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-■ ‘■ ■* .’ .;£? * UNIVERSITY OF GEORGIA LIBRARY
JOHN Hi SEALS, Editor and Proprietor.
Haims’ geprtment
Mary E. Bryan, Editress.
The Lumpkin Palladium has come forth like
the moth from Us chrysalis, in a handsome New
Year’s dress, much enlarged and improved, and
with the additional attraction of two more Edi
tors —ladies, at that. Miss Annie Blount pre
sides over the literary, and Mrs. Moore over the
poetical department. A nice little editorial trio 1
*We know Miss Annie of old. She holds the pen
of a ready writer, and we have no doubt she will
succeed in rendering the Palladium interesting
to its patrons. Mrs. Moore, notwithstanding her
nom deplume is familiar, is something of a stran
ger. We welcome her to the fraternity, and to
Mr. Blackburn, the enterprising p-oprietor of the
Palladium , we heartily wish success. *
“ Bhhold what a great fire a little matter kin
dleth!” Miss Townsend, the gifted Associate
of Arthur, in his Home Magazine , received for a
Christmas gift, a little basket of bead-work from
one or two of her numerous young friends. See
what a charming poem the little occurrence
called forth 1
Every bead of that simple gift is strung upon
the silver thread of her exquisite fancies. Do
you not th ink that allusion to the winter ramble
* in the “ gray woods” is very graceful and true to
nature?
MY GIFT.
It came unto me when the summer’s heart
Had poured her lyric out; when on the hills
Woke up the winter’s Epic, and I hailed
The sweet gift with a cry, and watched the light
Throb through its crystal meshes, and strike up
Its pearls to amethyst.
And straight my thoughts went back
Unto that winter’s day, whose pulse was filled
With languors of the April, when we walked
Amid the gray woods, where the moss had heaped
Its beryl cushions thick around the roots
Os the old trees ; and where the pond lay still—
A vase of crystal by young birches hid;
And with what playful shouts we strewed the
leaves
And leaped at sight of some green vine whose
coils were strung with rubies.
Oh! sweet friends, to-day
What would I give to wander back again
And watch the sunlight carve that old pine o’er
With gold and crimson fretting I
Well I know
Your fair hands fashioned this with pleasant
thoughts
Os my surprise; with intermittent breaks
Os merry laughter, as some vision swept
Before you of that time !
God bless you both !
Upon our parlor walls your gift to-day
Makes a sweet picture, and on other walls,
Deep laid, and silent, does that fair urn light
A score of pictures, gentle words and deeds
In my heart’s parlor framed forevermore!
The execution in New York of the boy Rod
gers, for a murder committed while intoxicated,
caused a good deal of discussion in the newspa
pers relative to the justice of inflicting capital
punishment for an offence done while under the
deranging influence of liquor.
Harper takes up the question and gives the
pros and cons in his usual felicitous, easy man
ner. Notwithstanding he politically endeavors
to steer between Scylla and Charybdis, it is very
evident that the kind-hearted “Easy Chair” is on
the side of mercy, though not in favor of its being
extended, indiscriminately, to all offenders who
may plead intoxication as an excuse for their
crimes. Ho says:
“ The privilege of mercy in society is just as
sacred as the necessity of justice. In any case
of criminal eonviction, the inevitable question
will be— 1 Will society be better served by mercy
or justice?’ Generally, you may say the latter
will be the best servant. Os course the offence
of getting drunk is not to excuse the crime of
murder. But you are not to hang a man be
cause he gets drunk; and say what you will, a
drunken man ceases to be a moral agent. You
may say that he does so at his own risk. But
though that be so, it yet lessens the guilt of the
offence.”
We fully sympathise with the feeling that dic
tated the comments that follow upon the brutal
manner of Rodger’s execution—the rope slipping
and he dangling half choked and struggling for
life for a revolting length of time.
“If society must have blood for blood; that is,
if it must take human life, ought it not to take it
in the most solemn and summary manner ?
Could any thing be more repugnant to decency
and judicial solemnity than the scene at Rodger’s
execution? If that were to be repeated, the
common sense of the community would at once
put a stop to hanging.”
It is certainly time that this revolting and de
moralising custom of public executions was abol
ished in all civilised communities. The most
awful duty of society, that of taking life, which
we cannot give, should be performed in the most
solemn, secret and impressive manner, with its
horror heightened by all the fearful auxiliaries of
secresy, mystery and silence. Instead of which,
it is made an exhibition gratis to a curious rab
ble, who crowd around the public scaffold to tor
ture with their unfeeling stare the last moments
of the doomed maD ; to swear and fight and get
drunk and comment, and grow more hardened
by being familiarised with a punishment which,
to be properly feared and dreaded, should have
attached to it the mystery and unspeakable horror
that enveloped the inquisition of old, and ren
dered its very name a thing to chill the blood
with terror. *
PETTING.
Is’nt it astonishing how well these “Lords of
Creation” like being petted and caressed? Not
withstanding their grandeur and their greatness;
their swell and their bluster; their talk about
intellectual superiority and their authoratative
airs, they cannot do without feminine petting.
They want a dear little apron upon which to lay
their magnificent beads, and have their hair
combed and threaded by slender white fingers.
They want a soft arm placed around their necks,
a lip pressed to their contracted brows, and a
sweet voice to say, “ Tell me what has happened,
love,” when they return home, burdened with
the cares of the day. They want somebody to
fuss around them a little when they are sick; to
hover about the bed softly, as though she were
stepping on water lillies, and adjust the coverlet
and Bmooth the pillow and ask, “ Are you doing
nicely now, dear, or shall I bathe your head, or
would you like a warm cup of tea?”
