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JOHN H. SEALS, Editor and Proprietor. Justs’ department MARY E. BRYAN, Editress. GODEY AND ARTHUR. TOksb two rival magazines have reached us in advance of the other monthlies. Godey is as brilliant and as full of sparkling variety as usual, and Arthur as chaste, interesting and elegant. Both are emphatically Home books, combining use and ornament, and are as beautiful upon the draw ifg-room centre-table as they are serviceable in the nursery, the sick room or the kitchen. Mrs. Haven finishes her charming story, “ Content,” in the present number of the Lady's Book , and Mary Janvrin, author of the “ Stolen Will,” has in it a pleasant, piquant sketch, called “ The Em broidered Hankerchief, or, How a Piccolomaniac was Cured.” Centre Table Gossip, the Fashion Department and the numerous illustrations are admirable as they always are. Home Magazine, though not boasting so many pages or such variety of embellishments as its older rival, is fully its equal in literary merit, and the Mothers’ Department, Boys’ and Gteis’ Treasury and. Editor's Department are well conducted. The new serial, “ Wait and See,” from the pen of Miss Tewnsend, Mr. Arthur’s ac qjjmplished associate, is still continued and in creases constantly in interest. * THE FLY-LEAF. That handsome building, the'College Temple, in the pretty town of Newnan, must be the very bower of {he Muses, judging from the Leaf, which four times a year (one for each season) e/ihes to us from its charmed precincts. Instead / of a “leaf,” we should call it a perfect garland of the freshest and sweetest buds and flowers that ever youthful fingers wove. The present number comes to us in anew dress, _with a handsomely designed cover and twenty four treble-columned pages of original matter, contributed (with the exception of Mr. Stacy’s pjiize essay) by the Alumna: and the Senior class of College Temple. We can see in the copious, strong and correct language of some of those in experienced young writers, evidences of the suc qess of Mr. Kellogg’s—the President’s—plan of insisting upon a thorough course of Latin and Mathematics with his pupils. Th q Fly-Leaf reflects honor upon him and the college over which he presides, and should re ceive liberal patronage and encouragement. ■& ISA CRAIG. The recent Centenary of the poet Burns was celebrated enthusiastically in the United States, as well as in England and Scotland. The most renowned poets of each country contributed odes and lyrics for the occasion. At the celebration in the Crystal Palace of London, a prize of two httMrtfred and fifty dollars was awarded to the au **"thor of the best poem on the Centenary of the great Scotch bard. There were six hundred and twenty competitors, and the successful one was Announced as Isa Craig. Isa Craig ! The name was unknown to the constellated literati, that graced the crowded palace. “ Who is Isa Craig?” was asked as often and as eagerly as the ques tion, “ Who it James Buchanan ?” was propoun ded by the anxious public when that gentleman ‘was nominated for the presidency. Isa Craig was not present to receive her laurels, but the admiring audience ascertained that the author of the ode to which they had listened was a Scotch girl—an orphan, supporting herself by her own strong brain and hands—who had previously a small volume of fugitive pieces, en- “Poems by Isa.” The prize ode is a noble one. The last verse, which we give below, is sufficient to prove the author a true priestess in the temple of divine Poesy. The surest indication of the genuine poet is his recognition of the high importance of the gift to which he lays claim, and of the nobility af its mission. The true bard—though a timid woman—will magnify her office and be bold as an Amazon in asserting its high claims. The following’ is the last verse of the ode in question: For doth not song rj g belong ? ’ Is it not given wherever tears can fall; Wherever hearts can melt or blushes glow, Or mirth and sadness mingle as they flow, A heritage to all? * A SOUTHERN ENTERPRISE. J. C. Blackburn, of the Lumpkin Palladium, has sent us the prospectus of his contemplated work—“ The Southern Literary Compend”—the design of which is to collect, in permanent form, the gems of prose and poetry that Southern genius has so lavishly cast into the sea of periodical lit erature. Several works similar to the one proposed by Blackburn, have already been published by Northern compilers. The most recent of these, ii Mr. Dana’s book of American poets; Gris wold’s is extensively known, and Robert Bon ner’s work of the same kind is now, we believe, in press. But in none of these has Southern genius been properly represented, or Southern literature found more than a narrow niche. 44.S we have so few magazines among us, and the facilities for publishing books are, in the extreme Southern States, so limited, many of our most promising writers have appeared only in the columns of the newspaper—'that most per ishable of all the vehicles of thought. Thus many a real gem has been unwittingly cast aside with the mass of daily or weekly rubbish. To collect these, and give them to the public in the durable form of a handsomely bound volume, is the design of Mr. Blackburn. He proposes, also, to enrich his book with elegant steel engraved likenesses of the most prominent Southern wri ters. The enterprise is one of considerable magnitude, ”'£ut Mr. Blackburn has energy, perseverance and enthusiasm, and if he meets with proper encour agement, we have no doubt of his success. Three <tjllar3 is to be the price of the book, and when we take into consideration the number of engra vings with which it is to be embellished, it is sufficiently cheap. We subjoin the prospectus of the work . A. Nbw Southern Book.