Newspaper Page Text
JOHN H. SEALS, Editor and Proprietor.
Katies’ department.
Mary E. Bryan, Editress.
CONTRIBUTIONS.
“A Domestic Sketch”—a pleasing story of
every day life has been received and is on file
for publication.
Several articles, which were sent for insertion
ilk our department, appear this week on the sec
ond page, owing to their having arrived too late.
will please bear in mind, that our
side of the paper goes to press a day or two ear
lier than the inside, and consequently, in order to
be published in the next number, as they all re
quest, the articles must be handed in in time.
*• , *
MAGAZINES.
Peterson for February is before us, with its
usual attractions of pleasing literature, elegant
illustrations, patterns for fancy work, receipts,
fashion-plates and all the other features of a first
class magazine. The engraving on the first page,
called the “Rose-hud,” is a perfect little gem, and
the wood cut, “ The impudent puppy,” is very,
spirited and true to nature. We see, among the
other brilliant names on the cover of the maga
zine, the author of “ Susy L’s diary,” as a con
tributor to the present number; and turning over
a few pages, we find “Jenny and Mr. Cleaves,” a
simple, everyday story, but told with that grace
ful ease for which the writer is eminent. There
is also a fine article on “ Domestic Architecture,”
•from the pen of. Mr. Peterson, and a novellette by
Mrs. Anne S. Stephens. *
The “Great Republic” Magazine—that phoenix
which has arisen from the ashes of Emerson and
Putnam—comes out in superb style for February.
The design for the cover is something unique,
and is as handsome as are the broad pages and
clear type, so refreshing to weak eyes. The ar
ticles afford a pleasing variety of reading matter,
being a happy blending of
“Grave and gay, lively and severe,”
in order that all classes of readers may find some
thing interesting in the pages of this great Na
tional Magazine. *
THE YOUNG FRUIT-SELLER.
Our little poem with the above title was pub
lished in the Crusader a few numbers previous,
and since then Messrs. Barnes & Campbell—gen
erous proprietors of the “ Model Auction House”—
have presented 113 (through their partner, Mr.
\Wright) with the beautiful picture to which it
referred—having put themselves to the inconve
nience of sending to Columbns for this elegant
lithograph, which had already found a purchaser.
We assure them that the gift is as gratefully ac
. cepted, as it was gracefully tendered.
It lies before us now—that fair face, with its
dreamy eyes and sweet, sad mouth, and beside it
lies the beautiful note by which it was accompa
nied, expressing “ the hope that we would accept
the accompanying lithograph with the proprie
tor s best wishes for our future happiness and
success.”
There! was not that handsomely and delicate
ly done? Who among you, dear ladies, would
not feel your cheek glow and your heart beat
quickly at the reception of a gift thus tendered?
And since we are very sure that you would wish
to express your approval of such gentlemanly
consideration toward one of your own sex, we
need only add, that you can easily do so by call
ing in at the well known establishment of Barnes
& Campbell, on Decatur street. *
“I saw a number of your handsome little sheet .
a few days since, and was so well pleased with (
it, that I send you my name and the quid pro quo \
for a copy,” writes a gentleman of our acquain
tance from a neighboring city. He uses two ad
jectives, descriptive of the Crusader, for the first ]
of which we make our best curtesey in acknowl
>
ekgement of the compliment, but the latter won’t
do. It wasn’t handsome in bim to use it, and it
wasn’t true. “Little” may be a pretty pet epi
thet to apply to his ladylove or his dog. but our
“ pet” don’t belong to the lilliputian order. We
should like to know where you can find a paper
much larger, or one containing more original mat
ter at the South ; and it is a size larger than the
(New York) Home Journal of Morris & Willis’,
that has long been known as the best Family
Paper in the United States. *
FASHIONS FOR SPRING.
Flounces, which were thought to have given
place to the double skirts, we see by “ les modes
Parisiennes,” are returning into favor. The
skirt consists of three wide flounces, or a num
ber of very small ones. Puffs are much used for
trimming. A dinner dress, made by a fashiona
ble modiste, was trimmed half way up the skirt
with rows of puffing, separated by narrow black
velvet ribbon.
The Raphael waist is still a favorite, though
the square necks are not becoming to every fig
ure.
The Zouave jackets are much worn, both for
in doors and over a carriage or street dress.
They may be made of handsome material and
trimmed prettily with plaid. Fichus —bretelles
of lace and ribbon or velvet—are still worn with
evening dresses, and should never become un
fashionable, because the style is at once conve
nient and becoming. The plainest evening driss
of white muslin can be made to look elegant by
the addition of a tasteful fichu.
The papers have been announcing a threatened
collapse in hoops, owing to the increasing embon
point of that arbitress of fashion—the pretty
French Empress —and of the ladies of her court,
who, as in loyalty bound, have taken to eating
butter and mashed rose leaves, and cultivating
theplumpness that Eugenia has made fashionable.
Judging, however, from their size and the rapidity
with which they are sold, there is no present
danger of hoops “departing foreverand be
sides, a French lady has too much taste to leave
off expanding her skirts, because Nature has g;
to enlarging her body. She knows very well
that the apparent size of the waist is diminished
by the circumference of the skirt.
So hoops will spread themselves “ like a green
bay tree” a while longer yet. And let them ; no
body but spiteful old bachelors will object. They
(the hoops, not the bachelors) are an excellent
institution—useful for sweeping loafers off the
sidewalks, mitigating the toil of washer-women
and enabling ladie3 to make an imposing appear
ance, without burdening themselves, with a dozen
or two of superfluous skirts. May Eugenia’s
shadow upon the Champs Elysees never grow
less]! *
TREES.