Oh! in spite of all the nonsense they talk
about the “bothering women,” how they do like
such as this! And they will have it, too. If
there is no mother or sister to diffuse an atmos
phere of roses around their daily life, they will
look around for someone nearer and dearer, to
*dd the harmonising treble to the bass of their
existence, and they will get hex—if they can.
Then, when the household divinity is placed in
its accustomed niche ljy the fireside, how her
sweet ministrations are missed when they are de
prived of them for a brief period! How every
thing goes wrong in her absence, and the cloud
she would have chased away, darkens into a
storm, and the newspaper is out of place, the
slippers not to be found, the tea tasteless, the
toast burnt and the servants unbearable —all for
want of the gentle magnetism of a soft hand, of a
sweet voice or ajoving smile.
Ah ! but don’t the “ dear little creatures,” that
you think “ are well enough in their way,” know
how to tame you and rule you T Can’t they coax
you and pet you into any thing they like, and
make believe they are sweetly yielding to your
will, while they are just having their own way ?
But a true woman will use her power well and
wisely, with no law but that of love and womanly
duty. Her refining influence is the leaven of so
ciety. There is a magnetic power in her loving
ministrations, her “ flower soft” hands are worth
all the “Radway’s Reliefs” ever invented for an
aching head, and her presence makes the sun
shine of home and the poetry of man’s otherwise
prosaic existence. *
SABBATH BELLS.
Pbal ! peal! peal 1 How solemnly and sweetly
the bells of the city roll out their liquid notes on
the still Sabbath air,
“ And every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a prayer.”
How many bells in this broad land are sending
up their blended voices to Heaven this tranquil
Sabbath morning! Through quiet villages,
through cheerful towns, through jthe atmos
phere of crowded cities, heavily surcharged with
the breath of living thousands, thrills their sweet
clangor, waking the echoes of the adjacent hills,
and soothing tne listener’s soul like the music of
a lullaby. The air is tremulous with their
prayers, the leaves of the old evergreens that
guard the hallowed sanctuary, tremble to their
undulating sound and the little children in plaid
cloaks and with warmly gloved bands, clasping
the Catechism and Sunday-school Song-book,
pause on their way to listen for a moment to the
chimes that call them to their Sabbath tasks.
Peal! peal! peal! How deep and grand the
chimes, like tjje hoarse anthem of the sea! How
they float up, up through the ambient air, seem
ing to woo the soul to rise with them above
earth and earthly things, into a purer and holier
atmosphere!
Now the streets are filled with the assembling
congregation. Watch them, in their vari-colored
dresses, aq they wind, like a continuous rainbow,
down the streets. There are rustling silks sweep
ing beside the faded garb of decent poverty;
there are waving plumes, fluttering ribbons and
daintily-gloved hands lifting the rich fabrics to
afford a view of the neatly gaitered foot, and the
snow of costly embroidery.
Ah! how many souls among them are follow
ing the ascending sound of those solemn bells,
rising above vanity and envy and malice, on the
wings of prayer and praise ? How many hearts
respond voicelessly to those devotional chimes ?
Are there invisible angels hovering about these,
who go to worship at the sanctuary, fanning with
their pure wings the plumes that float around
those beautiful faces, and setting the thoughts of
the hearts, whose depths they read, to heavenly
music ? It is not for us to judge. God is more
lenient than man. Our judgments are not His,
and perchance, if through the mist of many
worldly thoughts, a single white-winged prayer
ascends with those trembling chimes, it will be
received and cherished in Heaven.
But it is not of this we are thinking now. This
Sabbath sunshine and the holy breath of the
Sabbath air has set us to dreaming of a far-away
church, amid the magnolias and long-leaved
pines of a land we love—a church, old and moss
grown, with green billows of grave mounds ris
ing around it; a white rose bush at each sleep
er’s head, and a mocking bird in the boughs
above to sing to them all the peaceful day. There
is a little band assembled in that church at this
very moment, and though there are no plumes,
no jewels, no dresses, “stiff with costly lavish
ness,” yet, there are true hearts and faces beau
tiful with brotherly kindness and Christian love,
and the “ Old Hundred” hymn, lead by the wea
ther-beaten farmer in his homespun garb, is
richer in feeling and soul melody than the organ
whose flute-like tones lisve succeeded to the
pealing of the bells. No need of bells in that old
country church to call the congregation from
their homes on the neighboring hills. They
came in groups along the winding paths—rosy
little children with handsfull of early violets
gathered by the way—sweet, fair-faced girls in
simple hats or cottage bonnets, with the real
blushes of health and modesty on their cheeks.
All drank from the pitcher filled from the pure
spring at the foot of the hill—all exchanged
kindly greetings and went, like a household of
brothers and sisters, to sit down before the white
haired man, whose voice, sweet, though tremu
lous with age, read the hymn in which all so
earnestly united.
Somehow, in those sweet seasons of holy com
munion, that old church used to seem very near
to Heaven—nearer than the statelier sanes, where
we have knelt since - those blessed hours of purity
and childish faith. But God is everywhere, and
his loving arms are ever reaching down to re
ceive the trembling, fainting prayers that his
frail children send up to His throne. *
Mbs. Hale has the following in her Editor’s
table:
“What Course of Reading is Best for Wo
man ?—A lady has written to us asking our ad
vice as to a course of reading, and particularly
for information as to the otdico pumuod both
by Mrs. Hemans and ourself, to which allusion is
made in ‘ Woman’s Record.’