— The undersigned pro poses publishing, provided he meets with suffi cient encouragement, anew work, to be called The Southern Literary Compend.” The work will be published in fine style, containing about thre<* hundred pages and embellished with cor rect steel engraved likenesses of eminent South ern writers. As it will cost a large amount of i money to publish the proposed work, he will sell .it only to subscribers. Those who wish the book . can give their names to the undersigned, and if a sufficient number is obtained, the work will be published; if it will be declined. This is no humbug, but an humble effort to collect, in a neat volume, many a literary waif of rarest value, that otherwise must be lost Among the collec tions wiU be found articles from Wilde, Simms, .J lock, Mrs. Bryan, Jenny Woodbine and fathers, who have contributed greatly to the pro- K>tiua or Southern Literature. ‘ 1 Terms, oer copy, payaote on delivery. posed work, and will, in the event we succeed in having it issued, present each with a copy who may publish this prospectus. J. C. C. BLACKBURN. Lumpkin, Oa. March 10, 1859. , NEW STYLES AND NEW GOODS. Ip the world, as some croakers would have us believe, is retrogading in morals as it grows older, it is certainly improving constantly in taste. It is really marvelous, what a degree of artistic skill isdisplayed in articles of modern dress, especially those prepared for feminine wear. There is real poetry in the beautiful and chastely designed spring fabrics that now lie piled upon the coun ters of our city establishments, like heaps of roses, tulips and hyacinths, around which ladies are fluttering as so many butterflies around veri table beds of flowers. The dress patterns are of every conceivable variety. Muslins, which, in delicacy of color, beauty of design and fineness of texture, are al most equal to those wonderful fabrics furnished only by the looms of India ; figured organdies, with their oriental richness ; taffetas and bereges in two skirts a volants or en due jupes —with ele gant arabesque or floral borderings; silks of every color, quality or price ; dresses for parties dansants of solid colored blue, pink, or ashes of ro ses, berege with borders ofnatural looking wreaths; challes —but pshaw ! there is no use in trying to -enumerate them all. One might as well attempt a description of every flower in a June garden, where a bee cannot alight unless on a blossom; and besides, there is no use in describing what you may see for yourselves by calling in at Beach & Root’s, Cutting & Co's and other large dry goods stores upon Whitehall street. There you will also find mantles of delicate lace and shawls of white crape or berege, to add to figure and costume the beauty that a rosy mist lends to a landscape. If the crowning charm is wanted —that climax of taste and beauty—the bonnet— Mrs. Durand’s Fashionable Millinery Establish ment, just above Beach & Root’s, will the pretty heads in the city with the daintiest compounds of lace, crape and French flowers that ever rested on glossy braids, or nestled upon sunny curls. We were present, recently, at an opening of her elegant millinery, and as each lit tle bonnet was gingerly unwrapped from its folds of gauze paper and drawn from its perfumed nestling place, it was like the sudden bursting into bloom of some beautiful exotic. So charm ing were they, that even our bachelor Associate, who defines woman as a perambulatingdry goods’ advertisement, and love as an insane desire to pay some female’s board and milliner’s bills—even he, though by no means so susceptible as the “ Poic” Jeemes, who confesses of himself that “All sorts of fancy lixins stirs His feelins as they orter,” was moved to admiration by the dainty trifles, and looked very much as though he would’nt mind tying the strings of one of those “loves of bonnets” under the dimpled chin of a “ perambu lating advertisement” of his own —and of paying for it, too—actually of paying for it, though that would not be sutli a serious item as might rea sonably be expected, as the cost of these pretty things is not all proportionate to their beauty. One of the peculiarities of the dress goods, as well as the bonnets we have seen this spring, is their comparative cheapness ; so that a lady, if she understands shopping, can gratify herself with a neat, cap a pie suit of spring apparel, with out exhausting her pretty Picoclomini of the pin money furnished by husband or father. We notice no great change in the shape or trimming of bonnets, except that the straw trim ming is quite fashionable for leghorns, and that the flowers are mostly imitations of small, deli cate, wild blooms, as white violets, clusters of hawthorn buds and blossoms, grass flowers, with long, cool looking foliage, heather and harebells. There h one novelty, however, in the frill of wide lace, which borders the curtain of the bonnet and gives a graceful effect to that very important por tion of the modern chapeau. They are worn as small as ever, and we hope will continue to be, for a bonnet may bo considered as the frame to the face of the wearer; and who ever heard of the frame being larger than the picture ? True, fashionable bonnets, like many other articles of ladies’ apparel, are more ornamental than useful, and would be but poor protection against sun and wind, but there are plenty of veils and para sols to remedy this. * SNUFF VERSUS LOVE. Judge Nisbet, in his admirable lecture of last week, gave tobacco users, and especially femin ine snutf dippers, a very graceful, but pretty se vere rap en passant. The arguments against dipping have been reiterated until they are stale, but the Judge condensed the most promi nent ones in a single epigrammatic sentence. “ Young ladies,” he said—with that dry hu mor which is irresistible when it falls from lips so grave—“ Young ladies, let me give you a con clusive argument against snuff-rubbing: No gen tleman can love a lady who uses snuff, and nene of you can do without being loved.” It was followed by involuntary applause among the gentlemen, but we wondered how many fair cheeks in that large assemblage of lovely ladies flushed guilty at the sweeping assertion of the lecturer. But it is, indeed, quite reasonable to fancy that lovers—who compare the lips of their mistresses to all the sweetest and most charming things in