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VG3,. v. IW. <63.
<ri)c , 'tonb'Avb of v \C,nion,
RY P. L. KORINSON. Mate Printer,
And Publisher (by authority) of Ute Laics of the United State,
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taining several thousand names.
ADVERTISEMENTS inserted at the usual rates. Sales of LAND, by Admi
niterators. Executors, or Guardians, are required by law to be held on the first Tues
day in the month, between the hours of ton in the forenoon and three in the after
n«»on. at the Court House in the county in which the property is situate. Notice of
these sales must bo given in a public gazette SIXTY DAYS previous to the day of
sals.
Sales of NEGROES must be at public auction, on the first Tuesday of the month
between the usual hours of sale, at the place of public sales in the county where the
letters testimentary, of Administration or Guardianship, may have been granted, first
giving SIXTY DAYS notice thereof, in one of the public gazettes of this State,
and nt the door of the Court House where such sales arc lobe held.
Notice for the salo of Personal Property must be given in like manner, FORTY
DAYS previous to the day of sale.
Notice to the Debtors and Creditors of an Estate must ba published FORTY
DAYS.
Notice that application will be made to the Court of Ordinary for leave to sell
LAND, must be published for FOUR MONTHS.
Malice for leave to sell NEGROES* must be published for FOUR MONTHS
before any order absolute shall be made by the Court thereon.
Notice of Application for Letters of Administration must be published THIRTY
DAYS.
Notice of Application for Letters of Dismission from the Administration of an Ea
sts, ar? required to be published monthly for SIX MONTHS.
JVOTICE. Moses Ml’RrnitT, of De Kalb County, announces himself as a candi
x date for State Commissioner for the “ Western and Atlantic Rail Road” of
Georgia. . Nov. 6, 1838. 42—3 t
ISnlcs of the ?1 tiled gevi lie Course at flic Gate.
Man. - - - 50 cts.
“ and Horse, - - SI,OO
“ and Sulky, - 1,00
“ “ and Buggy, - 1,50
Carriage, - - 2,00
The Proprietor has a fiue Blooded Stallinn. G years old for sale,
which he will < .1 at private sulw any time between this, and Friday the
16tb inst. Il not previous, will be sold at Auction, on that day to the
highest bidder—Pedigree undoubted.
H. F. YOUNG, Proprietor.
Club is requested to meet on Monday evening next, at
Youngs Confectionary— punctual attendance is particularly desired.
Nov 6. ' 42 ts
Breeders what do you say? Capt. s.w Yagers,of
Virginia, will open a Ti aining Stable, at the Turf, at Milledgeville,
Ga.. tn prepare horses forthecnsuing fall Races, he will he ready to re
reive hoescsby the Ist ot September. .All communications previous to
that time, will be made to Major R. Rowell, near Milledgeville.
The said Yager, if sustained, will remain as a public Trainer ; he will,
also, take a few sprightly boys, as apprentices.
june 23, ]B3S.-24-eow S. W. Y AGE SR
ScoitsboFOiagh FcKßitaSc Seminary.
AN sfrasgement ba. been made whereby 'the two Female Institu
tion. in the village of Scottsboro’, will hereafter be united into one’
under the sole control and superintendance of the subscriber, i toffer
ia/hi. »c; vice; to the public as an instructor to the female youth of
Georgia, lie would remark that several years of bis life, have' already
been devoted, with success, to the important duties of Female Educa
tion. and although the details of the system, which formerly enabled him
to carry to a highly desirable extent, both the moral and intellect
ual improvement of bis pupils, cannot be enlargeiF on here, vet he
feels confident of success in rendering those entrusted to his care, not on
ly useful and virtuous members of soeiety. I tit its most accomplished
ornaments. The subscriber is desirous of establishing a school of the
very hizhest character, and if cucoura by the patronage of the public,
he wid spare no pains in placing it (Hi such a solid and permanent basis,
as will be a gn trainee to parent,/that their daughters will derive every
advantage, both in the useful and ornamental parts of education, which
any school in our country can afford. The aid of the verv best instruc
tors, iu every department, has be nor will be secured. For the orna
mental branches and the languages. the customary extra charges will bo
made : for instruction iu all the other branches, the pi ice will vary from
fifteen to eighteen dollars per term, according to the advancement of the
pupil. Board maybe obtained in several of the families of tio village,
though the sub •< fiber is desirous of icceiving into his own family, as
many of his pupil, as his house, which is large and commodious, will
contain. The terms arc fourteen dollars per month, and all payments
are required in advance. The superior healtiiiuess of Scottsboro’, and.
