Newspaper Page Text
Bs* j§| cmpmuice <{£ ! rn&iuSiT.
JOHN H. SEALS, Editor and Proprietor.
gabies’ Department
—■ ■■=
MARY M. BRYAN, Editresa.
FINLEY JOHNSON AGAIN.
We have on file for publication, two articles —
“ The Death of Rosabelle,” and “ Christian Res
olution,” from the pen of Finley Johnson. Our
our criticism of him a few
weeks previous—will perhaps be surprised, that
he should send us these. But Mr. Johnson has
afforded us a refreshing example of rare candor
and genial good nature, by accepting the castiga
tion in the proper spirit, admitting its justice and
attributing its publication to our real motive —a
wish to induce him to bestow more care upon his
composition, and pique him into doing as well as
he can.
Authors who have written as much as Mr.
Johnson, and who, from having been so frequently
in print, have grown indifferent to praise, are
prone to fall into a careless habil of writing—
throwing off page after page without previous
thought or mental digestion of the subject.
This hasty manner of composing can hardly be
avoided by newspaper writers—especially those
who are every week required to furnish so many
pages of sense or—nonsense from the store-house
of the brain, without time being granted them
for counterbalancing this constant drain upon the
mind, by reading, reflection or observation. But
the habit of careless writing is very fatal to genius,
and should be earnestly guarded against, or, like
it will soon acquire such influence
as to render careful and correct composition im
possible. It is also by no means conducive to
popularity, for the public resent the want of res
pect for their taste and judgment, shown in the
crude effusions of authors, who, they very well
know, are competent to do better.
Mr. Johnson has written a great deal, both for
northern and southern publications; he has seen
his name upon the pages of almest every promi
nent newspaper and magazine in the country ; he
acknowledges that he has lost all desire for praise
or fame, and that it is
“ Only to snip his locks, he follows
The golden-haired Apollo.”
In other words, that money, and not fame, is now
his inspiration. Consequently, he has, of late,
pais more attention to the quantity than the
quality of his compositions, and if our humble
criticism has, as he tells us, had the effect of
“ stinging his ambition and his talent into life
again,” we shall be truly glad of having
written, it. He says, in his letter, with playful
good nature, that he means now to write occa
sionally for our paper, and that his articles shall
not be “ namby pamby” ones, either. He cer
tainly begins well, as our readers will have an
opportunity of judging.
Meantime, he has our warmest sympathy; for
filial affection—the desire to make comfortable
the declining years of a parent, whose life haaheen
devoted to him—is the stimulant of his daily toil.
We do not feel at liberty to disclose the beau
tiful and touching story of his private life, which
he has related to us, or we feel sure that it would
■create an interest in him, at least in the hearts of
•our gentler readers. *
REAL AND COUNTERFEIT ARISTOCRACY.
Charles Reade divided society into two equal
portions by the laconic sentence, “There are nobs
an 4 there are snobs.” Those acquainted with
the elegant language of the Bowery will not need
the explanation, that by snobs are meant the com
monality—the canaille, as the French term them,
and by nobs the bon ton.
But Mr. Reade’s classification is too general.
divisions have numerous shades of dis
tinction, which amount to different classes. The
“ upper circles” (our aunt Sukeys would call
them the “ top of the pot”) are divided into real
and bogus aristocracy. Both of these you will
often find moving side by side in the same society,
but the difference between them is quite as great
as betwptn the eagle of the Andes and that car
uiverous and highly oderiferous bird over which
Mr. Willis went into such raptures during his
recent tour through Virginia. And this differ
ence will make itself apparent, notwithstanding
all the glitter and glamour which wealth, high
connections or other purely adventitious circum
stances may throw .arpund those who have not
obtained from nature or education a true patent
Pinchbeck jewelry, in its attempts
the lustre and color of gold, overdoes
the mark and betrays itself by being too yellow;
the long eared animal of Esop, who, disguised in
a lion’s skin, succeeded in frightening the flocks,
mijJht have sustained his character very well,
had he not attempted to rear; and so, by its
-strenuous’ endeavors to appear highly genteel
and superior, counterfeit aristocracy reveals that
the character it acts is only an assumed one;
that its plumes are not furnished by nature, but
borrowed from circumstances. The asinine ears
will protrude from beneath the ermine cloak of
gentility.
A real lady or gentleman requires no affecta
tions of dress or manner to prove their claim to
the title; it is unmistakably stamped upon the
brow, the step, the eyes, the voice. It is only
the innately vulgar who, unconscious of no su
periority in themselves, resort to the artificial
K&axilliaries of dress and what are called air* —
a very expressive little word which has a good
dear more meaning than Webster assigns to it.
Airs are never observed in the perfectly well bred.
Those who “ feel a nobility within themselves”
have no need of adopting such means of impress
ing tkeir superiority upon others.
When at a concert, while the music is thrilling
you’with its divine sweetness, you hear a mincing,
affected voice behind you languidly pronounce it
all a “stupid humbug,” and wonder how “these
can listen so delightedly to such vile
Wnds,” you may, me*ntally, draw a pretty accu
rate portrait of the speaker, without troubling
yourself to look around. A face profusely cos
meticked and ornamented around with double
rows of little spiral twists, fresh from the curling
tongs, as their odor indicates; a lip, with the
indispensable curl considered as indicative of
haughty contempt, but which, in reality, only
proclaims a dearth of brains, thick wrists, hooped
with bracelets quite up to the elbows,
.and a dress as much too long in the skirt as it is
too short in the cprsage, which is lamentably
scanty about the shoulders and bosom.
