appearance ot those who, in pur
suit of pleasure, habituall) turn night into day:
Time for Sleep.—
“This dead of night, this silent hour of darkness’
Nature for rest ordained and soft repose.”
When night spreads her sable curtain, the din
of business is hushed ; the lower animals, obedi
ent to the signal, retire to their grassy couch; a
refreshing coolness pervades theair.and adreamy
stillness rests upon the earth, all—all inviting to
repose. How strange, then, that human beings
should be deaf to this eloquent language ! How
strange that they should pervert the order ot na
ture by converting day into night, nnd night into
day! And yet it is so. With multitudes, night
is not a season of rest for invigorating the mental
and bodily powers, but a time for soul and body
destroying dissipations, and teeming mischiefs
This is the time for fashionable parties, where
in addition to want of rest, the system is poisoned
by impure air, and oppressed by excessive and
mproper food and drinks, while the mind and all
the moral feelings are worked up into a feverish
state of excitement, which re-acts with terrible
effect on the poor, abused and over-burdened phy
sical frame. Can any one believe, for a moment,
that the laws of nature can be thus violated with
impunity? As soon might a feeble woman ex
pect to have the foaming Cataract of Niagara
poured on her head without injury. No! As
surely as God exists, so surely will every viola
tion of physical law be visited with its legetimate
punishment. These laws are written in our
frame by the hand of the Almighty himself, and
they are as fixed and as immutable in their na
ture and consequences as the author of them.
One of these laws is, that night was ordained for
sleep. And let not those who avoid scenes of ex
citement and dissipation, and who yet keep late
hours, flatter themselves that they incur no risk.
In one respect, at least, they subvert the order
of nature, and must suffer accordingly. .Day
sleep will not answer as a substitute for night
bleep. Circumstances may sometimes render it
necessary to make up in the day for unavoidable
loss of rest; yet, this necessity should, as far as
possible, be avoided. The rule is, “Early to bed
and early to rise, &c.
SELECTIONS.
AN INTERESTING MARRIAGE CEREMONY.
A correspondent of the Press, writing from
New York, gives the following interesting ac
count of a marriage between two deaf mutes, cel
ebrated recently in that city:
“ Avery unusual marriage ceremotty took place
on Tuesday morning last, which, for its novelty,
deserves a pleasing note. It was the uniting
in wedlock’s band two deaf mutes —Mr. Trist, of
Philadelphia, son of our special commissioner to
Mexico during the war, and a young lady of Bos
ton. Both were mutes—deaf and dumb from in
fancy. The services of the Episcopal Church
was read by Rev Pierre P. Irving, and translated
into the symbolic language of the dumb by the
Rev. Mr. Gallaudet, the bride and groom repeat
ing and making the responses rapidly, gracefuWy
and with perfect accuracy. A spectator of the
scene describes it as follows:
‘ The solemn vows being symboled before the
Throne of Grace, the Lord’s Prayer followed;
and who can describe the mute eloquence of that
mute prayer so devotionally followed by the
young couple ! When the nuptial benediction
was silently pronounced above the lowly bowed
heads of the kneeling pair, there was that which
spoke louder than words in the graceful sign-lan
guage of the officiating minister. A few letters
—a word or tw# —then the hands upraised to
wards Heaven—to “God,” who had “bound to
gether”—the tight clasped hands—the soul
speaking glance upward, away upward—again a
few words—the hands placed in blessing upon the
heads of the now “man and wife”—a solemn
silence —and all was over. No one moved lor
some moments; we all felt we had caught a
glimpse of the spirit land, and we longed for one
more glance into that silent spirit world. But the
groom was leading his beautiful, graceful bride to
the church door; we have her quiet, happy smile
put away in our memory to gladden some dark
hour. Ere we could utter a fervent “ God bless
you,” they had quietly passed away—alone with
their mute happiness.’ ”
The Newspaper. —ln no other way can so
much, so varied, so useful information be impar
ted, and under circumstances so favorable for
educating the child’s mind, as through a judi
cious, well conducted newspaper.
To live in a village, was once to be shut up
and contracted. But now a man may be a her
mit, and yet a cosmopolite! He may live in a
forest, walking miles to a postoffice, having a
mail but once a week; and yet, he shall be found
as familiar with the living world as the busiest
actor in it. For the newspaper is a spy-glacs by
which he brings near the most distant things—a
microscope by which ho leisurely examines the
most minute—an ear-trumpet by which he col
lects and brings within his hearing, all that is
said and done all over the earth—a museum full
of living pictures of real life, drawn, not on can
vass, but with printer’s ink on paper.
The effect in liberalising and enlarging the
mind of the young, of this weekly commerce with
the world, will be apparent to any one who will
ponder on it. Once, a liberal education could
only be completed by foreign travel. The sons
only of the wealthy could indulge in this costly
benefit. But now the poor man’s son can learn
as much at home as, a hundred years ago, a
gentleman could learn by journeying the world
over. For while there are some advantages in
going into the world, it is the poor man’s privi
lege to have the world come to see him. The
newspaper is a great collector, a great traveller,
a great lecturer. It is the common people’s En
cyclopedia—the lyceum, the college.— H. W.
Beecher.
ONE BRICK UPON ANOTHER.
Edwin was one day looking at a very large
building which they were putting up opposite to
his father’s house. He watched the workmen
from day to day, as they carried up brick and
mortar, and then placed them in their proper or
der. His lather said to him:
“Edwin, you seem to be much taken up with
the bricklayers; pray, what might you be think
ing about ? Have you any notion of learning the
trade?”
“No,” said Edwin, smiling. “But I was just
thinking what a little thing a brick is, and ye f
that great house is built by laying one brick upon
another.” ‘
“Very true, my boy; never forget it. Just so
it is with all great works. All vour learning is
one little lesson added to another. If a man could
walk all round the world, it would be by putting
one foot before the other. Your whole life will
be made up ol one little foment after another.
Drop added to drop makes the ocean.”
Learn from this not to despise little things.
Learn, also, not to be discouraged by great la
bor. The greatest labor becomes easy if divided
into parts. You could not jump over a moun
tain; but step by step takes you to the other side.
Do not fear, therefore, to attempt great things.
Always remember that the whole of the great
building is only one brick upon another.
MEN WITHOUT HEARTS.
We commend this to the attention of all heads
of tamilies:
“We sometimes meet with men who seem to
t hink that any indulgence in an affectionate feel
ing is weakness. They will return from a jour
ney and greet their families with a distant digni
ty, and move among their children with the cold
and lofty splendor of an iceberg, surrounded by
its broken fragments. There is hardly a more
unnatural sight on earth than one of those fami
lies without a heart. A father had better ex
tinguish a boy’s eyes than take away his heart.
Who that has experienced the joys of friendship,
and values sympathy and affection, would not ra
ther lose all that is beautiful in nature’s scenery,
than be robbed of the hidden treasure of his
heart? Cherish, then, your heart’s best affec
tions. Indulge in the warm and gushing emo
tions of filial, paternal and fraternal love.
Some of the western Slates are holding out
great inducements for the “tide of emigration”
to set towards their shoes. Mississippi is ahead
so far as heardfrom, the legislature having passed
a law granting divorces to all parlies who have
lived separate three years.