its other well known advant ig.-i. must alwo rs constitute it a situation
highly desirable to those who send their children abroad to school. In
conclusion, the subscriber, though bom and educated himself in the
South, yet coming ns a stranger to this State, until hi, character as a
Teacher can be tested by the trial h" desires, begs leave to present the
annexed testimonial, signed by members of the faculty oftlm University
of .forth f.arolina. lie would also make a reference to all the citizens
of Scottsboro'.
The exercises of lbs school will commence on the first Monday of Jan
uary, though the subscriber will be piepared to receive boarders, at any
time after the middle of December; and during a short absence, appli
cations fur situation, may be made to the Eon. C. B. Cole.
WILLIAM E. ANDERSON, Prin.
Scottsboro', November Ist, 1833.
William E. Anderson. Esqr., having intimated to the undersigned a
disposition to engage in the business of female instruction in one of the
Southern States, it affords them much pleasure to be able to testify to
iiis competency to the task he proposes to undertake.
Mr Anderson is a member of one of the mint respectable families of
this State ; and has enjoyed all the advantages incident to our best Lit-•
erary Institutions, and to association with cultivated society. He grad
uated at this University in 1825, and subsequently received the degreeof ’
Master of Arts.. He was for several years advantageously known to the
public.'!# the Principalofa Female School of high character in the neigh- i
borhood of Hillsboro'. He has uniformly sustained the fairest reputation
as a gentleman of probity and intelligence; and is particularly entitled .
to r ornmcnda.ion for conscientious devotion to the general improvement
and spiritual interests of ids pupils.
J>. L. SWAIN, Prest.
~ . . E, MITCHELL. Prof. Chem.
University of North Carolina, I J. I). B. HOOPER Prof I at
Sept. 27, 1833. \ W. M. GREEN, Prof. Rhet. * j
_ 42-ts 1
University.
’ HL next term of this Institution will commence on the first Mon- I
-fl. day in Jam ary next, at which time applications for admission
will be received, and examination of candidates take place.
THE FACULTY CONSISTS OF
Rev. C. P. BF.M AN, President and Professor of Chemistiy and Nat. i
• Philosophy;
“ S. K. TALMAGE, Professor of Ancient Languages;
C. M HOWARD. Professor of Moral Philosophy, Rhetoric,
ami F. v id’mecs of Christianity ;
N. W. CRAW I OUD, Professor of Mathematics.
I he Prim ity and Academic department, will be under the charge of
Mt l* \ Urtl.y, late of Augusta, as Kector. a gentleman of well
known ip'alific'itioiH—a -isted in the Cla - .leal mid English department,
by competent lom heis. 'I he 1* acuity ot the College will exercise a
supervisory pow< r over these departments.
I he StudeniM of (.i,liege will be exported to lodge in the Dormitories.
Ample arrangements are made for boarding, &:c.
The rule requiring the tuition iu advance, can, in no ca, a, be dispensed
with.
15 v order of the Board.
Nov. 8. 42—2 t S. K. TALMAGE, Sec,
PEILSONS indebted to the Subscriber, oitln r by note or nc
?£</’’ count, are requested to make payment, without further notice,
to Maj. John R. Anderson. B. H. ROBINSON.
iWi//rdg , et'/Z/r, October 1, 1.338. 38—7 t.
NOTICE. —All persons indebted to the estate of Thcophlus Mai
son. late of Wilkinson comity, deceased, arc requested to come for
ward and ninkc immediate payment, and those having demands, will
present them <!uly authenticated, within the time prescribed by law.
October!), JB3B. 38—(it. ALLEN CANNON, Adm’r.
O I I CE.—Will be sold to the highest bidder on the fii’bt Tucsd-iy
in I'ebrnary next, nt tin* Court House door in Walker county, Lot
< I Lnn<! No. 213 in 7th nnd Ith Koctions, originally Cherokee, now
a krr county, M ild for the benefit of the children of L. !M. Robison,
an< >o <| |,y of || H . honorable the Inferior Court of Washington
th 1 1’ '* U pttrpojics. Terins made knonn on
Nov. 15. .13—iq KA Ml I' L ROBISON, Guardian,
of fllwtu
IIIsUEIXxYSVIIjLE, TCSSjEISEILAY JVOVI2IVIBER 15, 1838.