nature, apostrophizing them as “ twin cherries,” “ripe strawberries,” “ rosebuds, bathed in per fumed dew,” and “ rosy bibles on which Love has sworn”—should be shocked and disgusted at seeing those “ fragrant portals” unclose to admit a mop, covered with the vile dust of the weed unclean. Byron expressed a decided aversion to seeing a woman eat; the process was too disenchant ing ; would not the fastidious poet have “ swoom ed away,” as Mrs. Partington says, had he be held the “ lips that make us long to taste them” dripping with snuffy saliva? Fancy Gulnare or Haidee regaling themselves with Maccaboy! Shade of Grecian Helen ! it is more preposterous than the idea of the Medician Venus in hooped petticoats. We once saw a shower bath thrown upon the ardor of an enamored young lover who, upon entering the drawing-room suddenly and unan nounced, found his Dulcinea practicing at the piano with lier snuff bottle on the lamp niche be fore her, and a brush between her lips. As he en tered, she was singing, or rather mumbling, with her mouth full of snuff, “Call me pet names, darling, Call me thy flower.” Think of applying the epithets of rosebud or lily to such a “ darling 1” Tobacco blossom would have been the only appropriate “ pet name” just then. Once ft was our privilege to be present at the preparations for a regular “*dding, where veritable pumpkin pies af* fat; 1 the games of forfeit and grind th bottle are the bright of th faahiou. .. FOR THE CULTURE OF TRUTH, MORALITY AND LITERARY EXCELLENCE. While the cake was being iced and dressed, the bridegroom elect came over, and the bride— consequentially as became her importance—car ried him about to see the preparations, with a round, terrapin looking snuff box in her hand, and in her mouth, a huge twig of “ black gum,” nearly a quarter of yard in length, which she in dustriously agitated as she talked and smiled. Wonder if the sight was very suggestive to him of matrimonial kisses and blisses; of ambrosial breath and nectarine “lip dew?” We should fancy not. We have the testimony of a polished and ele gant gentleman, that no man can truly and deli cately lore a lady who uses snuff. We all of us wish to be loved—it is natural and right that we should—and very many are tli sacrifices to ease and convenience which we make to render ourselves lovable. We consult fashion and wear balloons under our dresses and little birds’ nests on our heads, and “ do” the Gothic or the lonic in dress, simply for the sake of being called charmingby the hirsute portion of humanity; can we not, then, for the same reason, deny our selves the injurious and disgusting habit of snuff using, and consign sun ft’ boxe3, bottles and brushes to the oblivion that has fallen over the aspiring combs, shoe buckles and sky-sweeping bonnet3 of our grandmothers? * DOMESTIC UNHAPPINESS OF LITER ARY CHAR ACTERS The matrimonial difficulties of many of our most eminent literary characters have lately fur nished much spicy newspaper scandal, and given rise to the inquiry, whether literary habits were not incompatible with domestic happiness. From the numerous and well known instances of con jugal infelicity among authors of the present age, it would really seem as though the small, sweet flower of household love could not flourish be neath the overshadowing bays of fame. The idols of the public—those whose names have passed into household words, are the ones upon whose desolate hearthstones the fires of domestic happiness have been extinguished. The detailed accounts of the private misfortunes of Madame Dudevant, Alexander Dumas, Thack eray, Dickens, Bulwer, Mrs. Norton, Fanny Fern and Mrs. Southwortli have been devoured by a curious and gossip-loving public, who have arrived at the sage conclusion that literary char acters are rather dangerous domestic compan ions ; that, like Esop’s lordly lioness who was wedded to a mouse, these authors are apt to crush their spouses beneath their feet, quite for getful of the existence of any one beside their magnificent selves. Others have Byronically sentimentalized about the “ fate of the Gifted,” and laid all the blame upon the scape-goat of destiny. This is all false philosophy, for it is in our power to make or mar our own fate, except in those rare instauces when individuals seem, like the characters in Hamlet, to be the sport of some strange destiny, that isolates them from common sympathy, and hurries them through their event ful life on the resistless current of Fate. The truth is, our geniuses exercise less common sense in marrying than plainer individuals. Ardent, imaginative and impulsive, they are apt to throw around unworthy objects the halo of their own fancy, to be captivated by external and evanes cent attractions, and when, having fairly clasped the charming delusion, they find that its beauty vanishes, like the glittering dew-drop in the grasp of the child; when their idol turns to clay before their eyes ; when time and closer intercourse have rubbed the gilding away and left bare the coarse, under surface, they cannot, like ordinary mortals, heave a sigh over the fading of Love’s dream and then take up the burden of existence again. They cannot, like many in the more beaten walks of life, roll the stone of an eternal silence to the sepulchre of buried hopes, and go forward with no stimulus save that of duty, and nothing save patience to soften the rankling of the fetters they have riveted around themselves. To the impatient spirit and exquisite sensibil ities of Genius, the chain becomes intolerable, and often their own vivid imaginations enhance the evil by painting it the darkest and gloomiest colors; for morbid tendencies are characteristic of such natures. Genius itself, be it remem bered, is but an unhealthy and disproportionate exhibition of intellect as the pearl is the disease of the oyster. It is not to be marveled at then, that natures, so peculiarly organized, find it difficult to bear the consequences of their own* uncongenial mar riages ; that thy chafe beneath the yoke, which weighs so heavily upon