On riding past a farm house one day, we saw
an old man with lint white locks busily planting
young cherry and apricot trees in a row against
the sunny side of the paling.
“ Uncle Paul,” cried one of our party, “ do you
expect to he a second Methusalab, that you are
planting fruit trees at your time of life ? Do you
th*tk you shall ever gather cherries from those
young slips?”
I The old man looked up from his work and ran
his fingers through the thin, white locks on his
uncovered head.’ “No,” said he, mildly, “I am
planting them for my monument. Marble and
granite on my grave would be useless, but these
trees w r ill give pleasure to others. When the
marble grows discolored by time, they will be
green with life and beauty, and give shade and
refreshment to God’s creatures—to the birds, that
he watches over, the children, whom he loves,
and the men, for whom his kindness provider.
No, young lady, my hand shall be cold and still
enough when these cherries ripen, but there wdll
be others to gather them, and we are commanded
to do all the good we can.”
The merry girl laughed at uncle Paul's “queer
ness,” as we rode away from his little cottage,
but his words had impressed us deeply. There
was true benevolence for you—that genuine, un
selfish love for his fellow-men; that love for all
God’s creatures, which would make Earth a Par
adise, were it only universal. The old man was
unable to found a university, to endow a society,
to build a church or perform any of those ostenta
tious acts of benevolenee, that are too often like
the Pharisee’s prayer, done “for the praise of
men,” but he would do all the good he could, if
it were only to plant a tree—a tree, that might
rejoice in the sunshine and breeze, when the
hand that planted it was cold beneath the sod;
a tree, in whose branches the birds might sing
all the summer day and waken pleasant thoughts
in the minds of the passers-by, and beneath
whose shade the children might play and the
frugal mother gather the ripe clusters, red as her
baby’s lips, to refresh the father, returning from
his labors, to the noonday meal. Was not such
a monument better than the cold and costly mar
ble, with its gilded lettering ?
In Germany, the roads, which are usually
bounded on either side by 6tone fences, are lined
with fruit trees of every kind that will grow with
little or no attention, and their cooling shade and
healthful fruits are peculiarly refreshing to the
wearied traveler. It is a long-established cus
tom with that kindly-hearted people, that each
traveler, after gathering and eating the fruit thus
planted by the wayside, dismounts and carefully
deposites in the ground the seed of the finest,
thus providing a supply of young trees for the
future. Those only who have traveled a dusty
thoroughfare under a July sun, can estimate the
value of such benevolence.
To plant a tree is a iittlc thing, but its beauty
or its utility may give pleasure to thousands.
The idle boy carves his name upon every pil
lar against which he leans, and historical monu
ments are disfigured with the initials of those
who wish to leave something of themselves be
hind—some token of the life that, however insig
nificant, has been breathed out on the vast stage
of human action; but a better memento than
this, is a tree, that shall live and rejoice in its
life and transmit it down to other ages. And
besides, it is like an offering on the shrine of
God, for every thing of beauty or usefulness upon
earth is a voiceless hymn to the Deity; a silent
reminder of His love and care, who lor our sakes
made the world so bright and beautiful. *
BRAINS RETAILED AT REDUCED PRICES.
Finley Johnson, a scribbler of the namby
pamby genus, who has wrttten for every news
paper and magazine in the country, and whose
muse has croaked herself hoarse on the highly
original themes of blasted hopes and unforgotten
memories—has concluded to sell out his remain
ing stock of brains at auction, and we suppose
at reduced prices, on account of their damaged
condition. We clip his advertisement from a
late exchange:
“To the Public. —The undersigned being well
known as a writer, wou'd offer his services to all
requiring Literacy aid. He will furnish Addresses,
Orations, Essays, Presentation speeches and re
plies, Lines for Albums, Acrostics—prepare mat
ter for the Press—Obituaries, and write poetry
upon any subject. Adddress (postpaid)
FINLEY JOHNSON,
Baltimore, Md.”
Here is the Pierian fount turned into a com”
mon city pump for the accommodation of the
public; Apollo, trigged out in an auctioneer’s
dress and crying “ going, going” with uplifted
hammer! Let all who wish for a sample of
Finley Johnson’s brains send their names and a
“consideration” while they are going; forjudg
ing from appearances, they will soon be “ gone.”
Nothing, as you will see, comes amiss. He will
write any thing, upon “ any subject,” from “ lines
on receiving a lock of hair from Augustus,” to a
commencement oration, in the most oracular
style; from an epitaph on the death of a kitten,
to a high souuding obituary upon the decease of
the distinguished E. Pluribus Unum, Esq.
Let all who wish for “ literary aid” apply to
this fountain head of literature. Young aspirants
for fame, who look forward to the next‘ !
be-remembered, glorious Fourth” as an oppor
tunity for immortalizing themselves, would do well
to send on their names and their half dollars im
mediately, that Mr. Johnson may have time to
collect up adjectives for a thunder burst of elo
quence, and have it stereotyped for future ap
plicants. political Editors who have exhausted
ail their billingsgate and invective upon their
brethren of opposite parties, will find it conve
nient to drop a line and a small “consideration”
to Mr. Johnson—stating their politics, of course
—and be furnished with a plentiful infusion of
nutgalls. Amorous youths whose feelings for
Mary Ann can no longer be contained, but, like
murder, “ will out,” and who yet find it impossi
ble, on account of overpowering emotions and
bad grammar, to tell the adored “being” the state
of their affections, will, in this extremity, find aid
in the Baltimorean oracle, who will pour out
those “ inexpressible” feelings in all the honey of
Hybla. Judging from his versified experience,
he has been all along there.
And then, too, “poetry upon any given subject!’’