•fils picture, drawn with the pencil of fancy,
you may look around and find to correspond al
most exactly with the tout en tembie of Miss Elise
Dominique, of Madison Square, (Eliza Dominick
before her ascension to her present social eleva
tion,) whose father made a fortune at soap boil
ing, and who has consequently stepped forth from
the chrysalis of snobism into the full grown aris-
the glass of fashion and the mold of
form.”
See her how negligently she uses her opera
gl asß handling it so that observers may have
the full benefit of the rings, that sparkle on her
fingers; hear her criticising the scenery, pro-
Bouncing it in shocking bad taste, and none of
the performers worth notice, except a savage
loqkiag brigand, with hair enough on his upper
ike a respectable clothes brush. Him
-“perfect love,” because he has
You will meet the same young lady in Broad
street next morning, a perambulating pyramid of
rainbow silk and laces, making the pavement
ring with the chatter of her high-heeled boots, as
she sails on with her aristocratic nose elevated
in the air, a3 though scenting out everything
plebian. Watch what a contemptuous glance
she bestows upon the poor apple woman, whose
basket her voluminous flounces has just upset,
and with what an air she draws her skirts from
their contaminating contact with the somewhat
worn black silk of a lady whose intelligent coun
tenance, quiet grace and neatness proclaim her
one of the true gentle women of nature.
The grandmother of Miss Elise Dominique car
ried eggs and vegetables to market in a poultry
cart; Miss Elise and her fashionable mama take
their airing on the battery in a magnificently
panneled carriage, decorated with the “family
arms,” which should be a soap stick and cooler,
but which are a nondescript combination of
shield?, swords, stars and garters. Poor Mrs.
Dominique has not the most remote idea what it
means, except that it is considered haut ton to
sport the “ family arms,” and she is not going to
be behind Madame LaMode and Mrs. Fitz Thing
ummy. Her education is limited to a confused
notion of the world’s being “round and like a
ball,” which she learned from Parley’s Elemen
tary Geography, and lately she has acquired from
her accomplished daughter the additional infor
mation that there is another city beside New
York, viz. Paris, which is a very delightful place,
indeed, and whose staple products are bonnets
and robe silks. As for Miss Elise, dress and
matrimony are the only two ideas inside the little
cranium upon whose outer adornment she spends
so much time and money. She has emerged
from a “Finishing School,” highly accomplished
in the art of entering a carriage or a room grace
fully, and having also learned to dance a little
play a little, paint a little and murder French a
good deal. Moreover, Miss Elise has taken the
highest degree of gentility by spending a winter
in Paris with her exquisite brother, Augustus
Fitz Gerald Dominique, the only apparent results
of the visit being an increased crop of sandy hair
on the upper lip of the latter, and a more aristo
cratic elevation of the nasal organ on the part of
both.
This is counterfeit aristocracy on a large scale.
You may find it on a smaller or a similar scale in
every city, town, village or neighborhood in this
so called democratic country. It may be readily
distinguished from real gentility by its general
attributes of arrogance, ignorance, pretentious
ness and supercilious affectation, and by its par
ticular characteristics of huge watch guards,
showy jewelry, gaudy dress and equipage. It
has been satirized and ridiculed adnauseum; but
spite of sarcasm and satirism, it still flourishes,
for its roots strike deep in the rank soil of na
tional error, and it will never be eradicated until
the elements of true nobility—worth and intelli
gence—are properly appreciated and made to
overbalance gold in the scale of popular opinion.
The scheme of general equality—which is such
a favorite dream of reformers—is simply imprac
ticable in the present state of society. There will
be divisions, and society will naturally separate
itself into classes; but virtue and intellect—not
wealth and impudence—should be the qualities
essential to social elevation. Honest industry,
and poor—but virtuous talent—instead of being
crushed under the heel of purse-proud arrogance,
should be honored and commended, and placed
upon the topmost rouuds of the social ladder.
The sweat of hard, honest labor stains many a
brow which nature has stamped with the true
signet of nobility, and many a lady, in the high
est and best acceptation of the term, wears six
pence calico and toils for her daily bread. What
if the garb be faded, if the brow be sun-embrown
ed and the hand hard and horny, so the mind is
refined by piety or by innate purity aud delica
cy, aud the heart is true and honest and gentle ?
“ The man’s the man for a’ that.”
Aye, and the gentle man, too, if he does wear fus
tian and use his own sturdy arms and strong
muscles, in toiling for himself and the dear ones
dependant on his labor. *
NOW AND THEN.
Unclasp an old miniature or daguerreotype of
yourself, taken in childhood or early youth, and
look upon it to-night while the footsteps of the
mournful rain are wandering over the housetop,
and over the sodden ground. Look upon it, if
you can, for it is hard to stand face to face with
even the pictured semblance of ourselves, as we
were years ago, as we are not now, for we change
so rapidly, so wonderfully, so fearfully, that paus
ing sometimes, and looking down into the magic
mirror of memory, we start at beholding ourselves
as we were in time gone by, and almost doubt
our own identity. I speak not now of the outer,
so much as of the inner being. The eye fades,
the lip sheds its roses, the hair loses the glory of
its lustre and luxuriance, but what are these to
the changes that go on within ?
Time plows deeper furrows upon the heart,
than upon the brow. Tears may be effaced from
the cheek, but they are mildew and canker upon
the soul. If the likeness only of our face makes
us shrink as though we looked upon the ghost of
one we had seen dead and buried, how would we
start if there rose before us a picture of our inner
selves, of the heart and the feelings that Time
has so strangely transformed f
There is not one of us who cares to sit down,
in the solitude of midnight, and deliberately face
a memory of himself—compare his present feel
ings with those that filled his breast in some for
mer time.