Without entering into detail on these points,
we would say that it would hardly be well for
one person to make another her exemplar in her
intellectual culture. Minds differ so much that
what would be a subject full of interest to one, is
dry and tedious to another. There are two con
siderations which should guide us in our studieß.
One is the peculiar bias of our own minds, which,
if we notice carefully, will show us the way by
which we may hope to attain the highest degree
of eminence in our power. The other is the de
veloping those powers in which we are deficient.
This is the more difficult course by far. It will
tax the patience and courage and hope of all who
enter upon it. The result will sometimes appear
so inadequate to the effort required, that we
would advise no one who had not the persever
ance and faith of a Cyrus W. Field to undertake
it. Yet, in the end it will bring its reward
Mrs. Hemans loved knowledge for its own
sake, and sought it from every source that came
within her reach. The languages seem to have
been her especial forte. But she read very mis
cellaneously—her history, travels, metaphysics
and all kindred subjects. She pursued no regu
lar course. Method and system were diametri
cally opposed to her nature. Her manner of
study was not so well for mental discipline, but
it gave a breadth and general culture to her intel
lect, everywhere perceptible in her writings.
The beauty and aptness of her illustrations,- her
FOR THE CULTURE OF TRUTH, MORALITY AND LITERARY EXCELLENCE.
.. ... - - ——— —•* ii nifiiiii rufii
power in moulding language into harmony, the
occasional depth ofher thoughts, her knowledge
of history, and the correctness with which she
describes the scenery of foreign lands, all show
her varied reading, as well as the retentiveness of
her memory.
Our own course of study was regulated very
much by the one with whom we pursued it.
The natural sciences, French, and the art of com
position being that to which we especially devo
ted our attention.
The one important thing in mental culture, is
to have some studies of reading, and
pursue it regularly. If doubtful as to a choice,
it is very well to begin with history, which, treat
ing of men and women and their acts, should be
interesting to all the human race. General his
tory should always be read in connection with
the biography of the individual. Then the rfat
*ral sciences come next, showing, as they do, the
marvelous powers of nature, and the infinite wis
dom and love of God. The languages are a very
fascinating study to some; but as, in the acqui
sition of them, ordinary minds are apt to rest sat
isfied with the mere knowledge of the words, we
would not recommend the study of more than
one or two of them at a time, and that in con
nection witn other things.
BREV ITY.
Brhvity is not only the soul of wit, but of
eloquence. Many an admirable poem, essay and
oration has failed of its intended effect, by being
protracted beyond the bounds of ordinary pa
tience. “ Linked sweetness long drawn out” is
delightful only to its manufacturers, who never
weary of hearing themselves declaim, either
orally or “by word of pen,” are apt to forget that
it is not so agreeable to others. Many persons of
fine literary acquirements fail of success in writ
ing or speaking simply by not knowing when to
stop; for the attention of a reader or hearer is
wound up to a certain point, and when it is run
down, all Spurgeon’s fire or Everett’s eloquence
could not elicit the faintest “ tick” of genuine ap
plause.
It is all fudge, wfien certain Editors announce
in their morning paper that “ the celebrated Mis
sionary, Hong Chong, delivered, last evening, a
sermon of three hour’s length on Borraboolah
Gah, to which his large and appreciative congre
gation listened with unflagging and enthusiastic
attention.”
It is all very well to say so, but we are quite
sure that, when those three hours were over,
there could not have been enthusiasm enough
stirred up in the whole “appreciative” congrega
tion to excite a “You don’t say so!” or elicit
from the softer hearted a tear the size of a homo
pathic pill.
It takes an orator of no common abilities to
carry with him the unwavering interest of his
hearers beyond an hour and a-half. Men are un
fortunately human, and if the spirit is willing,
the flesh is apt to be weak. Consequently, the
victim to a threo hour’s harangue will, after the
first hour, find himself, in spite of his efforts to
the contrary, mentally wondering when this elo
quent discourse will end. At the lapse of the
second, he will have counted every bugle on the
bonnet of his neighbor in the front pew, and ceas
ed to be shocked at his ow irreverence in conjec
turing whether,the roast will not be burned to a
cinder before dinner, and at the end of the last
mortal hour, if hfe is not, through the spells of
Morpheus, blissfully oblivious of sizthlies and
tenthlies, he will be in no very Job-like frame of
mind, and greatly tempted to relieve his feeling*
by wishing that the indefatigable orator were
drowned in the sea of his own mellifluous words.
The same observations will apply to literature,
and especially to poetry. We are almost temp
ted to endorse Edgar Poe’s assertion, that a poem
ceases to be one when it cannot be read through
at a sitting.
The honey of Hybla will cloy if too long ad
ministered, and the wings of our finite imagina
tions are too weak to soar any length of time in
the Heaven of the sublime. The grandest thing
Tennyson ever wrote, was his famous poem of
the “ Eagle”—six lines in length, and Milton’s
one-line school poem on Christ’s changing water
into wine, owed its celebrity to the concise ex
pression of a beautiful image—
“ The conscious water saw its God and blushed.”
That is pure and clearly cut as crystal, and can
be readily set in the jeweled zone of Memory.
It is almost a paralel to that other inimitable
poem in one line of Divine conception—
“ God said, Let there be light, and there was light”
Pity it is that Milton did not call a part of his
powers of condensation into play when he poured
forth the “weak, washy, everlasting flood” of
“ Paradise Regained.” *
A GOOD PLAN.