What a godsend to young gentlemen with tan
gled hair and turned down collars, who affect the
Byronic and are consequently besieged by senti
mental misses with gilt-edged albums! They
have nothing to do but apply to this Universal
Genius, sending him an inventory of the ladies’
charms, together with a hint as to the amount of
sugar to be used in the composition of the versi
cles; for, in these days of strong-minded females
and suits for breach of promise, there is danger
in making 3uch effusions too sacharine.
This same Encyclopedia of knowledge can also
furnish aid to aldermanic M D’s whose week-day
dinings out and the onerous business of digestion
that ensues, do not prove very favorable to pul
pit lucubrations.
We wonder if Mr. Johnson might not have
driven a good business in his small way, in Wash
ington this winter—giving “literary aid” to the
wise ones assembled to go through with that
solemn little farce of Congress. Though, to be
sure, the elocutionary performance there is now
mostly dramatic, being, as Mrs. Partington said
* of Shakspeare, “ nothing bnt questions and an
i swers”—such as *• Does the honorable gentleman
s mean to insinuate? or “Does the member froiq,
Missouri intend to apply his remark* V etc. etc.
FOR THE CULTURE OF TRUTH, MORALITY AND LITERARY EXCELLENCE.
But seriously, the prolific genius of Mr. John
son is truly amazing. The amount of fiction he
spins from bis brain is wonderful, and we only
trnst; for the sake of literature, that he will not,
like the spider in the fable, spin himself away.
Could not Mr. Bonner be prevailed upon to
match him with his careering correspondent,
Cobb, letting them have the columns of the
Ledger for a race track? We would bet our gold
pen on Johnson the first heat, provided he got
his breath well at the outset, and received a cut
or two from that “scorpion lash of memory”
of which be is always talking; but we think
Cobb would come out a few lengths ahead, as he
is the longest winded and has a little—just a leetle
the best bottom.
In this latter respect, however, there is not the
greatest deal of difference, Cobb—to use one of
Poe’s algebraical comparisons—being exercrable
and Johnson X plus I-eerable. *
ALICt AND PHCE&E CAREY.
Lov* is often purest and strongest when it has
never been called forth by circumstances ; when
it is folded in the heart-like fragrance shut with
in a lily ; like a fountain enclosed in the earth,
whose unstained waters are never dissipated by
the hot breath of the South wind, or the kisses of
the ardent sun. Those have sung of love most
tenderly and truly, who have never known the
joy of being beloved; whose lips have never
thrilled beneath the pressure of passion’s kiss;
whose locks have grown gray, without a caress
ing hand to put them back from the brow. To
those, love was “ a mystery, wild and dear;” a
spirit to be invested with the robes of purity,
tenderness and beauty, woven by the magic of
their genius. Often, too, they have crowned
this dear ideal with passion-flowers, red from the
fervid heart’s blood that had nourished them—
unsought blossoms, as they were, whom no lov
er’s hand had ever transferred to his bosom.
Alice and Phoebe Carey, the two distinguished
poet sisters, are unmarried. They must, some
time since, have passed the first bloom of life,
and reached that age when, in France, a lady—no
longer beautiful—is called a “charming woman,”
while, in our less chivalrous country, they are
termed “old maids.” And yet, how fresh and
warm those sisters have kept their unwon hearts!
What sympathy with youth and its sweet hand
maiden love, gushes out m those songs that are
wafted to us from their peaceful home! They
have not grown cold, or cynical, Or bitterly sar
castic, as do most women of genius who have
reached a certain age without “fulfilling the des
tiny of woman.” They have not stifled the un
mated Love in their hearts, for often he wakens
from his slumbers, stirs in bis lonely nest and
sings of his dreams, and those dreams and songs
are full of a beauty almost divine.
What a passionate strain is this, from the very
soul of Alice Carey:
“Come from your long, long roving
On the sea, so wild and rough;
Come to me. tender and loving,
Audi shall be blest enough.
Where your Bails you have been unfurling ;
What breeze has blown on your brow,
I know not, I-ask not, my darling,
So that you come to me now.
Sorrowful, sinful and lonely ;
Poor and despised though you be,
This shall be nothing, if only
You turn from the tempter to me.
Os men, though you be unforgiven ;
Though priest be unable to shrive,
I’ll pray till I weary all Heaven,
If only you’ll come back alive.
Now, is not this the essence of all love and de
votion—of woman’s love, stronger than life—
outlasting hope and joy—living through the neg
lect and poverty and crime of the worshipped
one? Such devotion as was that of the brave
girl, whose lover, maimed and mangled in the
battle, released her from her betrothal and sent
back the plighting ring. But the true-hearted
maiden refused to be free. “Go tell him,” she
said, “that I am his, as long as he has body
enough to hold his noble soul.”
The poem might be censured for the passionate
recklessness of Moore’s well known lines,
“I know not, I ask not if guiit’s in thy heart.”
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art,”
were it not for the clause,
“If only
You turn from the tempter to me.”
One can hardly read such an outgushing of
tenderness without wishing that there was some
object on which to lavish it; someone on whom
to pour the rich ointment of such a love ; some
oneto call the writer by the blessed name of wife;
someone to lean over her as she wrote and kiss
the cheek, flushed by the high thoughts that gave
rise to such burning words. But perhaps it is
better as it is—better to worship the ideal afar
off, than to clasp the idol and find it a thing of
clay. If we could grasp the bow that gilds the
summer cloud, we would find that its brilliant
hues were but chilly mist, and Love’s beautiful
bow of promise, when it touches the earth of re
ality, too often dissolves into tears.
But listen to this sweet, simple acknowledge
ment of the less passionate, but not less earnest
and tender Phoebe:
‘ I would not smother, if I could,
Love’s inextinguishable fires.