We do not like to contemplate the changes that
heart and brain have undergone. It oppresses us
with a vague uneasiness ; we feel as though we
were slipping away from ourselves, as though the
very earth we tread was uncertain and might slide
away from beneath our feet.
Across our forward path loom shadows cast by
events yet to come; behind us walk spectres in
the misty twilight of memory. Richard quailed
before the Past; Macbeth before the Future.
And as you Bit, gazing upon the picture of your
self, so altered, more in its expression than its
features, from the lace reflected in yonder mir
ror, memory holds her magic lantern, and the
Camera Obscura of the brain gives a train of
phantoms that go gliding by, and look at us with
so strange a meaning in their eyes, that wetrem
ble as did the King in his haunted tent on Bos
worth’s field of battle.
There is a smile on that pictured lip that tells
of a joy which has since flown from the heart,
like a bird from its ruined nest. You may smile
still; but the smile does not leap up from the
very soul and light upon the lip like a sunbeam
upon a rose.
There is a look in those clear eyes that tells the
old, old story which is written upon the leaves of
every life book —on that page marked with the
passion flowers of youth. A tale oflove, of mur
mured pledges under summer twilight skies, ot
delicious dreamings, of days that glided by with
the halcyon’s downy flight to the young heart,
wrapped in the rosy mantle of its own sweet
thoughts. You smile now at the silliness of that
drsaiu; you flush with shame at the memory of
* that seem now to burn upon your
FOR THE CULTURE OF TRUTH, MORALITY AND LITERARY EXCELLENCE.
cheek ; you wonder if it can be yourself, your
present self, that was then so led away by the
hand of passion, and you smile again to think
how you have changed since then, how indiffer
ently you could now meet the eyes that were
once all the Heaven you cared to gaze upon, how
coolly you could take the hand whose passionate
clasp once sent a thrill of delight through your
frame, how calmly listen to the voice, whose
every murmured word once seemed sweeter than
the harp of Israfil.
How indignantly you would then have repelled
any doubt that such a love would not last for
ever; now, you wonder that you ever bowed in
worship to the broken and discrowned idol that
now lies before you —the Eidolon upon whose
shrine you poured all your heart’s rich, wasted
wine, and lavished all the fresh flowers of youth
ful feeling.
Look again upon the picture: there is a holy
trust —a pure truth upon the brow, that is not
stamped upon yonder image in the glass. Alas,
for the trustfulness of early youth! You have
gained worldly wisdom since then ; but at what
a price—the loss of the sweet faith that made life
so beautiful—the unsuspicious, guileless spirit
that saw its own innocence reflected in every
face; the simplicity that believed the world and
men what they appeared, viewing all through the
medium of its own purity. Alas, that this loving
faith should give way to bitter cynicism—that
you have learned to hear the hiss of the serpent
in the murmured protestations of love and friend
ship, and see the snaky gleam in the smile that
wreathes the lips of those around you !
And, alas, that you, too, have learned to weave
the tangled web of deception, to mask the face
and school the voice, to utter words you feel not,
and smile when you wish to weep, and look sad
when you are simply indifferent! Ah ! you have
lost the perfect truthfulness of earlier days, and
after life‘has nothing to repay you for the lost
treasure. You hardly dare look at the calm, re
buking openness of that pictured brow. The
wind, before whose blast the old oak shivers and
wrings piteously its brown and withered hands,
seems the voice of an accusing spirit. You shut
the picture, which has been the charm to call up
all these phantoms, and the panorama ofthepast,
with its ruined hopes, its blasted joys, its dead
loves, its withered friendships and shattered
faiths, fades from the Camera Obscura of mem
ory. *
THE FOREST RIVER.
BY MARY E. BRYAN.
Stream of the forest, wild and lone,
With solemn trees above thee bending,
Through whose stirred leaves, with joyous tone,
The iark his matin hymn is sending.
Voice of the wood, wild echoes waking,
Laving thy banks with kisses pure ;
Now, into laughing dimples breaking—
Now, mirroring Heaven’s own changeless blue.
Wrapped in deep memories, once more,
I stand thy lonely banks beside,
And watch, as oft in days of yore,
The changeful beauty of thy tide.
And pure as thy own waters clear
Was then this saddened heart of mine,
And on the echoing morning air,
My voice rang free and blithe as thine.
I’ve seen thee when thy banks were clad
In all their gorgeous summer bloom ;
When strange bright birds, with voices glad,
Called from their bowers of rich perfume;
And thou, pride of the forest, rolled,
Fringed deeply by the bending willows;
And then I sighed not to behold
The Ocean, with its heaving billows,
And deemed Earth had no fairer sight,
No stream more beautiful and bold
Than thine, bathed in the glorious light,
That turned thy waters into gold ;
And when pale, musing Autumn, fraught
With a strange beauty all her own,
Stole o’er thee like a spell, and taught
Even thy glad voice a plaintive tone.
And high her rainbow banners hung
Upon thy lofty forest bowers,
While low the wailing breezes sung
The requiem of the fading flowers.
I’ve stood and gazed where round thee lay
The woods, in warm, rich billows rolled,
(The imperial shroud of Earth’s decay,)
Os mingling crimson, brown and gold,
And dreamed thou wert some fairy stream,
Winding through an enchanted land,
While Fancy lent a golden gleam
To thy pure wave rnd sparkling strand.