There are several flourishing schools in this
city, the teachers of which all follow, probably,
the long established and excellent rule cf requir
ing weekly compositions from those of their pu
pils capable of writing.
As juvenile essays on the stale subjects of
“home,” “friendship,” “an obedient scholar,”
or the more sentimental themes of “moonlight”
and “flowers,” are apt to weary by their monot
ony, we think it a good plan to diversify the
exercise, by having a variety of articles—such as
poetry, sketches, criticisms, advertisements, etc.
prepared as for a magazine or newspaper. It
renders the duty of composition much less irk
some, and is infinitely more profitable, as the
variety required calls into exercise more versa
tility of talent, and excites interest and enthusi
asm which are the ground-work of success. The
Junior and Senior classes of the Female Institute
of Thomasville, (under the superintendence of
Mrs. Chandler,) edit a manuscript school paper,
whose name we cannot just now remember. It
is really interesting, however, and the girls dis
play a good deal of talent and ingenuity in the
selection of their subjects and the manner of hand
ling them.
They have a little of every thing in the literary
line, from a poem or an essay, down to a puzzle
ora pun. They have letters, purporting to be
written from different parts of the world; short
sketches and stories continued from one week to
another, mostly amusing or moral, obituaries,
anecdotes and so on through the programme. A
very agreeable hour can be spent in listening to
these youthful attempts, many of which would
do credit to older heads.
One of the “contributors”—a dear little friend
of ours, and the sweetest fairy that ever dabbled
in ink—has promised us a short sketch of hers
as a specimen, and you shall have it, just to see
how a little girl of twelve years old has learned
to write.
Such exercises as these are very improving, and
it is important that every young lady should ac
, quire the habit of composing with ease and grace.
Not that they may all become public writers.
Heaven forbid! We have enough of them on
p hand to supply the present demand; but writing
with elegance is a very beautiful accomplishment,
’ and far more important than daubing in water-co
lors or learning to embroider nondescript floweis.
A graceful, picturesque epistolary style is far more
admired than the mediocre proficiency in music
A-tlanta, Greorgia, January 14, 1859.
which so many barely attain; and besides, it is‘
of itself, a great pleasure to be enabled to embody
our ideas in appropriate and elegant language.
CHILDREN S STORY-BOOKS.
How muchof poetry and pathos, of quaint hu
mor and true morality are contained in the little
stories, fairy tales and melodies that are written
for children!
Go to Mr. Kay’s or Mr. Richards’ and turn over
the collection of children’s books, look at the
charmingly designed pictures, (so far superior to
the daubs of a few years back,) and read a few
sentences in each, and, our word for it, you will
be the better for having done so. It will be like
hearing an old cradle sqng, or ramblin'; in green
fields, or picking strawberries with a little girl,
and having her tell you of her bran new kittens
at home. It will recall your youth and brush
away the dust of sordid worldliness that has
gathered over your hearts.
Here are tales your dear mama told you while
she combed your truant curls, or lay beside you
on the little* low bed, where you dreamed the
innocent dreams of childhood ; tales you told old
maumer Letty in return for her wonderful ghost
and “ sperrlt” legends ; stories you rehearsed to
your baby sister when you were given the proud
task of sitting beside her cradle and amusing her
for an hour, and tales that, long afterwards, you
repeated to your own blue-eyed boy when he
clambered upon your knee and plead for a story
from papa.
Here they all are again. “ Puss in boots,”
with its picturesque illustrations —the Tery
quaintest and most piquant of fairy tales; tragi
cal little “ Red Riding Hood,” so familiar to all
who recalljtheir childish lore; Cinderilla, with
her magical wardrobe, her glass slippers and
feet, which have since passed into a proverb ;
“ Babes in the Wood,” with its simple, touching
pathos, that never fails to bring tears into sor
rowful little eyes, and “ Mother Goose”—dear old
“ Mother Goose,” who has “ method in her cack
ling,” or whose songs, at any rate, never fail to
fascinate her youthful audience..
There is more to be gained from these little
blue and pink pamphlets than from the countless
pages of all Sue’s and Dumas’ impossibility
scorning novels. As we said before, more truth
and more poetry. Every one of them has a
pleasant little moral, hid away like a kernel in a
nut shell, and every cherry-lipped “five-year
old” can tell you how much nicer that kernel
tastes, when their tiny fingers are at some pains
to extract it, than when it is thrust upon them
like an ordinary morsel A plain, dry truth
would make but little impression upon the child
ish mind; but throw a garland of fancy around
it, and it will be received and cherished. Give
the pill a coating of honey, or make believe that
it is only a sugar plum, and it will be welcomed
by youthful palates. In this, as in other things,
“the boy is father to the man.” Grown up chil
dren prefer indirect and suggestive teaching, to
being thumped on the head by solid brickbats of
hard, straightforward argument.
We said there was poetry in these children’s
story-books. So there is. The little story of the
“Babes in the Woods,” just now mentioned, is
instinct with the true spirit of poetry—tender
ness, simplicity and- fidelity to nature. None but
a poetic mind could have thought of that last
beautiful idea of Robin Red Breast, covering the
dead little wanderers with forest leaves. Then
there arc dashes of poetic beauty in the “Melo
dies of Mother Goose,” whose nonsense, after all,
is only the nonsense of children, and every body
knows there is often poetry in the prattling of a
child. There is a little nursery rhyme of two
quartains in “ Mother Goose,” which we have
sung and heard sung to babies time out of mind:
“ Rock-a-by baby
On the tree top,
When the wind blows
The cradle will rock;
When the bough breaks
The cradle will fall,
And down will come baby,
Cradle and all.”