them, and finally, that they shake it off in defiance of custom. Their more plodding brothers, with less imagination and impulse and more power of patient endur ance, would have quietly worn it through life, and grown accustomed to the burden. But there is another explanation of the matri monial estrangements, seperations and divorces, which are of such common occurrence in the lit erary world—an explanation, which involves a painful and humiliating truth. Domestic disccrd and unhappiness are far more general than are usually believed. Incongruous and even wretched marriages are of too frequent occurrence, but the silken curtain of pride veils the skeleton by the fireside; the world sees only the commonplace idyl, that is acted before it, and dreams not of the deep tragedy that is played behind the scenes. Upon many a heart, the marriage vow and the mockery of affection it exacts, hang like the chains of a captivity. Many a delicate, sensitive heart—many an aspiring intellect, has been fet tered, cramped and blighted by being linked to a sordid and despotic nature. Finely attuned spirits are often jarred into discord by the rough hand that strikes constantly upon the tender chords of feeling. Harshness, petty tyranny, un just exactions, often positive cruelty, daily wear the life away like the constant dripping of the Water-torture in the Inquisition. And yet, the sufferers bear all this and conceal it studiously from the world, until it becomes a habit to en dure the burden, and they grow accustomed to its weight, and smile and talk, and pass for con tented, sensible people; only in the inmost heart the fetters still rust, and the consciousness of a life marred and warped from what it might have been, of better feelings stifled and talents buried, conspire to embitter the heart and sour the tem per. They wear the chain, not because they never chafe under the bondage and long to feel themselves free; not because they believe it bet ter to live a lie all their lives, than to break a promise which, in spirit, they have long since ceased to fulfill, but because they shrink from public comment, from being made the “ theme of fools;” for say what you will about mankind’s general love of notoriety, it is not true. From his cradle he has been taught to mag nify the Public into a terrible bug-bear—a thing to fear as well as worship. He may gradually grow accustomed to the monster; he may ap proach him, step by step, until he lays his hand upon his manO’, but ii requires a bold man and A-tlanta, Georgia, March 25, 1859. Men, and more particularly women, shrink from being suddenly made a nine day’s wonder, from stepping out of the common, beaten track and standing forth as a target for the arrows of scan dal. And so, the unhappiness that sits by their firesides is sedulously concealed; the voice with in, that pleads for a freer, truer life, is silenced, and the sepulchre of dead hopes and joys is care fully whited over, lest the world should suspect what lies beneath. And this —alas ! that it must be said—is the real clasp that too often holds together the mat rimonial bond; this fear of public comment is the motive that, when love and respect have van ished, keeps the half rebellious feet in the path, to whose thorns they gradually grow habituated. And it is better to be so. In carrying out all laws, whether written statutes or social obliga tions, the interests of the few must be made sub servient to those of the many; individuals must suffer for the good of communities. If Public Opinion was less of an absolute autocrat, though the loosened ligatures might relieve some who needed and deserved emancipation, the increased privileges would be abused by the majority and general evil grow out of partial good. The mttives that prompt ordinary individuals to conceal their private sorrow from the eyes of the censorious world; to hide the plague spot with assiduous care, and “ die and make no sign,” do not exert the same influence over those whom Genius—that light which will not be con cealed—has already made conspicuous. They have wrestled with the Gorgon Public Opinion, and found what a puny humbug it was. They have been stared at, pointed at, criticized and reviewed, orally and through the medium of the press. They have withstood the battery of alternate flattery and abus* with which the highly consistent Public assails all, who have the courage to face it, and consequently, the im portant question, “What will the world say?” is of less moment to them than to those in less con spicuous walks of life. If harshness and neglect drive the dove of peace from the household shrine; if wrong and cruelty trample out the fires’ in the domestic hearth and change the wine of love to the gall of bitterness, they will not con sent to drag out a wretched existence in the nar row walls of such a home, because of the frail barriers of conventionalism that surround it- They prefer having the world say what it pleases, to enduring a bondage that galls and degrades, and too often makes a wreck of mind and soul. But there is yet another class, with whom lite rary fame is the consequence, not the rouse of mat rimonial estrangement, and separation. With these, suffering has developed genius, wrong and injustice here stung into life, the spirit that would else have lain slumbering under the poppy flowers of quiet, domestic happiness—the spirit that is strong to do, to dare and to suffer. These are mostly women—desolate Hagars, who have been driven out into the world’s wilder ness, from a home haunted by the demon of in toxication, and brutal tyranny, or that more re fined cruelty, that blights the soul, whileitspares the body. Women—especially great hearted, large brained women---cannot be inactive. They, as well as men, must have some object inllis some purpose to achieve —something, on which to ex pend their energies and feelings which cannot be suppressed. Most women find occupation for heart and mind in the domestic circle, inthedear joys and loving cares ofhome and family; but where these are denied them, whore