And when upon thy slumbering Stream-
Lulled by the south wind’s soft caressing—
Stole the sweet “ Indian summer dream,”
The dying summer’s parting blessing,
How sweet in those delicious days
Os softening passion, soothing power;
Os mellow light and silvery haze,
To dream away some noontide hour,
While at my feet thy eddies curl,
And fitful shadows o’er thee quiver,
To watch the sky’s soft clouds of pearl,
Deep in thy bosom, peaceful river.
And even when Winier’s icy hand,
Thee, of thy leafy pride has shorn,
And leaves and flowers —a faded band
Adorn thy darkened stream were borne ;
When swayed the sad festooning moss,
Like mournful fun’ral banners trailing,
And threw a gloomy shade across
Thy waters, that were wildly wailing.
When on thy banks, devoid of bloom,
Was heard the night owl’s ghostly shiver,
Yet, even amid thy dreary gloom,
Thou still wert dear, my Forest River.
And now, although long years have flown
Since first I watched thy gentle motion,
And on its heaving bosom borne,
I’ve gazed upon the shoreless ocean.
I’ve listened to its thunders loud,
And, mirrored in thy mighty stream,
Father of Rivers, bold and proud,
I’ve seen the fading sunlight gleam;
Yet, not less lovely seem’st thou now—
More dear and beautiful than ever
Stream, that hast laved my infant brow—
My own wild Forest River.
LETTER TO A YOUNG LADY.
HOW TO BB HAPPY.
BY MBS 80S P. FRANKLIN.
Wk all know that the persuit of happiness is’
the one great object of man’s existence —the end
and aim of all his desires, and many and various
are the ways and means used to acquire this val
uable prize. As none are more eager in the per
suit than young maidens, I would, without vainly
argoating to myself superior ability, point out to
the very young some of the avenues leading to
the treasure. Would that I had the power, not
only to point out the way, but to lead your
eager footsteps therein ; would that I could re
veal to you vividly the mighty maelstrom upon
whose verge you ‘stand, and induce you to
turn ere you are plunged into its dismal vortex.
Ah! young maiden, full of hope, of youth, fcf
happiness, you are just about entering society;
pause a while on the threshhold and heed a voice
of warning. You are in the morning of life;
visions of happiness glitter in the brighest color
ing before your mind; everything seems bright,
and you are living only in the present; life is a
beautiful glowing picture; no shadows flit o’er
the sunlight; joy and hope carol merry lays in
your delighted ear; leaf and flower and tree are
all bright, all -beautiful; bird and insect, and all
of earth’s million of voices seem engaged in a
grand concert for your benefit; the blessed air
and the bright sunshine woo you like loving
friends; every where joys spring up around you
—even the water brooks laugh a merry song as
you pass ; earth and life seem naught but a bless
ing and delight. But maiden, time’s chariot
wheels which are rolling on, unheeded by you,
I will crush much of the beauty out of this picture
Atlanta, Greoirgia, IVtarcli IS, 1859.
Your life cannot, then, be always bright and
glowing, but it need not be so dark as some
would make it. If, then, young maiden, you
would avoid much unhappiness, endeavor first
and above all things to cultivate a contented spirit;
for, without this, there is no pleasure in life, but
constant heart grief and repinings ; aggravations
that sour and envenom the disposition; earnest
longings for the unattainable, that end in disap
pointments and vexations; but the possession of
this jewel will give you a bed of down and pil
lows of rose leaves ; will gild life’s pictures in
glowing colors, give a relish to every enjoyment
and enhance every blessing. Try always to be
like the Persian poet Saadi, who never complain
ed of his condition but once, and then he had no
money to buy shoes to cover his bare feet. About
this time he met a man without feet, and became
contented with his lot, thinking, like a wise man,
that it was better to have feet without shoes than
to have no feet at all. You may inquire, how am
Ito obtain this contented spirit ? I answer, not
without an effort. Do not wrap yourself up in
pleasant dreams and wait for the future to reveal
them, for you will hardly realize the most sober
one of them. Spend no time in the pursuit of
gilded trifles; no matter what be your position
in life or how high the order of your genius, there
is still much for you to do. Always have before
you a worthy object of pursuit, and prosecute
your aims with vigilance and untiring energy.
Nothing worth possessing can ever be gained save
by exertion. Unceasing effort is worth more
than rare genius; for that, however feeble, will
at last accomplish its end. The ceaseless effort
of tke coral insect builds a mountain in the ocean
constantly dropping water wears away the hard
est rocks, constant employment can alone accom
plish great things, and is the best antidote for
unhappiness; the surest means of gaining aeon
tented spirit. The mind constantly employed has
no time to murmur and find miseries in every
passing event. First, then, let the object of your
pursuit be a worthy one, and upon it concentrate
all your energies; let the motives which urge
you to action be founded upon virtue. Though
an oft quoted maxim, it is, nevertheless, one of
much truth, that virtue is the only road to hap
piness. Cultivate it, then, and treasure it more
than the rarest diamonds, for it can bring you a
contented spirit. Obey the dictates of your con
science and crush every thought and wish which
is the offspring of idleness and vanity.
Another way, young maiden, to avoid unhap
piness, is to beware of the flatterer’s tongue, for
it is covered with delicious poison, which will be
sweeter to the taste than “ honey or the honey
comb,” but you will find it most unsavory in the
end—worse than gall or wormwood. It may
now be most delectable to the taste, may charm
and ravish you with its sweetness, but mingled
with the sweetness is a sting that will lacerate
you; a bitterness that will disgust and nauseate
you, should you quaff too greedily the poison.