Now, (when a child,) we have lain for hours
on the soft mats of wire grass beneath the tall
pines, looking up at the green tasseled boughs so
high above us, and thinking of that nursery song.
What a grand idea it was, to be sure—a baby in
its aerial cradle up among those swaying boughs,
rocked by the winds and watched by the stars!
It is not every excellent author that can write
a good book for children. In fact, no one can
unless he has a heart brimful of warm sympathy
for the little folks, and can enter into all their
quaint fancies and simple feelings.
He must unstilt himself too, and write plainly
and naturally, without redundance of words or
excrescence of ideas. Hawthorne makes a capi
tal writer of juvenile books. His keen, analyti
cal mind has taken pains to search out all the
idosyncracies of the childish intellect. Alice
Neal (Mrs. Haven, I suppose we must call her
now, though to the children, she will never be
anything but “ cousin Alice”) writes charming
stories for the young, but she does not surpass
Grace Greenwood, whose “ History of my Pets”
is the most delightful and loveable little child’s
book we know of. There is a little volume enti
tled “ Stray Waifs from Fairy Land,” which we
took from the hands of our little sister not long
since, and read through at a sitting, that con
tains as brilliant a collection of fairy tales and
pleasant legends as it is possible to find. It is a
perfect string of jewels, with all the Oriental
richness of coloring and delicacy of finish. *
THE OLD HOUSE.
I don’t know what started the impulse, only I
acted on it, at once, and ten minutes later I was
down there at the old, rambling house, where
my life rose into its morning.
I looked at it with something of the feeling
that looked at the grave-stones of those we
have known and loved. The front wore its old
fashioned physiognomy—a little more faded and
stricken with time; but there was the old maple
in the front yard, and the gate where I used to
swing, and the fence that I mounted; but the
peach tree from which I fell, the lilacs and syrin
gas which swung their green censors of perfume
on the winds every June, were all gone.
But the lawn was there, green and smiling
still, with the early summer winds stirring the
soft green grass—the grass through which my
feet had so often pattered in the old, old days,
whose pictures were coming out on the walls of
my heart. I opened the front gate, and wont
round to the side of the house, and there still
was the “ cellar door,” down which I used to
slide on summor afternoons. 1 kept on a little
further, and an old man, with bald head and
wrinkled face, came out of the back door, and
looked at me.
Then I remembered that I had no right or title
to the old house now, albeit for seven years I
played and slept under its roof; so I said to him,
with an awkward attempt at apology: “I used
to live here once, and I’ve come to see if you
won’t let mo look round at the old place again ?”
The old man’s face brightened. “Yes, you
shall see all you want to,” he said, with a genuine
hospitality that would have done honor to a
Prince, and then he led me into the garden, and
there—
Time had been very busy with it. The long
rows of currant and gooseberry bushes were all
gone, and the great, noble pear tree was a blight
ed, dilapidated thing, the glory of its strength
and beauty all gone, and with only half paral
yzed limbs, holding out a few little straggling
tresses of green leaves, just as the head of an old
man wears its straggling tresses of silver.
The plum tree, too, which used to shake down
such a purple shower of damsons on my head
every September, was now a withered trunk
without leaf or branch.
But the “apple tree” was there still, and an
other June had filled its branches with blossoms,
and so it stood there a green tent corded with
pearls.
Then the great deeps of memory were broken
up, and the waves swelled over my heart.
I stood still while the man went on to tell of
the change which had transpired since he came
to settle in the “white house;” but I did’nt hear
him ; I heard only the shouts of three little girls,
as they ploughed through the grass, or played
school and Queen Victoria under the trees, where
the shadows and the sunlight wavered over their
heads ; and now one of those heads—ah, it would
never rock its bright tresses to the winds again 1
There were the chamber windows, too, on
whose small old-fashioned panes the frost used to
carve such great devices, while I was lying in
the bed at night all in a tremble for fear some
great ogre would come for me; and so the fresh
pictures started out with every sight and sound.
At last, the old man went and called his wife,
a pleasant-faced, little, dumpy woman, with a
kind heart looking out of her twinkling black
eyes. I stood and chatted with them awhile,
and went to see how the pig and the vegetables
flourished; and I left them, after promising that
1 would come again, and get one of the apples
from the old tree next fall. But the old garden
where I played years ago, and not the new one I
had just seen, walked with me as I went home
ward.
DYING FROM HOME.
BT UKT E. BETH
They had brought her to the land of myrtles
and fragrant limes, hoping that its soft sunshine
and balmy airs might steal from her cheek the
“ rose whose root is death.” But now the pulse
of nature was bounding with the warm blood of
J une, the skies were blue as her own glorious eyes
softness and fragrance filled the air, and she
was dying. Far from home; far from the blue
mountains in whose shadow rose her father’s
stately mansion; far from the dear ones whose
love had shielded their idol from every want or
care, and far from one dearer still to the gentle
young heart—one who was waiting to claim for
his own the thin, white hand that lay upon the
crimson coverlid. The evening, arrayed in splen
dor, was leaning from the golden windows of the
West; the wind came up through the colonnade
of whispering orange tress, cool wfth the kisses
of the blue Mississippi, and filled with the music
of its murmuring waters.