So. banishing from out my heart
The 6acredest of life’s desires,
I can walk onward and endure,
Whether the way be smooth or rough,
But will not school myself to think
Life's round of duties is enough.
Over my eyes, most sad to-day.
My tresses as they will may fall;
A hand to put them softly back.
I’ve only dreamed ot, that is all.
God gives his creatures many gifts,
And very precious are the rest;
But this, I say, with unkissed lips,
That love is better than the best.”
We can scarcely read it without tears. It is
plain, that it comes from the heart and reveals
the “small, sweet need of woman to be loved.”
It tells of tears falling upon the laurels of a well
earned fame ; of a soul, sick of fulsome adulation
and longing for the low spoken words of tender
ness, dreaming in the dreary night time of a
cheerful fireside and domestic joys. It tells of a
spirit strong enough for any fate, yet gentle
enough to desire a life of quiet, sheltering love,
and candid enough to confess that desire. It
tells of the trembling of those “ unkissed lips,”
when the future, with its cheerless and lonely old
age, rises before the eyes, that look sadly forward
into coming time. Yet, there is no repining; no
envious murmuring; no gall of 3arcasm poured
upon the more fortunate of her sisters, who wear
the roses of love, instead of the scentless ama
ranths of fame. There is nothing save the sim
ple, touching acknowledgement that, of life’s
many gifts,
“ Love is better than the best.”
We have never seen Phoebe Carey, and we
know that genius and beauty seldom go hand in
hand; but we love the true, pure, womanly soul
that lights up every word she writes, and if the
heart, now throbbing under our boddice, beat be
neath the broadcloth and buttons of a masculine
breast, we would ask no better boon of fate, than
to press what Mrs. Browning calls ths “ chrism
of Lot*,” upon those tmldsssd lips.” *
A-tlanta, Georgia, February 18, 1859.
FANTASIES.
INSCRIBED TO
IV , MART X. BRYAN.
Where was it; in what dreamland's mystic
splendor •
Did my rapt spirit see a face like thine,
With eyes like dewy twilight, soft and tender,
Lit b>- the lamps of the soul’s’ inner shrine?
Where have we met before ? Thy smile, soft fa
ding,
Lights up my memory with a fitful ray,
Like partial sunlight w hen the clouds are shading
Half the blue Heaven of an April day.
Thy voice thrills through me, as through playful
fingers
Thrills the sweet waters of soft glidingstreams,
And wakes some memory, fairu as that which
lingers
Os music, heard in childhood or in^lreams.
Thus, o’er my soul, like sails in dim, blue dis
tance,
Glide phantom memories I would-fain arrest —
Shadows, they may be, of some pre-existence,
Whose pallid ghosts will sometimes haunt the
breast. > •
’Tie not a dream, though Fancy, oft a ranger,
Roams in wild realms, where reason is un
known ;
What e’er it be, I cannot call thee stranger,
Though ne’er before my hand has met thine
own.
They told me that the love light newly beaming,
Had left no cloud upon thy youthful brow;
Andy t, I see a shadowy sorrow dreaming
In thine eye’s twilight darkness, even now.
Is it the memory of some grief which blasted
The soul, that wept to see its hopes depart;
Some memory that has time and tears outlasted,
And lies, a withered flower, upon thy heart ?
Is it the shadow of a wing that hovers,
Destined to shut the sunlight from thy path—
A cloud, which thy prophetic soul discovers,
E’er yet it darkens in its gathering wrath ?
It cannot be—Hope’s buds too bright are blooming;
And yet, the gifted are so seldom blest;
The fires of genius, oft the heart consuming,
Leave its fair empire but a waste at best.
And then, the pining of the impatient spirit,
The fluttering of the wings, made, but to soar ;
The dreams and yearnings, gifted souls inherit—
All these are fatal to content I know.
But thou hast early gathered Love’s young roses,
And laurels yet may mingle with tlieir bloom,
And Hope’s sweet magic, to thy view discloses
A future, rich with sunlight and perfume.
May those young hopes, that Lend above thee
nightly
And softly whisper halcyon dreams to thee—
Laying (heir warm lips to thy forehead lightly,
Be heralds of a bright reality.
Now, wilt thou take these wild flowers I’ve been
gleaning.
And let them, with tliy heart’s rich treasures
blend ?
Others may call thee names of dearer meaning—
-1 shall be blest it I may call thee “friend.”
PAUL DESMOND.
A STORY OF SOUTHERN LIFE.
BT MARY X. BRYAK.
(Continued from la,t week.)
Her tones, as she spoke of the humiliation she
had undergone, were full of bitterness.
“Yon think me a romantic simpleton,” she
added, after a while, “ and you are right. I have
given you occasion to think so.”
“No,” I said, “you have done nothing that has
not been often done before. Elopements are fre
quent—often justifiable.”
“Not from a kind home,” she exclaimed ; “not
from a loving father. A daughter who possesses
a parent’s affection and confidence is pardonable
for no such step ; but I—”
She checked herself, as iffearing she had said
too much, and then continued. “ You have been
too intimate in onr family, Mr. Desmond, not to
have had, occasionally, glimpses behiud the
scenes.”
I bowed in reply. It was just as I had thought.
Made miserable at her loveless home, she had
sought for happiness elsewhere. At her age, the
tendrils of the young heart are reaching every
where for something around which to cling.
And now she was back again at that cold, un
congenial home, and the brief drfcam of escape
from its chilling influence; that sweet hope of
warm, sheltering love, that had filled her young
bosom when she went forth from the shadow of
its walls that night, was over; for, as she was
speaking, the carriage stopped in front of the
mansion. Beautiful and stately it looked in the
moonlight, that had now burst from the parted
clouds ; but Myra sighed as she looked upon it.