And no one meets with more venders of this
poison than young ladies, particularly those who
have any pretentions to beauty; and should your
purse be filled with gold—that glittering god that
men worship—you will be surrounded every
where by these flatterers—vain sycophants, who
would lure you to ruin—not always through a
premeditated design, or from a desire to injure
you, but oftener for a selfish gratification, that
they may win your favor, attract your attention
and be enlisted in your train as a satellite.
Ofliers flatter because they take a heartless pleas
ure in deluding the young and unsuspecting.
Both of these classes you will find principally
among the young men whith whom you associ
ate. You will meet them on the street; they
watch your coming and are ready with a forged
smile and a fascinating bow to assist you over
crossings, to walk with you, to fan you, to take
your bundles home for you, to tell you how well
you look, how much attention you attract on the
street, and to mention what a disappointment it
was to every body that you were not at the last
ball, or what interest your presence added to the
theatre or concert. You will find them at church,
peeping at you boldly, but in a way they wish
you to imagine is done slyly; they will gaze half
an hour, waiting to catch your eye and then turn
suddenly as if they had been detected against
their will; they will often sigh audibly, look
again before you have time to fix your attention
on the sermon, and then whisper to the nearest
friend and cast upon you another admiringglance;
they will be at the door to assist you out, to hand
your hymn book or handkerchief, should they
chance to fall; they will come into your parlors
dressed at the tip of the fashion; in cloth, fine
linen and showy jewelry; will be well supplied
with choice compliments and all the news of the
day, with which to make themselves agreeable;
they will praise your home, your dress, your flow
ers, your books, your good taste, and use every
means to flatter you; will often remain until the
clock begins to tell “the short hours,” only to
make you believe that your company is so pleas
ing as to cause “ time to steal by on downy feet.”
even as the fatal car of Juggernaut crushes life
and beauty out of its deluded victims.
In your happiness, all this is unheeded until
the change comes—time’s wheels have crashed
out all beauty. The picture, once so bright, has
grown dark and gloomy; shadows obscure the
sunlight; the sombre spirit of gloom presides
over everything; hope’s syren voice is hashed;
tree and flower present no beajuty to your weary
eyes ; the music of nature which floated by in
soft Eolian strains is now but a discordant mur
mur; friends smile aroand in vain ; their cheerful
voices no longer give pleasure; the brook only
murmurs a song of discontent; earth seems for
the time a prison-house, and life a dull drudgery.
This seems a gloomy change, but such changes
must come; there is no life without change. It
hovers with blighting wing over everything; even
the beautiful flower that unfolds its delicate pe
tals to welcome the first ray of the morning sun,
often withers ere that sun has reached its merid
ian. The proud forest oak which has withstood
the storms for ages and still stretches its giantarms
to the winter blast, seems to defy the touch of
time; but even here, change is daily marking
lines, and soon it will lie a blasted wreck among
the ruins of the tornado. The proudest monu
ments, the most gorgeous palaces, the greatest
achievements of human skill or genius can not
be made to last forever. Does not the Partheon
one of the greatest works of art now lie in ruins?
And thus change is written on everything, from
the tiniest flower that adorns the forest to the
proudest work of art. Even the earth upon
which we live is constantly undergoing changes.
In many deep caverns lie buried shells and stones
that once lay upon the earth’s surface; high pro
montories now bathe their summits in the storm
cloud in places where once only a broad plain
met the eye. Petrifying waters roll over soft
substances and change them to hardest stone,
while other waters roll over rocks and wear them
away, changing even the beds of rivers.
If all these things, then, are subject to change,
can man, “ that pendulum ’twixt a smile and a
tear,” hope to escape a like fate? Is he not sub
ject to even more changes?
Ah! young maiden, appear not well pleased at
the arts of these flatterers ; it will only add in
terest to the story they have already planned to
amuse the first friend they meet. They pour out
flattery as easily as the breeze shakes dew from
the forest leaves. Maiden, let it not be honey to
you; they would sip all freshness from your
heart, even as the sun drinks up the life-giving
dew from the fresh opened violet. Let not the
honeyed words and smooth sentences —which
his tongue has so often practiced that they roll
forth with ease—be recorded in the “red-leaved
volume of your heart 5” they will sear the bright
leaves and spread a poison over them that will
change your whole nature, so that you become
no better than he who deceived you with vani
ties. Listen not with pleased ear and smiling
lips; those words may yet write lines upon your
now young brow, and cheat the roses of their
resting place on your cheek, for you are but mor
tal, and not the angel of loveliness he would
make you believe yourself to be. To win your
sympathy and affection, some of these flatterers
will tell you that
“ ’Tig his fate to love and only m’et with hate.”
To such, be ever ready to make the same reply
Marian did—
“ No, ’tis to sue—to gain—deceive—
To tire of—to neglect and leave;
To other maids thou’lt fondly swear,
As thou hast sworn to me.”
All these things you will meet with in life.
Young maiden, will you be warned in time, or
will you be, like the
u Silly nestlings, warned in vain,
Until your heart’s young joys are flown ?”
Moniicello Oa.
PAUL DESMOND.
A STORY OF SOUTHBRX LIFE.
BV HAST E. BRYAN.
(Continued from last week.)
CHAPTER X.
In the loneliest and loveliest spot of the city
cemetery, where the drooping cedars sprinkled
the turf beneath plentifully with shadow, rose
a plain slab of white marble, its motto a lily bud,
broken from its stalk, and beneath this, only the
words,
“Little Charlie,
our bud, gathered to blossom in Heaven.”