Through the blossoming boughs of the acacias
beneath the window, a bird's song came thrilling
up, like incense from a golden censor. It was
the mocking bird, and his song seemed but the
audible expression of the beauty that lay dream
ing beneath the sunset skies.
Evahad bade them throw wide the curtains,
and draw her couch to the window, that she
might look her last upon the earth, whose love
liness faintly foreshadowed the glory of the home
awaiting her.
Her hand lay in her brother’s; her eyes rested,
now upon his troubled face, now upon the green
fields without, flushed with the varied bloom of
a thousand flowers. Never had he seemed so
dear ; never had nature been so beautiful; never
had Memory and Love wielded such power before.
She was so young, so beautiful, so beloved.
It was hard to die when the future was so bright
before her; when there were so many ties to be
broken—ties that were wound so closely round
her heart, and were strong almost as death itself.
She knew that she was dying. She felt with
in her the struggling, fluttering soul, impatient
to leave its chrysalis and spread its golden wings
in the sunshine of Heaven. She had bowed her
head submissively; she had said, thy will be
done,” and yet, at this last hour, Love was plead
ing with Death—praying for a few hours more
of life—only till he might come—only till her
dying breath might be breathed upon her moth
er's lips in the last kiss of fond affection.
“Brother,” she whispered, “sing to me. Sing
the songs of the land to which I am going, that
the angels may answer you and bring peace to
my soul.”j,
And Eustace, pressing to his quivering lip the
hand he had held, drew the harp to his side, and
after a glorious prelude, sang the TeDeum that
she loved.
As the majestic anthem rolled through the
room and drowned the murmurs of the river and
the bird’s song and the wind’s whispers and all
earthly sounds, the face of Eva grew radiant with
the peace that passeth understanding. Her eyes
were full of that deep glory that the eyes of the
dying wear when Heaven is unveiled to their
view.
Her lips were moving with unaudible whis
pers. Eustace thought she was repeating the
songs which the angels were singing to her half
freed spirit. The strife between the mortal and
immortal part of her nature was over, and the
Twilight that, with stars in her dusky hair, now
looked forth from the chambers of the West,
touched with her soft pencil a face beautiful and
serene as an angel’s.
Gradually the lustrous eyes were darkened by
the shadow of the drooping lashes; the lips
ceased to tremble, though a smile still lingered
round them like the faint ripple round a dying
eddy. Eustace sprang to her side and raised
her in his arms, calling her by all the fond names
she had loved in life. It was too late. Her
soul had been borne away with that divine mel
ody, and the smile of more than mortal sweet
ness was the shadow of its departing wings.
GERMAN HOMES.
The common opinion is, that domestic life in
Germany is synonymous with plenty, neatness
and comfort. The German literature is full of
touching allusions to domestic happiness, and
their lonely, natural pictures are most frequently
delineations of household scenes. Luther’s let
ters to his “beloved Katherine,” are such as only
a husband, to whom home had been made beau
tiful by wifely love and care, could have written.
It was to be expected that a people with such
strong domestic attachments should beautify the
homes they held so dear, by taste and industry.
But Miss Johnson, in her new hook of “Peasant
Life in Germany,” gives us quite a different pic
ture.
The following is a very good epitome of her
personal observations on the domestic habits of
the German peasantry :
New Series, Volume IV. —Old Series, Volume XXV. No. 3
“ The villages, in general, appear scarcely su
perior to a collection of Indian wigwams. The
houses are crowded together on a narrow street,
showing the gloom and dirt of centuries. Not a
foot of land is left for garden or grass plat; but
instead of them~is the cow-yard, which you are
often obliged to pass through in order to reach
the door. On entering the hovel—for it can
scarcely be called a house—you find one little
room containing a bed, a settle, a few chairs, a
long, bare, wooden table, which is never moved,
and which serves for a work table, eating table,
or any convenient use which may be required.
A clock, perhaps, is hung on the wall, with a
cross and some pictures of the Virgin and some
saints. The kitchen is a room some ten or fif
teen feet square, so dark that a person can scarcely
he seen across it, opening on one side into the
stable, and on the other into a stable yard, look
ing like a place unfit for pigs to feed, much lees
for human beings to cook their food. Above are
the sleeping rooms, each with two beds, a double
bed being an institution not to be found in all
Germany. The beds are very narrow, and the
sheets and quilts are made to correspond. One
or two light feather beds are made up on the out
side, and a neat white or colored spread goes
over thu *vhole. The floors are scrubbed till
they are dazzling white, and covered with sand.
If you are tempted to breakfast with the family
uindist such ungracious surroundings, you will
find only coffee and black bread and rolls, any
thing more being regarded as a gross violation of
propriety at that hour. But at ten o’clock the
etiquette is relaxed, and you will be treated to
bread and buttey, cold ham or beef, and other re
fections equally substantial and nutritious. At
dinner we have a snow-white cloth upon the
long table, a plate to each person, and a knife and
fork to each plate; one large pint tumbler full
of water, out of which each will drink till it is
empty, when it will be filled again, and a great
loaf or black brsad, from which each will cut a
slice when he wants it. The first course is what,
in New England, is called corned beef, with
which you eat nothing but bread. Then comes
some kind of fried meat and boiled potatoes, and
probably cabbage, which is a standing dish in
universal request.
The cows, pigs and poultry are all kept in dark
pens, andjdo the light of day from one end
of the year to the other. The cows are fed in
summer on green fodder, which is daily cut for
their use; and though their milk is not the
sweetest, they seem well to do, and always look
fat and sleek. Much of the farm work is done
by women. Indian corn is raised in some places,
but with only very inconsiderable success. A
whole field will sometimes have only one or two
ears on a stock. It is never used for bread, but
only for geese and pigs. The great staple is rye.