their household gods are dashed from their shrines, by the hand of fate, they must then find other channels of ac tion. They must go out into the world and do battlo with its giants. Recklessly-, defiantly, sometimes they rush into the arena, and fight their way to fame, with the courage born of des pair; and sometimes with the high faith and sub lime patience of a martyr, they accept their des tiny and leave the low, sheltered walks of home and privacy, for the exposed path of public life. And, oh! to such as these, the world’s largest sympathy should be given. Envy and malice of ten seek to detract from the fame of such wom en, but they know nothing of the throbbing, thorn pierced brow, that lies under these hardly won laurels ;of the aching, weary heart that those proud feet bear so defiantly ; of the shrinking and writhing of wounded delicacy, under a noto riety so uncongenial to their retiring natures. Suffering, it is true, will devclope strength after a while; the ivy whose prop is removed, will learn to stand alone. And genius will rise, Phamix like, from the ashes of departed peace and love, as the bird whose eyes have been blinded, will sing sweetest in his cage; the bruised flower will send forth its sweetest fragrance; the pierced tree yield its richest balm. But oh ! the cost of all this; the tears, the bitterness, the yearning and pleading of the unsatisfied heart, the shrink ing of the sensitive spirit from the rough contact of the world ! Think of this, and deal gently with those whom wrong and oppression, and do mestic unhappiness, have driven out into that field, so little fitted for woman’s gentle nature — the arena of public lile. * DEATH OF ROSABEL. BY FINLEY JOHNSON. Rosabel was dying. We knew it by the faint er throbbings of her pulse, the growing dimness of her eyes and the cold damp upon her brow. She was beautiful aud fair, and the tresses of her long auburn hair were lying on her pillow. We gazed upon her lovely countenance, and saw the smile of a heavenly resignation wreathe her pal lid lips, and when we inquired if she was aware of her hopeless condition, she replied, in a voice of melody: “Not mine, but Thy will, 0 Lord, be done.” Her heart-broken father was wpeping bitterly, and turning to him, she said : 1 “Weep not for me, father; God did but lend me to you for a season, and now he takes me back to Himself.” An hour passed; all was silent, save the sound of deep and bitter sol)3 of grief, when again she spoke: “Come, father, lie down beside me; I am so cold,” and the old man laid down by his dying child, and she twined her amaciated arms around his neck and murmured, “Father—dear, dear father.” “ My child,” said the old man, “is the valley of death dark to thee ?” “Nay, father; my soul is strong.” “ See’st thou the distant shore?” “ I see it, father, and the green fields are bright to my view.” “ Hearest thou voices, my darling ?” “ Yes, father, even of angels. They call me, saying, ‘ come hither, child of earth.’ 0, (and she claped her hands,) there is mother I see ! see 1 she is all clothed in white !” “ Dost she speak to thee ?” “ She beckons me on.” “ God help me,” sobbed out the old man,” and he burled his face in the bedclothes and wept. “ Oh ! father, mother is smiling on me ; but I am cold ; a mist is m the room ; I am going to her. Is this death, father ?” “ It is death, Rosabel.” “Thank God !” and her lips seemed to move th# breath, and Rosabel was dead. , * One angel more had Heaven, one pure spirit less had earth, and while we were deploring our loss, the vaults of heaven were echoing with the glad shouts of the angelic hosts, that anew com panion had been added unto them. CHRISTIAN RESIGNATION. BY FINi.EY JOHNSON. Thy pure and-fragile form I give Unto the parent dust; Yet, still, I murmur not, for God Is holy, wise and just. And as I kneel upon thy grave, My heart breaks forth in prayer, That He who sends to me this grief, May save me from despair. Oh! He will not condemn my tears, As bitterly they flow, Nor will He chide as I pour out The fulness of my woe. For though divine, His inmost heart Its humanness hath kept; lie’ll not forbid my tears to start, Since He, our Saviour, wept. Though hard and bitter ’tis to give The love of years away ; Though life, at best, is but a waste, Yet, not. tor death I pray. I pray for patience—strength to hear The burden God hath given; For faith to cheer my drooping soul With thoughts of God and Heaven. Yet, if a rebel thought oppose The spirit’s pure control, O, blame it on my mighty woes— Not on my feeble soul. And should the weakness of my heart Break forth in bitter tears, O, charge it on my grief and pain— Not on my doubts and fears. But faith lifts up my drooping love— Tells of the promised land, Where I shall meet thee in the midst Os an angelic band. And with that thought I am content— My peace is surely won, As from my bleeding heart I say, “Thy will, O Lord, be done.” Baltimore, Md. PAUL DESMOND, A STORY OF SOUTHERN I. IKE. IT MARY K. BRYAR. (Continued from last week.) CHAPTER XII. I had been at Valley Farm nearly a week, when one morning I rose much earlier than usual, and while the morning star was still trembling in the gray sky, I sprang lightly into the saddle for my customary ride. The East was dappled with faint waves of amber and rose, the’ light fog lay upon the valley and the earth, veiled like a bride and glittering with jewels, was waiting the com ing of the sun. After riding some distance with out any definite purpose, it occurred to me that I had sufficient lime to visit the falls of Indian Creek, a pretty stream several miles distant, rich in romantic scenery and legendary interest. I was sure that I had not forgotten the rather un frequented way leading to it; but upon coming to where two neighborhood roads intersected each other, I found that my memory was quite at fault. “Surely,” I soliloquized, reining in my horse, “surely I have not forgotten the way to Indian Falls! I think this road on the right hand must be the one; at any rate I shall try it.” “The one on