This was all to remind the world of one who
had been an actor on its mighty stage, but whose
role had been a brief one, and whose little life
had been, indeed, the “flower of an hour”—living
in beauty, dying in fragrance and purity. His
mother, after a few days of hysterical weeping,
had turned for consolation to the society of
“ cousin Elliott,” and the comforting reflection
that black crape was becoming to her delicate
complexion. His father’s stoical philosophy bade
him look indifferently upon everything, but there
was one who, although she made no violent de
monstrations of grief, was yet desolate and lonely
enough, since the death of the little one whose
sweet face had brightened her study like a stray
sunbeam, and who was never so happy as when
his head lay next the heart to whom its every
silken curl was dear.
Mis. Atheling thought Myra cold and unfeel
ing; she did not see, as I did, her eyes fill and
her lip tremble when she came suddenly upon
Charlie’s little plaything, or was reminded of his
sweet, thoughtful ways.
To Charlie’s grave I had gone oife evening,
hoping that its tranquilizing stillness and solem
nity might calm the spirit of unrest in my heart.
The soft turf deadened the sound of my footsteps,
and it was not until I had approached quite near,
that I discerned Myra’s dark dress through the
foliage and caught a glimpse of her pale, sad
face. Her Bible lay open on the slab before her
—a handful of wild flowers placed upon it to
mark the page, for she was not reading now, but
sitting, with arms crossed on the marble before
her. and eyes looking out in that far vacancy at
which we always gaze when our musings are at
once sad and deep. The chirp of a bird over
head broke upon her revery. She closed the
book, taking out the flowers and placing them
upon the tomb.
“ Ah Charlie!” she said, “it would be sweeter,
it seems, to lie here and sleep by your side the
sleep that knows no troubled waking, than to go
back to my lonely, loveless life, walking the
tread-mill of daily duty without one to care
whether lam sad or happy. I have no one in
the wide world to love me, now that you are
gone.”
I came forward now, and, kneeling down be
side her, I told her of one other love that had
been faithfully hers for years; of one heart that
would ask of Heaven no better boon than the
privilege of making her happy.
She did not withdraw her hand from mine.
She did not repulse me when I bent down and
pressed my lips to the forehead that was bowed
upon the marble slab. Reverently was that kiss
the first I had ever given a woman—laid upon
her brow; for, with my love for her was blent
much of respect and veneration for her purity
and elevation of character.
Ah ! how fair to me seemed that 3tilly Sab
bath evening; how beautiful appeared the fu
ture, viewed through the sunny medium of the
happy present; how suddenly life seemed rich
with blessings, and earth almost an Eden of bliss
and beauty!
“ And you loved me withal,” I said, as we
walked slowly homeward; “ but I should never
have guessed it—you were so indifferent and so
reserved. I know you are not naturally demon
strative, but to me you were sometimes positively
cold. How could you so mask your real feel
ings?”
“It was because I did love you,” she said,
and wished to conceal it, fori believed you
were soon to return and marry Mrs. Allingham.”
“ Is it possible that you had not forgotten that
old suspicion ?”
“Not that. I was not thinking of ‘Hang Syne,’
for your explanation, at the time, was amply
sufficient; but I remembered that you formerly
admired her, and soon after we met here, I learned
from you that Mrs. Allingham and yourself cor
responded.”
“She had written to me—a letter, half gossip
ping, half sentimental, and I had replied to it in
a commonplace manner and informed her that I
had met’ you, though not mentioning my belief
that ahe knew of your being here before ; because
there is a bare possibility that the servant never
delivered her your note. Was that all your
grounds for such a fancy ?”
“Not quite. She wrote to me, also, inviting
me to Allingham Place, mentioning an intended
change of circumstances, and adding, though not
exactly In the same connection, that she expected
to leave New Orleans as soon as you returned.
My inference, that you were to be married to her,
was a very natural one, particularly when I re
membered your former admiration of her. But
let us not talk of this any longer. I understand
it all, and am perfectly satisfied.
What else is it you wish to ask me now?”
“About my rival; you have not forgotten him
—Herman Rodenstein.”
Old Series, Volume XXV. —New Series, Volume IV. No. 12
She flushed a little beneath my half smiling,
half serious look, but turned her clear, candid
eyes full upon me.
“He is not forgotten,” she said. “I thiek of
him often, with a prayer for his welfare and a
hope that he is prosperous and happy. I wish
I knew that he was ; but I do not care to see him
again. Ido not love him, Paul; I think now
that I never did; my heart was not mature
enough for that. Admiration and passion are of
sudden growth, but it requires time and riper
judgment and deeper experience for the develop
ment of love.”
We were at the door of her chamber. She
said goodnight as placidly and gave me her band
as quietly almost as ever ; but I could olad her
eyes now, and I knew that, though calm, she was
not cold.
Two days afterwards, a letter came to me from
my aunt, speaking of loneliness, of failing health
and imploring me to return. I gave the letter to
Myra for perusal.
“What shall I do?” I asked, after she had
finished it and was folding it again, with a
thoughtful look upon her face.
“ Go, by all means,” she said, after a pause.
“It is your duty. I shall miss you, of course,
but Petranello and I will mutually console and
take care of each other until your return.”
I smiled to think how differently Nettie Gris
wold, or almost any other young girl, would have
spoken under the circumstances; but I under
stood Myra so well, that the slight tremor in her
voice, when she bade me go, was more eloquent
than tears and entreaties would have been from
a Nettie Griswold.
So I made hurried preparations for leaving
Havanna the ensuing day.
CHAPTER XI.