TRANSLATION OF SONNET.
‘•Ninfn, ondc lioto c di Diana il Chore.”
A nvmph I saw, of Dian’s joyous band,
Culliii.. Ir '.i lowers that fiii: . J the glassy tide;
But so innnx f?II beneath her baud
As her l.iir foopdid from their stem divide.
t her rnld.'n lock h\ zephyr’s limn’d,
Lo\ e did ten IhoiPiind, thousand witcheries hide,
Wl'i’ ' h r • dt br-'ath, in arent sweet and bland
(’oi’l’d the ficrc-' fires her glances scntt'*r’d wide,
To vieu that snowy foot the llrcnta slav’d
lli< course nnd made of his own crystal stream,
\ mirror for bright ovr- - and tresses fair.
“Ah, b^nnlsous nymph ! when you depart,” I said,
“Upon t';e v axes no more thv form may gleam,
Rut still thinu im e. ' (he fond heart shall bear.”
\V. M. D.
.'C’SgC’.LANEOUS. ”
From the Indianian.
WOMAN’S LOVE.
“ Oh, what is love made for, if ’tis not the same,
I'brough joy and through sorrow, through glory and shame;
1 know not. I ask not, if guilt’s in thy heart,
But I know that 1 love thee, whatever thou art.”
Moore.
Every one must recollect the thrilling and painful illustration
I of the above sentiment, furnished by the tragical story of Em
met, the Irish patriot; and which has been so thrillingly depict
ed by Irving, iu his story of the Broken Hearted. Nor does
that stand as a solitary instance in the history of woman’s aflec
i tion. 'I he every day experience of the observer of human
. nature will teach him that there is fortitude and elasticity in
the love of even the most retiring and timid female, that defies
misfortune and disgrace,and only burnswith a purer and bright
er ray the more darkly the clouds gather round its object. It
is not amid the sunshine of prosperity, when the world beams
brightly upon us, than we can properly appreciate the unyield
ing tenacity of woman’s love. But go to the dark and miser
able hovel (o which misfortune has reduced some of its thou
sand victims; ask its wretched inmates what he has saved
most valuable from his once princely fortune, and ten to one
he will point to his wife, the pride of his prosperity, and now,
the solace of his afflictions. And if, indeed, his heart is capa
ble oi appreciating the worth of such a treasure, what to him
are all other losses or reverses, so long as it remains unchang
ed? They pass by him as the waves of the sea, which may
toss the trail barque that may roll them onward to its destina
tion, but can never affect the equanimity of its course, or dis
turb the serenity of its inmates.
But to our story. Ellen Monroe was the only daughter of
a wealthy southern planter, who h.-.d spared no pains or ex
pense in her education. Possessed of no common share of
personal beauty, and the heir of the large estates of her father,
her hand was sought by a numerous crowd of admirers. Left
to her unbiassed choice, by the kind indulgence of a doting
parent, she passed by the offers of the wealthy and distinguish
ed suitors, by whom she was surrounded, and selected from
among the companions of her infancy, one whose only recom
mendations were unblemished character, and a mind of the
first - order.
Francis Raymond had been her playfellow in infancy, and
her constant companion in the more advanced stages of child
hood, and lie found her constantly surrounded by the proud
and by the wealthy or the land; he first discovered how deeply
his heart had been enthralled, and his own proud spirit dictated
to him the necessity of withdrawing from the vicinity of so
dangerous an influence. True love is ever timid, and when
Raymond contrasted bis own situation, dependent upon his
own precarious profession for support, with that of those with
whom lie mu t ent r the list as rival, hope died within his heart,
if indeed, it ever there existed.
The struggle was long and bitter in his breast; but pride
triumphed, lie could bear to leave her as long as memory
might be permitted to cherish her image, as one not loved in
vain ; he could live upon the memory of the past ; but the
cold and chilling refusal of her looks; to have the fondly
cherished chimeras of !:is boyhood dashed to the ground for
ever, by a word from her, there was madness in the thought—
he lacked the fortitude to brave it.
lie determined to tlee from the scenes of his childhood for
ever, and to seek r< fiiixe in the wilds of Texas, from the mad
dening memories wiiich every bush and every tree around
him, recalled but too forcibly to mind.