The German sticks to his black bread as tena
ciously as to his tobacco. These huge black
loaves are everywhere to be seen, and never is
the baking done in the family. In the country
villages there is one grand oven to which all
transport their loaves after having kneaded them
at homo. Carts are at all times seen going
through the streets loaded with these loaves,
piled in like so many stones, and about os hard.
The bread is always sour, os it is permitted to
ferment till it is like honey-comb.”
Asa set-off to the above rather gloomy picture
of German village and country life, read the fol
lowing racy sketch of Japan—the new, beautiful
and civilized kingdom that has lately risen upon
the world.
There is an odor of roses and honeysuckles
about this picturesque description, that is very
refreshing these frozen and freezing times :
“What rare walks under the shady coppices
that fringe the outlying fields by Jeddo! What
cottages with roses; what winding roads with
myrtle and honeysuckle; what rounded undula
tions of green surface —all odorous with a thous
and flowers, and gemmed with temples and pal
aces! What rare maidens to greet one in the
outlying arbors, where fragrant and steaming
teas refresh one! What anew world of blue
skies, and luscious perfumes, and verdant wealth,
and luxuriant vegetation ot all sorts, with a grand,
dim outline of Alpine mountains !
Can these stories all be true—of the millions
who dwell in Jeddo—of the castle, with its green
casements, and space to lodge forty thousand ?
Then Japan is no longer a vision, but a fact, of
our timo ; and the rich country by the Amoor,
and the Japanese Emperors, civil and religious,
must all come in for their share in the distribu
tion of the world’s balance !”
Another paragraph proves that the Japanese
understand the highest order of taste: the power
properly to combine the useful and the beautiful.
There is a touch of the doleefar niente in the fol
lowing :
“Every cottage, temple and tea-house was sur
rounded by gardens laid out with exquisite taste,
and the most elaborate neatness was skillfully
blended with grandeur of design. The natural
features of the country were admirably taken ad
vantage of, and a long ride was certain to be re
warded by a romantic scene, where a tea-'house
was picturesquely perched over a watertall, or a
temple reared its carved gables amidst groves of
ancient cedars. The tea-house is a national
characteristic of Japan. The traveller, wearied
with noonday heat, need never be at a loss to find
rest and refreshment. Stretched upon the softest
and cleanest of matting, imbibing the most deli
cately flavored tea, inhaling through a short pipe
the fragrant tobacco of Japan, he resigns himself
to the ministration of a bevy of fair damsels, who
glide rapidly and noiselessly about, the most
zealous and skillful of attendants.”
Toilet fob gentlemen.— For preserving the
complexion, temperance; to preserve the breath
sweet, abstain from tobacco ; for whitening the
hands, honesty; to remove a stain, repentence;
easy shaving soap, ready money ; for improving
the sight, observation; a beautifbl ring, a family
circle; for improving the voice, civility; the best
companion at the toilet, a wife.
What aw You Living For ?— A pastor walk
ing out recently, met a little girl belonging tohis
flock. As they walked on together, he spoke to
het of her studies, and was pleased to find her
manifest an interest amounting almost to enthu
siasm, in the cultivation of her mind. “But why,
Ellie,” asked the pastor, “are you so anxious to
succeed in your studies? What do you mean to
do with your education after it is finished ?”
“Oh,” said the little girl, “I want to learn,
that T may do some good in the world. I don't
want to die without ever havixg been of use in
the world, by living in it.”
Noble purpose ! Who of our young friends are
studying and living to so good an end? Who of
us are making an every-day impress for good on
the hearts and lives of those among whom we
move ? _
Mysteries of the Russian Court. —An extra
ordinary statement is made in the St. Peters
burgh journals: In demolishing a wall in the
apartment of the Hereditary Grand Duke, in
what is called the “great Palace,” in that city,
the skeleton of a woman was found still covered
with fragments of clothing, whit h fell to dust on
being exposed to the air. There is not the
slightest tradition, they add, to show who the
woman was, nor why she was closed up ‘in the
wall.
George Devlin, a drunken fellow in Maine, has
lodged a complaint against his wife for playing
practical jokes on him when he is intoxicated.
The lady in question had better quit her Devlin'.
HAUNTED.
BY MARY E. BRYAN.
Through sobbing rains and moaning winds,
And Night that sits and weeps alone,
All shrouded in her long, black hair
From which the starry gems are torn;
Through all, despite of Reason’s thrall,
My truant thoughts roam wildly lree,
Beneath the weeping, rayless skies,
Asking for thee —for only thee.
Ah, me! what evil does it bode,
That this pale Past, I thought was dead,
Should lay its cold hand on my heart,
And stand a spectre at niy bed,
And make me, at this midnight hour,
A hopeless watcher, sad and lone,
Hearing, in every wailing wind,
Thy voice’s well remembered tone.
Dreaming, the chilly rain that falls
Upon my cheek, upraised and white
Is thy hot tears that wet it once
Upon our bitter, paftifK night.
Ah! I had thought Withered hopes
Shed like dead leaves at Autumn’s blight,
Had buried all these memories
That stir within my soul to-night.
But it is hard to tear the vine
Rudelv from its dear, olden stay,
And still, the bruised, unyielding coils ,
Remain to tell the tale alway.
And it is hard to tear the heart
From the support it clasped for years,
Although the treacherous, poisoned stay
Has changed its dew to scalding tears.