Myra had said, previous to my departure : “If
it will not be an inconvenience to you, Paul, I
would be glad to have you pass by ‘ Rock Ridge,’
on your way, and see what can be done with it.
Remember, it is the only dower your bride will
bring you.”
“My bride will bring me a richer dower than
the wealth of the Indias, in her own noble self,”
had been my reply, but I nevertheless promised
to visit Rock Rridge before my return.
It was for this purpose that I took a private
conveyance, and went a few miles out of my way,
finding myself in a wild, woody, and yet, as I
was informed, rather thickly settled neigh
borhood. After a few hours’ travel, I crossed,
first, a considerable stream, where the waters
rushed and foamed over the rocks, and then passed
a narrow belt of forest, where the boughs met
above me and the interlacing vines shook their
purple berries around my head. Emerging from
this, I beheld, crowning the high, rocky hill, the
brown cottage of Rock Ridge, with a grove of old
chestnuts around it, looking like the nest of some
sea bird up among the gray cliffs. I was more
favorably impressed with its appearance than I
had expected I should be. The buildiug and its
surroundings, indeed, bore the traces of long neg
lect. Part of the paling had fallen ; the rest was
only held together by the interlacing vines of the
Cherokee rose. The balustrade of the piazza
was partly destroyed, windows were broken,
blinds were gone and the piazza itself was draped
by struggling rose vines, that encroached upon
the door, as though Silence and Solitude sought
to barr all human ingress to the abode they
seemed to have claimed for their own. I left my •
barouche and walked around it, noticing that the
house was not an old one, and that the slight
repairs it needed could readily be made. The
land belonging to it was not nearly so bad as
Seymour had represented it. A little time and
labor would render it very good soil. On the
whole, I was rather pleased with Rock Ridge. I
even thought Myra might like it for her home.
The old chestnuts were magnificent trees, and
the air, in so elevated a situation, must needs he
pure and healthful. In addition to this, it was
scarcely more than half a day’s journey from
Valley Farm, for I arrived there that evening
about nightfall. Every thing wore a gloomy
aspect. The wind swept with a sepulchral shud
der through the ancient trees, and the shadows |
loomed up darkly around the old mansion, while
from the windows of a single chamber came only
a flickering light, instead of the cheerful blaze
I had expected. Annette answsred my knock, j
but did not recognize me in the dim light.
“Is your mistress at home?” I asked.
“ Yes, Sir, but she is quite indisposed. I will
ask her if she will see you.”
She went in, leaving the door of the setting
room ajar.
“No,” I heard my aunt reply, impatiently; “I
am too ill to see any one. Business again, I sup
pose.”*
I stole in and walked softly along the carpeted
floor.
“ Aunt,” I said, kneeling down by her easy
chair, “ it is I—Paul.”
In an instant her illness was forgotten, her
arms were around me and she was laughing and
crying alternately.
“ Oh ! I am so thankful that you have come at
lastj” she found breath to say, as she sank back
into her chair and used her viniagrette. “ I was
afraid you would come too late. I have lost all
hope of recovering my health. I have had half-’
a-dozen physicians in succession, and dismissed
them all. You see how changed I am.”
I saw, indeed, that she was slightly paler and
thinner than when I left her, but this was all; I
could discern no indications of settled disease.
I saw that her mind dwelt constantly upon her
illness, and I let her describe to me the general
symptoms —headache, lassitude, want of appe
tite, distaste for everything. I was at a loss
where to locate the disease. At length she spoke
of loneliness and ennui, and I thought I had found
a clue to her illness. Now that she was no longer
single, and dress and gayety had lost their prin
cipal charm, she had nothing in which to inter
est herself, for aunt Bettie superintended the
housekeeping, as she had done for years, and
every comfort was at her command, without any
exertion on her part.
While we were conversing, Mr. Green saun
tered into the room, in his dressing gown and
slippers, with a pen behind his ear and profes
sional ink spots on his fingers.
“Welcome to the shades of Vallambrosa!”
he said, extending those literary digits. “We
have been expecting you a long time. The Rud
ersheim you sent me, I hoped to have had the
pleasure of drinking with you; but it is nearly
all gone. It was excellent, and lam under great
obligations to you for remembering my favorite
wine.”
“And the German manuscripts.”
“Ah ! yes; I had forgotten. I have not quite
finished translating them yet. They are very
fine.”
“The shells you sent me, Paul, were beauti
ful,” said my aunt. “ Come with me to my
dressing room and see what an exquisite bijou
I have had made of them.”
I rose early next morning for a long ramble
through tbs dswv fields, greeting the delighted
negroes, answering their numerous questions and
giving to my old favorites among them the little
presents I had brought as tokens of remembrance.
On returning, I found my aunt out on the piazza,
looking brighter and more cheerful than on the
preceding evening. My arrival had afforded her
the excitement her dormant faculties needed, but
I feared it would not last.
“And so you have been very lonely,” I said,
passing my arm a~ound her, after I had praised
her neat breakfast cap. (I really thought it
much more becoming than the false ringlets she
used to wear.)
“ Oh! yes, very lonely, indeed—especially
since Zoe Forrester left. Mr. Green objected to
taking our usual pleasure trip last summer, and,
to tell the truth, I had too little strength (too lit
tle energy, she might have said) for the labor of
packing and preparing. Mr. Green is such poor
company always in his library. I suppose it : s
the way with all literary people; though what he
does there, lam sure I can’t imagine. I have
never seen a page he has published, and the vol
ume of poems he wished to dedicate to ms, has
never seen the light.”
“So your sonnet went for nothing,” I said,
laughing. “ But do you never visit, aunt?”