A p .infill task remained tobe performed; common courtesy
demanded that he should not depart without bidding her fire
weli; pride whisp •red too, that it would be too plainly exhib
iting bis weakness, to shrink from the interview. He-nerved
himself for the task, and the evening preceding that fixed for
his departure, he called with the intention of bidding her a
hasty adieu, but contrary to his expectation, he found her'
alon°. Ihe cold austerity of manner which he bad determin
i ed to assume, faded before the reception he met with, and seat-;
ing himself beside her, he for a time forgot the object of his i
visit.
‘ I am glad tn find you alone this evening,’ he said at length
■ as he laid aside the guitar, with which she had been accom
i panving her voice, in one of I is favorite songs.
‘ I hat is a pleasure I should not have enjoyed very often of !
late, L rank, il I had depended on you for company,’ replied
Ellen. ‘ I liese long intervals between your visits are unkind ;
surely I have not been so unfortunate as to offend von?’
‘No Ellen,’ replied he, ‘ but what I have witnessed (luring
the last three or four visits which I have made, I should sup
pose you were not likely to suffer for want of company.’
There was something of reproach in the half playful tone
in which he uttered these words, and she was not slow to per-;
ccive it.
‘ h rank,’ she observed, after looking at him for a moment
in silence, 'when Ellen Munroe forgets her old friends, it will :
be time to reproach her with treating new ones with that cour
tesy to which they arc entitled. I had not expected this from
you.’
‘ 1 mean not so, Ellen,’ he hastily remarked, ‘ I only intend
ed—but no matter —I have no reproaches to make ; if I had
they would be but ill suited to a farewell interview. I have
come to bid you adieu, and forever.’
‘ Frank, surely you jest,’ returned she, ‘ what means this ?
you are angry, and at me—we must not part thus.’
‘ I am not angry, Ellen,’ be replied, and his assumed firm
ness fast deserting him, ‘I have no cause for anger, not even
the slightest ; and believe me, Ellen, it would be no light
cause that would excite an angry feeling in my breast towards
you ; but we part to-night most probably forever—To-morrow
1 depart for Texas.’
She spoke not, yet her looks were more eloquent than words
could pos ibly have been, lie could not but understand it;
it told him that the ties which .the long sunny years of child
hood had entwined around them, were yet unsevered; that with
h< ras with him, the heart was unch.ingcd. His vows, his
pride, his fears, were all forgotten, as he poured forth the wild
Ol h* ’ love. i. hat night he returned home the accepted
- suitor of I Ulen Munroe.
Though i: r father might not have approved of her choice,
yet he loved her too fondly to thwart her inclinations iu a niat
li i so momciiton, t > her future happiness, ami his consent was
freely given to their union. I> was then late in the fall, and a
I day wa ; fixed in the ensuing spring for their nuptials. But his
day dreams of felicity were-destined to be brief: one month
from the period of the interview related, saw him incarcerated
in a dungeon, upon the charge of that heinous ami fearful
crirne—wilful and deliberate murder! The evidence against
him was wholly circumstantial, but at the same time so conclu
sive in its nature, as almost to preclude the possibility of his
innocence.
The circumstances were these: A quarrel had taken place
between him. elf and Capt. Henderson of the tinny, one of the
rejected suitors of Ellen. The quarrel had been doubtless
•ought by the soldier in a moment of pique, on first learning
of the success of his rival; a challenge passed, was accepted,
. mid a day assigned for meeting. The evening preceding the
Our Cousricncf—Our Conu trii— Our Perfy.
a.ppointed day, Henderson was found murdered by the road
side ; at a short distance from him, was discovered concealed
among the leaves, a dirk, known by many as the property of
Ravmond, and which had been seen in his possession on the
morning of the murder. Raymond was also seen coming from
the woods in which the Body was found a few hours before the
discovery. Ao examination ot the wounds of the murdered
| man, discovered that be had been attacked from behind, and
showed beyond doubt that Raymond’s dirk was the weapon
with which they had been inflicted. Another circumstance
which had no sindl weight with many, was the fact of his
making no preparation for the the approaching duel by
i “practicing” as it is technically called among duellists. Op
posed to this overwhelming mass of circumstantial testimony,
he had nothing to offer but the clearest evidence of an unblem
ished character from bis earliest infancy up to the moment of
his incarceration.