In the convent she had lately left, there were
warmer hearts, beating beneath the coarse vest
ments of the cloistered inmates, than in that
lordly home.
Lights were still flashing from the parlor win
dows, and the strains of a harp trembled out on
the night air. . Mrs. Allingham and her guests
were late in retiring.
‘‘You need not trouble yourself to accompany
me farther,” said Myra, when I had assisted her
from the carriage. “ I will bid you good-nigbt
here—good-night and good-bye also, since I shall
not see you again. Do not think me ungrateful
for your kindness, because I have not expressed
what I have felt.
I thank you for the interest you have shown in
my welfare and that of poor Herman. I need
not ask you to watch over and befriend him, if
possible. If we do not meet again, Mr. Desmond,
I shall always think of you kindly and grate
fully.”
My hand thrilled an instant under the faint
pressure of hers, and then she dropped it and
was gone.
And my nights adventure was over. How like
a dream it all wasl It really seemed as though
I had only fallen asleep on the luxurious cush
ions of the carriage, while on my way from a
pleasant visit to the pretty Mrs. Allingham. But
if I had entertained any doubts as to the reality
of my adventures, they would have been dispelled
by Tony.
“ Massa, he said, turning around on his seat,
unable to repress his cariosity any longer, “ was
you married to that lady to-night?”
“No, Tony; I almost wish I had been.”
“T’would a been mighty easy, seems to me.
Golly 1 I thought ’twas all over wid you, when I
seed the parson in his black gownd, and you and
the paleyoung lady standin’ up before hfm.”
~“ And how did yon see all this, Tony, when I
left you in charge of the horses?”
“Oh! you see, I jest peeped in, to see es you
war cornin’, so as I might have de carriage door
open, ready for de lady.”
It was past midnight when I entered my room.
Rodenstein was sleeping tranquilly—his fair
hand, thrown above hit head, as you have seen
children lie—was half hidden by the rich masses
of wavy brown hair that fell back from his fore
head. I bent over him, and he slightly stirred.
His lips parted; “ dear Myra,” he murmured, and
smiled a faint, happy smile.
And in my heart I blessed them both—the fair
haired boy and the Myra of his dream—the Myra
of my love.
CHAPTER V.
A little tablea i was acted next morning in
the Cabin of the Be’!* Blanche, that gave me an
insight into my aunt’s reason for leaving the city
so soon. As I was bustling about seeing to her
baggage, which far exceeded Miss Tabitha Hig
gins “ big box, little box, band box and bundle,”
I came unexpectedly upon my aunt and Mr. Green
in the act of exchanging sentimental adieux. He
bowed his bald uead over her hand and pressed
it to his lips, in the most approved style, mur
muring:
“ ‘We must part a while ;
Though but a few short weeks, yet they shall
seem
An age without thy sweet society,’ ”
while she hid her tears and blushes behind
her handkerchief, taking care that the embroide-y
at the corners should bo conspicuous. Seeing
myself decidedly de trop, I closed the door softly
and withdrew, without having been perceived;
but a short time afterwards, while the “ City of
one vast plain” was disappearing in the distance,
my aunt sent for me, and, going down to her
stateroom, I found her in her dressing gown, sip
ping a cup of tea. And just here, let me ask, par
parenthesis, why it is that ladies who fancy them
selves in love, are always so fond of tea, the par
tiality increasing in the same ratio with the in
crease of the tender passion ? What effect has
tea upon tenderness? Is it a sedative, or an ex
citing? I leave the question with those more skill
ed in that most complex of mysteries —woman
nature, while I return to my aunt. She fidgetted
about nervously for some time, balancing her
spoon and playing with the tassels of her dress
ing gown, evidently wishing very much to tell
me something, yet not exactly decided how she
should commence.
“ Paul,” she said, at length, “I hope you took
very good care of that new trunk, as it contains
part of my trosseau.”
“Your trosseau /” I repeated, feigning surprise,
because I saw'that she expected iL
“ Yes, my bridal outfit. You may as well know
it now, Paul; lam going to be married; this
is why I am hastening home before the holidays.”
“ And to Mr. Green,” I said.
“ Why, how could you guess so readily, Paul?”
she exclaimed, dropping her spoon in a pretty,
girlish perturbation.
“Nothing easier, aunt. He has bowed to the
shrine of your beauty with Mohammedan devo
tion, all through the season, I believe.”
“0 ther gentlemen have paid me attention, I
am sure; but you are right. It is Mr. Green,
and we are to be married in little more than a
month. But this need make no difference with
you, Paul. You must remain with me the same
as before, and I will do for you all I had intended.
You are like a dear younger brother to me.”
(She would never have said non.
I thanked her sincerely for her kindness, but
my own feelings had recently undergone a change
and I assured her that, in less than three weeks,
I hoped to be on my way to Europe.
“My uncle elect will more than supply my
place,” I said, in reply to her expostulations and
entreaties that I would abandon the idea ; “ and
besides, it is natural for me to wish to be inde
pendent, aunt.”
My purpose was this : For several years pre
viouj to my father’s death, I had pursued under
him the study of medicine, which was his profes
sion. It was to have been mine also, but at the
request of my aunt, I relinquished the idea, al
though I continued to read and study my father’s
excellent library. I had now determined to carry
into effect his wish that I should go to Paris and
complete my medical studies, at the University
he had himself attended. The little property I
could call my own would enable to do this, with
out making any demands upon my aunt, and af
ter that I should feel myself independent.