The hand that smoothed your girlhoods’s curls—
That at the altar held your hand,
Will beckon still at times across
The gulf that never shall be spanned,
And howe’er deep within the heart,
You bury the dead love from sight,
Its ghost will come, all pale with tears,
And clasp you in its arms at night.
ANNIE.
BY MARY ft. BRYAN.
Annie’s brow is snowy fair—
Golden brown is Annie’s hair,
And all the blue of April skies
Smiles in Annie’s mirthful eyes.
Dimpled shoulders, round and white,
Bathed in waves of tresses light;
Step as soft as snow-flakes falling,
Voice as sweet as linnets calling,
Lips like cherries —Summer’s boon—
Purpling with the blood of June,
Light form m*de for fond caressing,
Soft hands only formed for pressing,
So at least they folded seem,
Like lillies in their morning dream ;
But we know those hands so soft
Have performed sweet service oft,
And that Annie, light and airy,
Is at home a household fairy.
Would I were some gallant knight,
Fresh from Nicaraguan fight,
I would win that gentle hand,
Fairest in all lady land.
Win it by my very boldness,
’Spite of Annie’s frowns and coldness,
Serve as Jacob did of yore:
Twice seven years if need be more,
So at last I might be blest
With my snowy treasure pressed
Trembling to my throbbing breast;
Yet, it seems a pity now,
That a birdie, such as thou,
Gay and free as summer air,
Even the lightest chain should bear,
And e’en in Love’s flowery wreath
There may lurk a thorn beneath.
Then I’ll whisper in your ear,
Fairy, with the golden hair,
Still your pure white rosebuds wear;
Still your careless ditties trill
With the birds on heath and hill;
Keep awhile your own sweet will,
And your maiden fancies still.
SELECTIO N S .
The Duke of Wet.lingtoh’s Brother.— Lord
Charles Wellesly, the only brother of the present
Duke of Wellington, is said to be dying of soft
ening of the brain. This disease has become
strangely frequent in the last few years among
us. It generally attacks men who have over
worked their intellect in law, politics or letters
and in most cases shows itself in the loss, partial’
or total of the power of sight. Lord Charles was
neither a studious nor a dissipated man. He
married, many years ago, Miss Pierrepont, the
celebrated heiress, by whom he had a numerous
family. He lived, for the most part, in retire
ment, and without any ostentation, being a great
favorite with the Iron Duke, who left him one
half his property in the funds. Since 1851 he
has been afflicted with total blindness, though
otherwise retaining the enjoyment of his usual
health. His chief occupation has been the weav
ing of small wicker baskets, many of which I
have seen, and which he learned to form with
marvelous precision and taste. The disease has
now laid hold upon the vital organs, and his rel
atives have been, this week, summoned to his
dent h-bed. Times.
HEATHEN MYTHOLOGY.
For the benefit of our lady leaders, we collect
and publish the affinities of the Heathen Gods,
so often referred to in the mythology of the an
cients. Juno was the daughter of Saturn and
Ops. Ceres presided over peach orchards and
other garden sass. Mars was the God of war.
Pan protected those rural citizens engaged in
tending sheep. Venus attended to affairs of love,
and regulated the motions of amitory youths.
Jupiter was God of the celestial regions. Ap
pollo was a prophet, a pretty man, and conse
quently, had the nine muses, who were females,
running after him. He owned two surviteurs
humbale, named Triphod and Lyre; the latter
is supposed to bo the person who invented lies, a
commodity now extensively used. Vulcan was
master ol a blacksmithshop, and had a partiality,
for fire. Mercury was the avant courier of the
Gods, and presiding genius of the thieving fra
ternity. He used to go around in company with
Iris, the daughter of Thaumas, who was his bet
ter half. Diana had a great love for beasts and
trees. Neptune ruled the ocean, though it is not
intimated that he had the control of any very
large vessels; a tiny shallop was all that he could
order to do his bidding. Hercules was a real
bruiser of the Tom Hyer order; nothing de
lighted him more than a forcible, effective and
well planted blow. Cupid always maintained a
great interest in affairs of the heart, and was su
preme ruler of the human gizzard. Hebe was
some pumpkins as a waiter, and tended the table
for the divinities with marked approval. Bac
chus was the God of rum, and frequently had the
delirium tremendous. Proteus was a fortune
teller, and could see as far in a mill-stone as the
man that pecked it; he was a very changeable
fellow, hence the word protean. Pluto was a
native of a tropical clime, and consequently, had
a penchant for warm things and hell-fire. Hy
gien was a protectress oi health, and a very kind
hearted female. Mr. Joe Segar named the hotel
at Old Point Comfort after her. Plutus used to
“spend his money free,” (see songs of ethiopian
serenaders,) and was a broth of a boy on a mid
night carnival or general bust. Olympus üßed
to tend a light house, and look after the hours.
Flora was the mistress of a flower garden—bou
quets used to sell very high in her time. The
Dryads and Nymphs were general utility iolks,
who haunted round shady places, and did little
chores for a consideration. They have had plen
ty of imitators. Satyr was a rare old fellow, ob
jected to a man blowing hot and cold with the
same breath, and left a numerous progeny who
can do the same thing; he was always prepared
to go it, but belonged to the short horn breed.
The Fawns were given to promiscuous dancing;
they were always in for a frolic on the lawn, and
had no objection to a “cotton factory hall” —tick-
ets sl, and a fight in prospective.— Petersburg
(Fa.) Press.