There was but one opinion as to his guilt; all concurred in
pronouncing him a cold blooded and cowardly assassin.
‘ Whither are you going, Ellen,’ said Judge Munroe to his
daughter, as she passed him in the hall in the afternoon of the
day following the murder. ‘Wherefore have you your sun
bonnet and your cloak ? Surely, you are not going out through
the rain?’
‘ I am going to see him, father,’ she replied in a voice husky
with emotion, but breathing determined resolution in every
tone.
‘ My daughter, dearest child, you must think of him no
more,’ exclaimed the old man, bursting into tears, and throw
ing his arms around her neck. It was the first time the subject
had been mentioned, and indeed, the first time he had seen her
since the fatal discovery.
‘ Father,’ exclaimed the maiden, in the firm but resolute tone
in which she had first spoken, and facing him, with her arms
folded on his breast, ‘ I cannot, I dare not, obey you ; I must,
I will see him.’
‘ My child, iny beloved one,’ exclaimed the old man, franti
cally, ‘you know not what you do—he is a murderer—a cold
blooded, cow’ardly ’
‘ Father, father !’ screamed the maiden, ‘ pause, I beseech
you—l know all—every thing; I have heard his guilt pro
claimed from a hundred mouths, and every anetbema that the
vile herd have heaped upon his head, has but rendered him
dearer to this heart. Father, until now I never knew how
much I loved him.’
‘ Do you then believe him innocent,’ asked the old man, in a
voice vainly struggling for calmness.
‘ Believe it! —father, I know it, I would swear it.’
‘ But dearest Ellen,’ said her father, imploringly, ‘ every
body believes him guilty, and ’
‘ The greater reason why I should not desert him,’said Ellen
proudly. ‘No, father, if proofs of his guilt were written in let
ters of fire upon my own heart, 1 would cling to him still. Fa
ther, fear not that your daughter will do aught for which you
will have to blush, but oppose me not, I beseech you, if you
would not drive me mad. 1 must, I will see him ; he shall
know at least, there is one heart, despite of circumstances; and
which would cherish him still, were it assured of his guilt.’
The father buried his face with his bands and sunk upon a
chair—the daughter left the house, accompanied only by a
black servant, and in a few moments was in the presence of
him for whom she thus fearlessly braved the scorn and censure
of the world.
The interview was brief; the age of thought and feeling
were crowded into the space of a few moments. Raymond in
sisted, and finally obtained a promise that she would not see
him afraid, until the trial should be over. She left the prison
with faith in his innocence, and in the solitary cell in which he
was consigned, be had the satisfaction of knowing tir.it there
was at least one heart satisfied of his innocence, and that heart!
the one of all others in the memory of which he would wish to
have an unblemished name.
At lemjlii the day of trial arrived—the court was crowded to'
excess, for the excitement bad been unprecedented. The cel- ’
ebrated Colonel H was engaged for the defence, and
at an early hour tlie sheriff proceeded to empannel the jury.
The first witness called to the stand, testified to the fact of the
challenge having passed between Raymond and the deceased ;
and the arrangements that had been made for a hostile meet
inn.
The second testified to the finding of the body, and to his
meeting with Haymond returning from the woods some hours!
before the discovery.
This portion of the testimony was, however, of little weight. I
as it was proved that the body was warm, and bleeding when I
found, and could not have been dead more than half an hour. ;
The next witness was Dr. Stevens, the surgeon who exam-j
ined the body. He testified to the fact of having, been with j
Raymond in his office in the morning, and having in his posses- j
siou a dirk of a peculiar construction—that this same dirk was I
found concealed near the murdered man’s corpse, with about
one inch of the point broken ofl’, which point was found in one
of the wounds; the dirk was here produced and identified by
the witness—the point which had been taken out corresponded
oxactly with the other part. When the dirk was produced,
the prisoner looked at it for a moment, and then starting sud- >
denly from his seat, while a flash overspread his pale features, I
leaned over the bar, and whispered for a moment in his counsel- j
ler’s car.
‘You say you know the dirk to be the one that Mr. Ray-;
mond had in his possession on the morning of the murder,’ |
said Col. H. after a moments study; ‘did you take it ia your
hands w hile you were in Mr. Raymond’s office.