I was impatient to be gone, and before the bri
dal preparations were completed; before I bad
seen the satin dress, whose three flounces of
Brussels lace, my aunt assured me, were like
nothing I had ever imagined ; before the spring
had crowned her forehead, cold from the parting
kiss of winter, with yellow crocds blossoms, I
bid adieu to Valley Farm, to my aunt, and, sad
dest of all, to Petranello, and after a pleasant
voyage, arrived safely in Paris. Os my stay in
that great French metropolis, I will speak briefly.
It was to me a time of intense study and toil, and
yet of pleasure—such pleasure as I had not en
joyed in many years—the satisfaction of having
a distinct object in view ; of having regular du
ties to perform, so different from that quiet stag
nation of brain, which idleness produces.
After an absence of nearly two years, my task
was completed. I had M. D. written after my
name, had made a brief tour es Italy and Ger
many, and now turned my steps homeward, ta
king England en passant, with a boxful of curi
osities, some choice Italian pictures for Petranello,
shells and relics for my aunt, and two dozen bot
tles of pure Rudersheim and some German man
uscript poems for my respected ancle. Some
motive, I hardly defined to myself, caused me to
wish to land first at New Orleans, and accordingly
I took passage in the Prince Albert, bound for
that city. We sailed into the harbor i n the dim
twilight of early morning, and my heart beat
quickly as the forest of masts rose before me, and
the rising sun lifted the veil of mist from the
bosom of the Crescent Queen—that city, where
nearly two years before, I had performed a mem
orable act in my life drama; for Myra Allingham
was not forgotten. I felt that she never could
be.
On the walls of the little chamber I occupied
in Paris, I had hung my Qulnare in her Turkish
dress, and my fellow-students concluded that I
was a Catholic, and the beautiful picture an
American Madonna. It went with me in my
wanderings under the blue slcy of Italy, and along
the banks of the sunny Rhine; and there was
another picture, more cherished still, enshrined
in my heart, of a pale girl with radiant eye's,
full of true womanly pride and tenderness. I had
not heard of her since I left the country, except
learning the death of her father through the pul
lic journals. I had no correspondent in New Or
leans, my aunt having spent her honey.moon at
Newport, instead of at the South, and Harry
Roysdan having emigrated to Cuba.
Upon landing from the vessel, the first indi
vidual who grasped my hand and shook it with
more cordiality than I had thought him capable
of, was Judge Seymour. Perhaps he was only
delighted at getting possession of a patient lis
tener.
“ My dear fellow,” he exclaimed, still working
my arm up and down like a pump handle, “so
you have returned at last—an M. D. now, I sup
pose, with a moustache that throws mine in
the shade, as 1 live.
Want to hear the news? Well, first, you
must know that I haven’t yet yielded to the
arts of any of Eve’s daughters, though the dear
creatures have done their best to entrap me
into matrimony. Next, there’s an Arkansas heir
ess here, with the biggest blue eyes and the
largest plantation you ever heard of. Both arc
irresistible—the latter especially; and so, she
is all the toast just now. Then the fat widow
of six husbands, that the papers have made so
famous, has bought a splendid residence in the
city, and gives a toiree next Wednesday night.
New Series, Velume IV. —Old Series, Volume XXV. No. 8
I’ll get you an invitation, for I’m prime minis
ter in that court, I assure you.
The little yellow fellow who called himself a
count, and was all the rage when you left, ran
away afterwards, with the hearts and the brace
lets of half the girls in the city, and the spoons
of their mamas. He left a trnnk of love let
ters, to pay his hotel expenses. Miss Rosa
Maguire is suing that young booby, Simpson,
for breach of promise, and the poor fellow came
blubbering to me the other day, and declared
that she did all the courting that was done,
and I know that it was the truth, though you
mustn’t mention my having said so, for I am
Miss Rosa’s counsel, and shall win the case for
her next court.
“Weill welll howdelighted your pretty widow
will be to see you I That is what has brought 1
you back, of course. I always knew that there
was something serious in her flirtation with you,
before her jealous curmudgeon of a husband left
her free. Peace to him in his grave, for he never
had any before he went there. I begin to side
with the ladies, and think he was an ill-used in
dividual, and must have suffered a great deal in
his lifetime. But the widow is charming, and
no mistake.”
“What widow do you mean?” I asked, when
he had fairly talked himself out of breath.
“Why, Mrs. Allingham, of course. She is just
as pretty and gay as ever; not very disconsolate
I imagine.”
“And Myra, Miss Allingham,” I said, feeling
the blood rush in a burning tide to my heart, as
I waited his reply.
“Oh 1 Miss Allingham; the daughter, you
mean. What a pale, shy girl she was. Have
you not heard about her, though ?”
“No,” I said; “what is it? I have not heard
a word.”
Well, Mr. Allingham's will left his wife sole
heir to all his property, with the exception of a
pittance to Myra—a few acres of barren, rocky
land with a house upon it, somewhere in Ten
nessee, 1 believe. Anyhow, it is of precious lit
tle value to Myra, or anybody else. It was a sin
to be so unjust to his own daughter, and after
the widow’ coquetted me so shamefully—she did
flirt with me, that’s a fact, sir—the first woman
that ever did such a thing, I’llgive you my word.”
“But about Myra,” I interrupted, half mad
dened by bis prosiness, when I was in such sus
pense.
“Certainly ; I was telling you that after I found
Mrs. Allingham out, it was natural I should like
a little revenge, and so I went to Myra, and told
her that the bulk of her father’s property was
rightfully her own, and as I had drawn up the
will myself, I was confident that I could pick u
flaw in it, if she wished, and offered myself as
her counsel. But would you believe it; the silly
girl looked up from the book she had been pre
tending to read all the while, and thanked me
very coolly for my kindness, but she would never
consent to a lawsuit. She had too much respect
for the memory of her father. Such an idea! and
she looked at me in such a way, that I could not
say a word. I think, however, I could have
brought her over, if she had not been spirited
away so suddenly.”