“Oh yes, occasionally ; but I find it such a
bore to put on my best dress and bonnet, and sit
for a few ceremonious hours in Mrs. Loyd’s or
Mrs. Daggett’s chilly drawing-room. You know
I never was on intimate terms with any of my
neighbors. I stayed so little at Valley Farm,
and your society was always sufficient. How
the old time people could endure to spend an
entire day, sometimes several days, with each
other, I cannot comprehend 1”
“ They always carried their sewing or knitting,
did they not?”
“ Yes; but why do you ask ?”
“ They carried their work, and while their knit
ting needles flew with untiring rapidity, they
walked about inspecting each other’s gardens,
poultry yard and dairy, and holding animated
discussions about various branches of housekeep
ing. Was not that the way they managed ?”
“ les ; but you know, Paul, that is very un
fashionable now,” and my aunt colored a little.
“You are drawing upon your remembrance of
your grandmother and good aunt Hester. Ladies
don’t knit woolen socks and feed pigs and chick
ens now.”
“No; but it would be better for their health
and spirits, perhaps, if they did. Did you know
that a little wholesome work is the very best
medicine in the world for the headache—aye, and
the heartache too? It is a sure antidote for en.
nui.”
We were summoned to the breakfast room, and
after the .meal was over, I mounted Grayson,
whom I found as graceful and spirited as ever,
and enjoyed a delightful ride around the beau
tiful environs of Valley Farm. It was joy
to inhale the bracing air and look upon the rug
ged mountain scenery, after the warm atmos
phere and uniform beauty of tropical Cuba. New
life and vigor went thrilling through my nerves
as I rode up among the hills, where the great
pines tossed their arms defiantly to the winds and
across little streams, whose leaf-tinged waters
leaped and sparkled awhile in the sunshine, then
fell over ledges of rock, and stole away with a
low laughter to hide themselves in the loiest.
I drew up in front of a little log cabin to ask a
drink of water of the curly-haired girl,’ who
was filling her pail at the well. It was not
so much the water I wanted, as a pretext to pduse
and admire the very rare and beautiful vine that
festooned the paling with its delicate foliage, and
reaching up its flowery arms, had clasped them
around the elm tree that shaded the well. It was
singular, at that season of the year, to see such
a flush of luxuriant bloom.
“ hat is its name ! I asked of the pretty girl
who had given me the water.
“It has a name, Sir,” she said, “but I forget
it. Miss Zoe planted it here herself, for Effie, my
sister, who was sick so long. She said it grew
very fast, and, as we had no flowers, Effie might
like to lie by the window and watch the bees
and butterflies buzzing about it.”
“Zoe?” said I, recollecting that I had heard
my aunt mention that name before.
“Miss Zoe Forrester,” she replied, turning
from me to driveaway the pigeon that had perched
upon her pail.
I rode away from die cottage, but before I had
reached home, I again heard Zoe Forrester spo
ken of. A pale, fair haired boy of eight or nine
summers was sitting on the grass in front of a
farm-house as I passed. His crutches, lying be
side him, told of his misfortune. He was caress
ing a pretty fox squirrel sitting upright on his
knee, with eyes that twinkled mischievously, and
fur of shining black.
“What a pretty pet you have !” I exclaimed,
throwing him a handful of nuts I chanced to have
in my pocket.
“Thank you, sir,” cried the boy, looking up
with bright, intelligent eyes. “Here, Zoe, see
what a feast for you !”
“Zoe?” I repeated ; “why do you call it Zoe ?”
“After the lady who gave it to him, sir,” said
the pleased father of the boy, leaning over the
garden fence, with his rake in his hand. “Miss
Forrester, Zoe Forrester, is her name, and a
blessed gift has this been to the poor lad. You
know, sir, on account of his misfortune, he is not
able to play and work about like, his brothers ;
but all winter time he sits making baskets by the
fireside, and in pleasant weather, he works out
here under the shade of the trees. But he took
to pining and moping and looking so melancholy
and sad-like, till it made my heart ache to see
him, until Miss Zoe, bless her kind heart, brought
him this squirrel foraplay-fellow. ‘lt will amuse
you, Andrew,’ says she, and sure enough I ne
ver saw such a change as it brought about in the
boy. He has taught it a number of the queerest
tricks you ever saw, and I do think sometimes it
has as much cunning as a human.”
Zoe Forrester again! I had become slightly
curious to learn something of this lady, and de
termined to inquire of my aunt about her the first
opportunity that presented itself. “She seems
a person of some sensibility and delicate consid
eration,” I said to myself, as I rode slowly home
ward. “Doubtless a quiet, motherly spinster,
who would prove an interesting acquaintance.”
“Who is this Zoe Forrester?” I asked of my
aunt that evening, as we sat conversing in her
pleasant little dressing-room.
“Why, do you not remember ? bo; I forget;
you were both small children when you used to
play together. She is a distant relation of yours
—a third cousin, I believe. You remember old
Dr. Fot tester, who lived near you before your
father’s death?”
“Oh l perfectly; but had he a daughter?”
“Yes, and she used to be a play-mate ofyours,
though you have forgotten each other, I dare say.
Her aunt took her to her home in Nashville, af
ter the death of her mother, and kept her until
she was nearly grown.
Dr. Forres'er moved to our neighborhood about
three years ago; but Zoe is as well known as
though she had resided here all her life.”
“Why is she so celebrated?” I asked ; “is she
very accomplished ?”
“She does not understand a word of French or
a note of music; but she reads the old Latin and
Greek authors aloud to her father, in addition to
his voluminous medical books, for though too
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