‘I did, nnd examined it attentively,’ was the reply. ‘I do
not think I can be mistaken.’
‘Did you make any remark relative to carrying a weapon
of chat kind in your hat, and if so, what was it?’
‘I remarked that it was oftentimes more convienent to carry
a small dirk in that way, than in the breast; and placed the pris
oner’s dirk in my hat, to show him the way which I meant.’
‘How did it correspond with the length of your hat?’
‘lt was about half an inch shorter than the crown,’
‘ls that the hat you have in your hand?’
‘lt is.’
‘Will you have the goodness to see how this weapon which
you have identified as the prisoner’s corresponds with the mea
surement?’
The witness did as he was desired, when, to his utter aston
ishment, and the crowded audience by which the court was
thronged, it proved one inch longer than the bat.
A suffocating murmur of half suppressed emotion rung
through the court.
‘There is some awful mistake here,’ said the witness. ‘Gen
tlemen of the jury, I have ’
‘Stop, sir!’ exclaimed the deeply excited counsel, rising from
his seat with a countenance flushed to the brow, ‘I want you
to tell this jury what Mr. Raymond did with the dirk after you
took it out of your hat and returned it to him.
‘I recollect distinctly,’ replied the witness; he laid it between
the leaves of a large Bible, which iny upon the lower end of
his book case.’
‘Sh.erifl- —the book, the book!’ exclaimed the counsel,‘and
on your life, open it not till it is produced in court.’
The sheriff left the court, and in a few moments returned,
bearing with him a large Bible, which was immediately identi
fied by the witness on the stand, as the ftne in which he had
seen Raymond deposite the dirk.
The sheriff was sworn, and testified that he had kept the
key of Raymond’s office from the first hour of his arrest, and
that no one but himself had ever had access t.i it, aad that he
had found the Bible in the very situation described by the last
witness.
‘Now, gentlemen of the jury,’ said Col. 11. rising,’ ‘it re
mains to consummate the proof of my client’s innocence; for
myself, I have not the slightest doubt that the weapon which
belonged to the prisoner will be found where he placed it previ
ous to this unfortunate occurrence; gentlemen, examine for
yourselves,’ and handed the book to the foreman. As the lat
ter raised it upon the desk before him, a dirk dropped from its
leaves, the very counterpart of the one which had been sworn
to as belongingto the prisoner, in every other respect thanuhe
length. It was placet! in the hat, and corresponded exactly
with the description given by Dr. Stevens.
A wild and thrilling shout arose from the assembled multi
tude; loud above which might be heard the a
female voice. It proceeded from Ellen .Munroe, at
the next moment clasped in the arms of her had
been acquitted by acclamation, and without the ceremony of a
vote among the jurors.
A month after tlie termination of the trial, a deserter, when
about to suffer for his crime, confessed that out of revenge for
some fancied indignity which he had once experienced at the
hands of Capt. Henderson, he had committed the murder for
which Raymond had so nearly been convicted.
At the day appointed, Ellen and Raymond were united; but
in* could not forgive the friends who had so easily deserted
him; and in a few weeks, accompanied by his lovely bride, be
departed for Texas, where they who have been conversant
with the history of the recent struggle in that infant Republic,
have recently met with his right name, that of Raymond being
a fictitious one, under which I have chosen to designate-him in
the present sketch.
THE THUNDER STORM.
BY G. D. PRENTICE.
I was never a man of feeble courage. There are few
| scenes either of human or elemental strife, upon which I have
not looked with an eye of daring. I have stood in the front
ol battle, when swords were gleaming and circling around me
like fiery serpents of the air—l have sat on the mountain pin
nacle, when the whirlwind was rending its oaks from their
rocky clefts and scattering them piecemeal to the clouds— l
have seen these things with a swelling, soul that knew not, that
reckoned not of danger—but there is something in the thun
der’s voice that makes me tremble like a child. I have tried
to overcome this unmanly weakness; I have called pride to
my aid ; I have sought for moral courage in the lessons of
philosophy—but all in vain; at the first low moaning of the
distant cloud, my heart shrinks, quivers, and dies within me.