“ Spirited away ?”
“ Yes, Sir/disappeared like another will o’ the
wisp the very next day. It appears, then,
(thougli this, you mind, is only hearsay, and 1
give it you for what it is worth.) that, while we
were closeted in the library, Mrs. Allingham's
maid listened at the key hole and overheard a
part of the conversation. She goes and reports
to her mistress that we were foraiing a conspiracy
to get back the property, and the lady flics into a
terrible passion, -accuses poor Myra of a great
many unjust things and threatens and reproaches
her by turns, until she is almost bewildered. I
have heard that, at first, she attempted to reply
to the recriminations, but afterwards she sat quite
silent and pale as a statue. The next day site
disappeared, Mrs. Allingham says without her
knowledge—and they do say that she insinuates
that Myra was slightly deranged in her mind—
egaree is the word, I believe. It is thought tha t
she has drowned herself, or gone back to the con
vent and taken the veil, or else eloped with a
handsome young fellow that Mrs. Allingham says
she was betrothed to.
Good morning Captain Brooks—happy to see
you sir! My dear Paul, pray excuse me for a
moment; I must speak to Captain Brooks; and
he unhooked his arm from mine and darted away
to lina it into that of another victim, leaving me
to realize, by the cold weight upon my heart, how
completely I had woven the thought of Myra
with all my hopes for the future.
I had only one definite idea—to see Mrs. Al
lingham as soon as possible, and ascertain from
her if she really knew nothing of Myra’s disap
pearance. I determined to see her that very
evening, and to pass the intervening hours—alter
depositing my baggage in the room I had engaged
and interchanging a few words with some ac.
quain ances—l was strolling aimlessly through
the streets, when, on turning the corner of a sub
urban alley, I heard someone near me pronounce
my name. 1 turned quickly, for the voice was
familiar, but it was not until he had grasped both
my honds and pressed them to his heart with
passionate joy, that I recognised Petianello. He
was so changed. The face I had last seen, so
bright with health and youthful enthusiasm, was
fearfully thin and wan, and the blue veins stood
up distinctly on his white brow, and on the poor,
wasted hand that clasped mine. His eyes, too,
those beaptiful, changeful eyes, in which I had
been wont to read every thought that flitted
across his poetic soul, were larger than I had
ever seen thefti, and shone with a feverish bril
liancy, as he raised them to mine.
“ My dear Petranello, what has happened, and
why are you here?” was my involuntary excla
mation, after a hurried survey of his altered fea
tures. t
His lip quivered before he could reply.
“ It is a long story, Paul,” he said, “but—”
“Do not tell me of it now, then,” I interrup
ted, seeing how wak he appeared. “ Come with
me to my room at the hotel; here, take my arm
and we will walk slowly.”
He protested that he was not so weak, but I
drew his hand through my arm and walked on,
‘alking as cheerfully as 1 could until we reached
the St. Chxrles, where I was staying. Then, not
withstanding his protestations against it, I insis
ted upon ordering a glass of wine and some re
freshments, and the avidity with which ho par
took of them, convinced me that food had not
passed his lips before that day.
[To be continued.]
[For the Crusader.]
THE WORKS OF GOD AND WORKS OF MAN.
BY HRS. SUE P. FRANKLIN.
It is a melancholy fact, that the wonderful
truths of the Bible have, from age and long ac
quaintance, become so familiar to many, as to
appear commonplace and not unnatural, espe
cially when compnrcd with the wonderful works
of man. And yet, how insignificant the works of
man—how poor and weak when compared, by a
believing and reflective mind, with those of the
Deity. His works are as far above those of man,
as He, himself, is above His creature of dust;
yet, man’s work is often applauded, and he wor
shipped as a god, while those of God are un-
thought of, and alas I to how many ? utterly un
known.
Let us but look over the Old Testament and
review a few of the many wonders narrated, and
then contrast them with some of man’s greatest
works. At the first glance in thts book, what
do we find ? Whole volumes in the first line :
“In the beginning, God created the Heavens and
the Earth.” Oh, wonder of wonders I Out of
chaos He formed not only Earth, man’s bright
abode; this beautiful, joy-giving world “a fit
haunt for Gods,” where bright flowers bloom
and proud trees wave; where all around, moun
tains and plains, are spread out in wonderful
beauty; where fountains and rivers and oceans
glisten and sparkle in the glorious sunlight: a
world full of blessings, and where beauties are as
thick and numberless as the “gay motes that peo
ple sunbeams;” but He also made Heaven the
home of the pure in heart, a place of whose ’glo
ry no eye hath seen, neither hath it entered into
the heart of man to conceive.
Man discovers worlds that God created ages
upon ages ago, and he becomes the hero of un
born generations ;■ bis applause is greater than
the Maker’s.
God also said; “Let there be light,” and im
mediately dark..ess fled affrighted, and the world
waa made brilliant and visible. What artificial
light has man ever created that can compare
with it ?
After all other things were made, God created
in His own image, man, that now fallen creature
who so oft presumes to equal the works of his
Maker, and to ridicule and even doubt His very
existence. J
Kings have created Kingdoms, Emperors Em
pires, and placed upon them their subjects, who
have rebelled and have been expelled God
made the universe, and placing thereon Adam
and Eve, two creatures fashioned by His own
hand, and made iu His own image, He said- “He
fruitful and multiply.” The Divine mandate was
fulfilled, and the new-made world was, alter a
time, peopled with millions of inhabitants who
also rebelled and did great wickedness ; then was
His anger kindled,
bwift as the lightnings glance he executes
His errand on the wicked.”