the left is most direct,” cried a clear, ringing voice just behind me. I wheeled hastily and beheld the speaker—a lady, mounted upon a very fine black horse, half concealed by overhanging boughs, and engaged in pulling down, with her riding whip, a cluster of chest nuts that hung over head. “Good morning, cousin Paul,” she said, break ing ts the branch and turning to me, revealing, as she did so, her whole face and figure. She was not exactly handsome—still less was she pretty ; yet, her fresh complexion, short, auburn hair and clear, hazle eyes suited well with the cheerful aspect of the morning, and the straw hat, slightly trimmed with green ribbon and habit of gray cloth, closely fastened with large, silver buttons set off a well poised head and a fine erect figure. “I see you are a tolerably early l riser, as well as myself,” she said, composedly breaking off the chestnut burrs with her gloved hand. “Tolerably early riser!” I repeated, “I should call us both very early risers indeed. The sun has not yet risen.” “Look !” she exclaimed, pointing to the glow ing East. “He is hurling his golden arrows at the dun-bearded mountains.” “Yes; but remember I have been riding a con siderable time, and you—” “Besides riding several miles this morning, have gone through our negro quarter, prescribed for those who were ailing and superintended the morning bathing of any number of chubby, black babies.”- “So, you are a female Esculapius ; I shall re gard you as a formidable rival if I remain at Val ley Farm,” I said, smiling with the very slightest approach to a sneer. It did not escape her quick eye. “No,” she said ; “I am no Esculapius, neither will I pretend to a rivalship with you. You deal in artificial remedies ; I in natural ones—such as air, water and exercise, that God has provided free for all. lam going, now, to see how a few of my old patients have fared during my absence, and if you wish it, I would like you to accompa ny me, as I am not at all afraid of your sneers.” “And I, cousin Zoe—for so, I suppose, I must call you—shall be very glad to avail myself of the privilege, and promise not to make myself ridic ulous by dealing in sarcasm, in which you are probably a greater proficient than I am. But pray tell me how you happened to know me? We have not met, that lam aware of,since we were children.” “As if your aunt had not insisted upon my ad- j miring your miniature every time I saw her. • She wished me to copy it, and to please her Ii consented; but my efforts proved unsuccessful, j From her praises —one disposed to bn imagina tive—would have fancied you a demigod, at least.” “Is it possible?” I exclaimed, feeling my face flush with vexation, for evidently my aunt had seriously determined upon bringing about a mar riage between her favorite and myself. “Do not be so annoyed,” said my keen-eyed companion; “I have very little romance in my j composition, and I am the last person in the world to fall in love with a pictured semblance, ; even when graced by a bewitching moustache and imperial, which, by the way, lam glad to see that you have removed.” “Pray do not fancy that I entertain any designs upon you. lam not at all in need of a husband or a lover; but I have an idea that you are ra ther person, and I think we shall be very good friends. “Indeed, cousin Zoe,” I said, laughing at her frankness, “I do not apprehend the least danger from your evil designs, and as I'imagine that you are not only ‘ rather interesting.’ but extremely so, I shall be very happy to form a friendly alli ance with you. It is much more sensible than a flirtation.” “Decidedly; and that is such a worn-out game. I think nothing is more silly than the idea, prev alent among young people, that when thrown in each other’s society, they must, in duty bound, put forth every coquettish art to captivate each other. A good, sensible, reliable friendship is worth a hundred such flirtations.” She had checked her horse before the elabor ately ornamented gate of a cottage, built in the fanciful Swiss style, and looking rather out of place in that plain, country neighborhood. Old Series, Volume XXV. —New Series, Volume IV. No. 13 “We will stop here a moment, if you please,” she said, and then, in reply to my look of inquiry, she added* “ I am going to administer atonic to a young patient of mine,” and a suppressed smile flitted about her lips. “A tonic !” I exclaimed, in surprise. “ Why you carry no medicines ; you have not even a reticule.” “You remember, I told you I did not deal in artificial remedies,” she said, the latent smile breaking forth more decidedly. Then addressing the servant girl, who alone was to be seen leis urely brushing the steps : “Is Mabel ready for her ride this morning?” she asked. The girl replied, that she was not yet up. “Ah ! she has fallen into her old habits since I went away. Go to her directly and assist her to bathe and dress. If she is not willing, don’t mind any thing she says, but tell her if she does not hurry, I will come myself to help you. And Peter,” she continued, turning to a little negro boy who had come up and was staring at us with a pair of very sleepy eyes, “ saddle Frisk and bring him to the gate for your young mistress.” “Is this Mabel your patient?” I asked, as the boy disappeared. “ Yes, and not a very docile one, 1 assure you. She is an only child, and has been petted and in dulged to excess. With a good deal of intel lect, an inordinate share of vanity and a morbid imagination, she was regarded as a genius and a prodigy by her doting parents. This summer, her mothef came to me, entreating me to see if I could not advise something that would check the ‘ decline’ into which Mabel was gradually falling She had, she assured me, little appetite, no ani mation and scarcely strength enough to move across the floor. She had taken a quantity of medicine, but found no benefit whatever. Upon calling in, while returning from my usual ride a few days afterwards, I found a sallow, grave looking child, reclining on pillows in an invalid’s easy-chair, with an attendant fanning