My involuntary dread of thunder had its origin in an inci
dent that occurred when I was% child of ten years. I had a
little cousin, a girl of the same age with myself, who was the
constant companion of my childhood. Strange that after the
lapse of almost a score of years, that countenance should be so
familiar to me. I can still see the bright young creature, her
large eye flashing like a beautiful gem ; her free locks stream
ing as in joy upon the sunrise gale; and her cheek plowing
like a ruby through a wreath of transparent snow. Her voice
had the melody and the joyousness of a bird’s; and, when she
bounded over the wooded hill or the fresh green valley, shout
ing a glad answer to every voice of nature, and clapping her
little hands in the very ecstacy of young existence, she looked
as if breaking away like a freed nightingale from the earth,
and going oil’where all things were beautiful and happy like
her.
It was a morning in the middle of August. The little girl
had been passing some time at my father’s house, and she was
now to return home. Her path lay across the fields, and 1
gladly became the companion of her walk. I never knew a
summer morning more beautiful and still. Only one little
cloud was visible, and that seemed as pure, and white, and
peaceful, as if it bad been the incense smoke of some burning
censor of the skies, '(’he leaves hung silent in the woods, the
waters and the bay had forgotten their undulations, and the
flowers were bending their heads as if dreaming of the rain
bow and the dew, and the whole atmosphere was of such a
soft and luxurious sweetness, that it seemed “ a cloud of roses,
I scattered down by the hand of a Peri” from the far off gardens
of Paradise.—The green earth and the blue sea lay abroad in
their boundlessness, and the peaceful sky bent over and bless
ed them. The little creature at my side was in a delirium of
I happiness, and her clear sweet voice came rjnging upon the air
; as often as she heard the tones of a favorite bird or /bund some
strange and lovely flower in her frolic wanderings. The un
broken and almost supernatural tranquility continued until
nearly noon. Then for the first time the indications of an ap
proaching tempest were manifest. Over the summit of a
mountain, at the distance of about a mile, the folds of a dark
cloud became suddenly visible, and, at the same instant, a hol
low roar came down upon the winds, as if it had been the sound
lof waves in a rocky cavern. The cloud rolled out like a ban
i ner-fold upon the air, but still the atmosphere was as calm and
! the leaves as motionless as before, and there was not even a
i quiver upon the sleeping waters to tell of the coming hurri
! cane.
To escape the tempest was impossible. As the only resort,
;we fled to ah oak that stood at tlie foot of a tall and ragged
; precipice. There we remained and gazed almost breathlessly
! upon the clouds, marshalling themselves like bloody giants in
I the sky. The thunder was not frequent, but every burst was
!so fe iifiil that the young creature who stood by me shut her
eyes convulsively, clung with desperate strength to my arm,
and shrieked as if her heart would break. A few minutes and
the storm was on ns. During the heightli of its fury, the lit
tle girl silently raised her finger to the precipice that towered
above us. As I looked up, an amethystine flame was quiver
ing upon its grey pe'aks, and the next moment the clouds open
ed, Hie rocks tottered to their foundation, a roar like a groan
of the universe filled the air, and 1 felt myself blinded and
thrown, 1 know not whither. How long I remained insensible
1 cannot tell, but, when consciousness returned, the violence of
the tempest was abating, the roar of the winds was dying in the
distant tree tops, and the deep tones of the cloud were coming
in faint and fainter murmurs from the eastern bills.
I arose and looked tremblingly and almost deliriously around
me. She was there, the dear idol of my infant love, stretched
out upon the wet green earth. After a moment of irresolu
tion, I went up and looked upon her. The handkerchief upon
her neck was slightly rent, and a single dark spot upon her
bosom told where the pathway of death had been. At first I
clasped her to my breast with a cry of agony and then laid her
down and gazed into her her face, almost with a feeling of
calmness. Her bright dishveeled ringlets clustered sweetly
around herbrow ; the look of terror had faded from her lips
and an infant Smile was pictured beautifully there ; the red rose
tinge upon her cheek was as lovely as in life ; and, as I pressed
it to my own, the fountain of tears was opened, and I wept as
if my head were waters. I have but a dim recollection of what
followed. I only know that I remained weeping and motionless
till the coming on of twilight, and that I was then taken ten
derly by the hand, and led away where I saw the countenances
of parents and sisters.
Many years have gone by upon their wings of light and
shadow, but the scenes I have portrayed still come over me, at
times, with terrible distinctness. The old oak yet stands at the
base of the precipice, but its limbs are black and dead ; and its
hollow trunk, looking upwards to the sky as if “calling to the
clouds for drink,” is an emblem of rapid and noiseless decay.