He determined to destroy the stupendous work
of Ins hands, and to build up anew world on the
ruins of the old. Behold how terrible is His ven
geance: the fountains of the great deep are bro
ken up; the windows of Heaven opened and the
earth was covered with a flood tbkt no man could
suage : every living thing, save those preserved
in an ark God had caused to be constructed per
ished in the watery element. Has man done any
thing like it ? Cyrus turned the waters of the
river Euphrates from their course, and conquered
his enemy by stratagem, but how weak is this in
comparison 1
Another mighty work of God to which noth
ing in the history of man can be equal— not even
the flight of our forefathers from British tyranny
aud their struggles in this Heaven-blessed lauu •
is the flight of the Israelites. God had chosen
them as a peculiar people, whom He would bring
into a promised land—a land flowing with milk
and honey; but they were in bondage, and a
wicked King refuted to give them up. The
wrath of God is a terrible tiling, and it tell upon
Pharaoh and his people. Seven plagues were
sent to soften his obdurate heart: first, the fishes
of the sea die, causing all the water to become
offensive ; then loathsome frogs infest the land
ufterwards the dust of the earth becomes lice •
even this was not enough ; the cattle through
out the land are infected and die by hundreds
ashes are sprinkled towards Heaven, and falling
upon the inhabitants become boils and b'anes
and still the King rebels ; a grievous hail deso
lates the land and destroys many inhabitants •
then was the air filled, and the land darkened
with the plague of locusts ; this was not enough
aud for three days He sent darkness such as
might be felt. One more plague was theii sent •
a great cry went throughout the land, for God
smote all the first born of Egypt; and finally
when the King relented only to harden his heart
and pursue the released people, God grew even
more terrible, and hurried him and his armies in
the bed of the Bed Sea. Thus doth He punish
transgressors.
Alexandria and Napoleon, for their great bat
tles and renowned deeds, have been Applauded
as demi-gods even to the present age ; they de
stroyed thousands of their enemies at ’the sacri
fice of many valuable lives among their own
men. God gave one single arm strength to slay
with a jaw-bone, a thousand men, and to destroy
ten thousand by lifting the huge pillows of a tem
ple. And on another occasion caused the great
luminary-of day to pause in his westward jour
ney until the enemy- of his people was conquered.
Let us come down to some of the wonderful
works of the present age. Man, by his great
power and wonderful achievements, has invented
means by which he is said to control the wind
and the waves. The work of his hands float in
proud majesty, on the huge billows of old ocean.
The very elements are said to obey him • his
power over steam has enabled him to come in
close contact, aud to engage in commerce with
the whole world. He has connected every por
tion of the earth by a vast net-work of wre
which is running like so many veins over both
the old and the new world. The dweller on the
borders of the Pacific can converse with not only
those on the broad Atlantic, but those in the ex
treme south and east of Europe— all this is the
work of man. Fulton, Morse and lately a Fields
are names never to be forgotten—men whose
works will live for innumerable ages.
But behold how insignificant these, compared
to that higher power. God has himself walkel
upon the ocean waves, and caused one of His
disciples to do likewise. With a still small voice,
He has said : “Peace be still,” and instantly the
billows of the sea slept quietly as an infant.
He speaks with a voice of fire, and the follow
ers of Baal tremble aud acknowledge lie is the
true God. The sound of His voice is heard iu
the thunder; the flashings of His wrath are seen
in the vivid lightning, and weak man shut* his
eyes in trembling awe. With his breath he
touches the proud ship on the ocean wave, and
lo it becomes a helpless wreck; he opens the
bowels of earth, aud in a moment a nation is
swallowed up; he builds a mountain with fire
and lava, and while man gazes upon it as a sim
ple work of nature, the burning liquid rushes
forth aud buries cities beneath its desolating and
hardening power. The ruins of Herculanium
and Pompei are a mournful commentary- on the
weakness of man to resist God’s power.
Man speaks across continents to his fellow
man by the power of electricity. God appeared
in a thick cloud on Mount Sinai and talked to
his people on earth ; from a burning bush he
talked to Moses, calling himself the great “I Am.”
On another occasion he speaks from the far-off
Heavens, in a voice to be beard on earth, saying,
•‘This is my son.” The whisperings and the
thunderings of his voice are heard every hour by
all of earth’s millions, in the lightning and the
whirlwind, in the thunder and in the gentle sigh
ing zephyr.
Man, as if In mockery of God, raps upon a ta
ble and calls up the spirits of the departed to
converse with ; bis hand seizes a pen, and by an
unknown power is said to write strange myste
ries. The deluded imagination of man is car
ried even beyond the bounds of reason ; a whole
continent is seen rapping tables and attempting
to talk with those of the spirit land ; if a few
wise ones whisper, it is a humbug or only the
power of electricity or animal magnetism ; hun
dreds rise up against them to confirm the truth
of the strange fanaticism. Spiritual rappirgs
and writings become the wonder of the age. Can
we dare compare these noises with that voice
which called Samuel—which talked with Abra
ham, or to that which arrested Saul on his way
to Damascus, or these writings with the vision of
Belshazzar, where the fingers of a strange hand
write, in letters of fire, Mene, Meue, Tekel, Uphar
sin ? Well might those words be written agaiust
the spiritual mediums of the present century.
Thus might we proceed for pages, and ever
find some wonder in the book of bookß to put to
shame those of man. We boast of our men of
wisdom and power, and tlien think who was like
Solomon ; those of strength, and say where is a
Sampson ; those of renowned piety and patience
and look in vain for a Job—where is one with
the faith of Abraham ? Our poets are renowned ;
where is one like the Psalmist of old? Our his
torians are learned and wonderful men; what
have they ever written to compare with one book
of the Bible ?
MontictUo, <7d.