her, and seeming scarcely to have strength suflicent to turn the leaves of the novel she was reading. After close inquiry and much cross-questioning, I discovered that she was allowed to indulge her self in bed until an unreasonable hour, and was then submitted to the hands of her maid to be dressed much in the same manner as a large doll —her face, meanwhile, washed, or dampened rather, with a towel wet in tepid water. For occupation, she was permitted to recline upon a couch and read the most pernicious and over wrought fictions ; her parents, too proud of what they termed her studiousness, to allow her to be disturbed. Thus, with no employment, no ex ercise, no stimulating influence, her indolence grew into a confirmed habit, and she came to dread any thing like action; to be listless and dreamy—her thoughts being always with the heroes and heroines of her romances. In short, she fell into what too mothers call a decline.” “ And what did you do ?” I inquired. “ Nothing, until her parents had promised me that they would in no way interfere with, or ob ject to any thing I might do. From Mabel, I ex pected some resistence, but fortunately, I found that there was one way in which she could be managed—through the medium of her vanity. Os course, she wanted to be as beautiful as her Melissas and Amanda Fitzallans, with bright eyes and a complexion of blended rose and lily ; and to secure these, health was necessary. She was therefore willing to exert herself a little, for the sake of a charming complexion. I first made a bonfire of the score of “ thrilling” romances, and to fill their place, presented her with some pleasantly written sketches of every day life— Miss Edgeworth’s stories, Esop’s fables and Mrs. Sherwood’s works, for you know a mind accus tomed to such light food, could not bear a too sudden change of diet. Next—to Mabel’s delight —we buried, with great stale and solemnity, the basket of pill boxes and patent mixtures. I in sisted upon early exercise and a cold bath, instead of the warm cloth. I gave her some choice seed and tried to interest her in gardening ; but the riding on horse back was most difficult of all. A* first, she would not approach a horse, and after I had induced her to ride occasionally behind mej it was long before she would consent to manage her pony alone. However, she inproved rapidly, but I am afraid, as her mother did not second my efforts, that she has relapsed into her former in dolence.” At this moment the servant re-appeared, draw ing after her the reluctant Mabel, whose bath did not seem to have greatly improved her temper. “Do behave, Miss Mabel!” ejaculated her sable escort. “ Miss Zoe, Missis says you musn’t make Miss Mabel ride too far ; she’s so weak she can hardly stand. She’s had a collapse since you went away.” “Dreadful!” exclaimed Zoe. “She’s had a collapse, has she ; but really, Mabel, you hardly look as though you had suffered much from it. Come ; I suppose you are ready now to transfer the blushes of Aurora to your cheeks and the brightness of her diamonds to your eyes. You remember the old couplet, ‘ Maids who rise and walk apace, Steal blushes from Aurora’s face.’ ” “ Yes,” said the child, looking at me with an arch smile ; “ and I remember another as old as that, which says “ Maiden’s eyes should ne’er unclose ’Til thesuu has kissed the rose.’” “Foiled with your own weapon, cousin Zoe!” j I cried, laughing heartily. I “ But of course Mabel is aware that only rc | fers to buxom, country girls and milk maids who ! wish to get rid of their superabundant bloom. It | does not apply to you, Mabel, whose cheeks would be all the prettier for more of the color of the rose, which, your adage says, should be first kissed by the sun. But come, Elsie, help her mount; she is losing the sweetest hours of the I morning.” I But Miss Mabel did not choose to be helped to her seat by Elsie. It was derogatory to her dig nity as a young lady, and that was, by no means, the way in which her heroines had vaulted upon their caparisoned steeds. She drew back and pouted. “Permit me,” I said, springing from my horse and extending one hand, while, with the other, I made a step for her foot. She accepted the courtesy and Sprang lightly to the saddle, smiling and simpering like an ex perienced belle. All ill-humor wasgone, and the weakness, produced by the “collapse,” was to tally forgotten, as Miss Mabel urged her pony to a graceful amble and exhibited her equestrian ship. “Ah! the potency of masculine charms,” whis pered Zoe to me. “Cousin Paul, I shall have to deliver my patient over to you.” Not far from the home of Mabel, Zoe stopped at a log hut, situated in a hollow between two hills, a short distance from the roadside. It presented a most forlorn and dilapidated ap pearance. Rank weeds, discolored by the No vember frosts, grew all over the yard, and crow ded up around the doorstep; the boards, in some places, had fallen from the roof, which the busy fingers of time and decay had covered with moss and fungi, while an old blasted oak, in front of the dwelling, lifted its witheied arms to the sky like a Sybil prophecying doom. “Let us go in,” said Zoe. “Never mind, Ma bel, if it does not look inviting. You will find, here, a truer, if less doleful, picture of poverty than those portrayed in fictions, over which you have shed so many tears.” A group of little flaxen haired children, with unwashed faces and tangled locks, was sitting on the doorstep as we entered. The youngest —a little, neglected looking creature with short, matted curls —was fretting and complaining in the arms of the eldest of the group, a girl of not more than nine summers, with a grave, woman ly countenance unbefitting her age. “What is the matter with him ?” asked Zoe, stooping down to wipe away the tears that stood on the little one’s cheek. “He is hungry, mam,” said the sober, little nurse, “and mother is sick, and there is no break fast cooked for him.” The house contained three rooms; we entered the sleeping apartment, and found it in disorder, and so darkened by the chintz curtains to the small windows, that it was not until Zoe threw them back and admitted the cheerful sunshine that we perceived the pale, sallow-looking wo man lying upon a low bed in the corner. As soon as she saw us she burst into tears. “Compose yourself, my good woman,” said Zoe, coming to the bedside and taking her hand, “and tell me what has gone wrong. Are you worse?” “Worse!” returned thewoman quickly; “I’m sure I’ve enough to make anybody ill, who had never known a day’s sickness. Everything has gone wrong with me this morning. I had such a headache last night, I could get no sleep; got up this morning to prepare breakfast, and found my self so dizzy I was obliged to lie down for a few moments, though I never meant to fall asleep; but I did, and did not wake again till a minute or two ago, and now my head is worse than ever, its most breakfast, the children are crying and not a mouthful for the poor, hungry things to eat, husband will soon be back from his work, and * then I shall get nothing but cross words, and maybe blows, though it hasn’t come to that yet,” she continued in a lower and less excited tone. “Nor ever will, Mrs. Lane,” said Zoe cheerily, “you have a very good husband, and you are a very good wife, only you are nervous and excita ble this morning. Pray do not look so closely on the dark side of things. I think we can arrange everything very well. There; let me bring you a basin of fresh water, and I have no doubt it will cure your head and make you feel a hundred times more cheerful,” and passing out she spoke, in a low voice, to the quiet, little girl, who imj mediately gave the baby to her brother and went into the next room. Returning with the watejr, Zoe motioned to Mabel, who was standing play ing listlessly with her riding whip. “ My dear,” she said, “ I am going to make you useful in a moment, and let cousin Paul sie what an active young lady you are.” Mrs. Lane acknowledged that the water, plen tifully applied, had greatly relieved her head, and now, with her hair neatly smoothed and plainly put back from her temples, her appearance was wonderfully improved. “Now,” said Zoe, “this gentleman,” turning to me, “is my cousin. He is a physician, with a regular sheepskin permission io administer calomel and quinine ad libitum. You will have more confidence, perhaps, in him than me. Lie here a little while and tell him all your symp toms, while I see if, with Jenny’s and Mabel’s aid, I cannot get up a little impromptu break fast,” and drawing Mabel along with her, she passed into the next room, where I had befoie heard the cheerful crackling of fire. Mrs. Lane would have remonstrated, but Zoe was gone be fore she had time to speak. We were nearly through a long conversation— in the course of which, I learned that Mrs. Lane’s complaint was one not uncommon among w’<?men who have a heavy burden of family cares, and consisted of two-thirds liypocondria, and one third exhaustion from overwork—when Zoe re- * turned, announcing breakfast, and leaving the door ajar to afford us a glimpse of the nicely set table with browned bread, a dish of ham and eggs, a eoftee pot and a plate of golden butter upon it, and behind it, Mabel wielding a fly brush and smiling mischievously at me. “ Why, what magic’ is this ?” I exclaimed. “ Where, Enchantress, is the potent wand that has wrought these marvels ?” “ Here!” she replied, laughing and holding up her hands. “ The same wand that Eve, the first enchantress of us all, employed in getting up Adam’s first breakfast. Mrs. Lane, every thing is in readiness, and I see your husband return ing across the field. Do you feel equal to getting up and presiding at the table ?” “Well, Miss Forrester 1” said the half pleased, half ashamed Mrs. Lane. “ You are the strangest, as well as the best young lady I ever saw. Yes, I think, now that you have prepared the meal, it is little as I can do to get up and help cat it. Your fresh butter looks really tempting, and those fresh eggs—l can’t think where you found them.” “ Oh ! I sent the children out on a foraging ex pedition, and they discovered a treasure in the hay loft,” she replied, looking at the bright, rosy faces already ranged around the table. “ The children !” I repeated, observing their changed and improved appearance. “ Why, Zoe, you have been exercising your witchcraft upon them, too !” “ I have only applied a little of the magic fluid —pure, cold water, which, if not equal to the mir aculous ointment of Safa, in the Arabian story, i3 nevertheless a great beautifier.” “ Will you not do us the honor of partaking of the breakfast you have cooked?” asked Mrs. Lane, as Zoe placed a seat for her at the table. “ Thank you ; I believe not. Mabel’s mother will be anxious for her return ; and I dare say, Paul, that aunt will be waiting for you, before we get back to Valley Farm. lam going to do myself the pleasure of breakfasting with you and her this morning.” So, shaking Mrs. Lane cordially by the hand and patting the curly, flaxen heads of the chil dren, we departed, leaving her sitting cheerfully at the table, waiting the entrance of her husband. We rode rapidly homeward, for the sun had mounted high in the heavens, and his golden beams were plentifully intertwined with theshad ows lying across our road. Zoe enlivened, the way with her sprightly, orig nal remarks, and even Mabel threw aside her listlessness. I had thought that, when assisting Zoe at Mrs. Lane’s, she seemed really delighted with the novelty of her employment, and when we reached her pretty home—to the astonish ment of her mother—she took my hand and bounded to the ground as lightly as Zoe could have done. Evidently, the morning “tonic” had done her good. “You have told me nothing of yOur aunt,** said Zoe, as we rode up the avenue leading to the mansion of Valley Farm. “Do you think her indisposition serious ?” ; *-\ •. ‘ • “ I thought bo the night of my arrival, but she has appeared much better since. I am a little “ perplexed, as to the nature of her disease. What opportunities for observing her than I have.”