A year ago I visited the spot, and the thoughts of by-gone
years came mournfully back to me, thoughts of the little inno
cent being who fell by my side like some beautiful tree of spring
rent up by the whirlwinds in the midst of its blossoming. But
I remembered, and oh there was joy in the memory, that she
had gone where no lightnings slumber in the folds of the rain
bow cloud, and where the sun lit waters are never broken by
the storm-breath of Omnipotence.
BASIL CRAWFORD.
“ It is a verv sad thing that great and good people die sooner
than mean and bad ones!” exclaimed Fred. Conyngham at his
club, after reading a notice of the death of a well-known, ec
centric, but most benevolent merchant, whose liberality was
only exceeded by his wealth.
“ What do you mean by dying soon, Fred. ?” inquired his
companion ; “ do you call a man of eighty-two a juvenile?”
“ No ; but that man’s heart was full of sap ; it was not stale,
nor withered ; it was fresh and young. Heaven ! why should
such men die?”
“ I’m sure I don’t know,” yawned the dandy.
I did not suppose you did,” said the other, drily,
P. U.KOiII.XSO.X, PROPRIETO!
“ I never thought that Mr. F was a friend of yours.” v
“ I had not even the honor of his acquaintance.”
“ Then what the dense are yon sighing fo*-! I find
few of my intimates worth a breath, much less a sigh ;■ and
I should certainly never think of contributing to the memory
any old hunks, dying worth seven hundred thousand poundXK*
Gods! how happy a tithe of that would make me!”
“ And whom else, Charles ?”
“ W horn else ? W by, if the money was my own ———” 1
“You would spend it on yourself,” interrupted Fred. Co4M|
nyngham; “ that, was what Mr. F. did not, or I should nofcjl
have sighed for him.”
“ Ay ! yaw ! you are growing vast—vastly odd, Fred. Mon
Prince ! i want! Come, as you are fond of
a sensation, tell me what was so particular about this— Ab*
man!”
Conyngham glanced at the inert and graceful nonchalant* *
who was occupying the place of three moderately-sized men,
seated upon one softly-cushioned chair, his arm over another*
his feet upon a third; and, more perhaps from the love of re
peating what he admired, than expecting sympathy from the
beau garcon, commenced the narration of the following Epb
sode, in the life of a barrister, who now fills a high and lucra
tive judicial situation.
“ You know that Basil Crawford married young •’*>
“Yes, I remember that— a devilish pretty girl—but nothing
material about her ; no money;, he used to be one of us be
fore, but after marriage men grow domestic, and ail that stupid,
sort of thing.”
“Not allmen, said Fred., glancing at a knot of well-known ,
married men, who have the reputation about town of not being
particularly domestic. “ Well,” he continued, “ Basil pined
for some time in all the seclusion of small chambers, and a cot-,
tage at Pimlico: the only thing great about him was hope,artd
that ”
“ Fred., my dear boy, cut sentiment; you will never be ev«»
a captain of dragoons if you patronize sentiment: tell the storjr
—as Major Doherty says—out of the face at onst; that if, in-t
deed, if you Aaee a story to tell.”
The young officer smiled and resumed:
“ Basil was passing along the sunny side of a street leading
from Grosvenor-square, when his eye was attracted bya‘ Tbif
House to Let,” on the windows of a mansion, not overgrown,
and yet, of course, every thing that a gentleman could desire,
Basil looked the House all over; and, while be was looking
it, a mean, shabby, dirty, little elderly man, in a suit of seedy
black, came up to him, and said, “1 have the showing of that
house, sir; would you like to look at it ?’
“ ‘ No, I do not wish to give you the trouble,’ replied Basil >
‘ it is a much larger house than I require.’
“ ‘ But you may look at it; that can neither harm you nor
the house,’ replied the old man, waking tip the steps and pi»V
ling the key of the door out of his pocket; he let himself rt>,
and Basil followed ; his guide conducted him from room to
room, and as tin* library contained some few busts and bronzes,
lie expatiated on their beauties with the zeal and taste of a vir
tuoso.,
“ Basil forgot that noon was come—-forgot that noon was
gone—forgot his brief—his chambers—his wife even ! and fo?-
four mortal, or immortal hours, held converse with the mean,
shabby, dirty, little elderly man, in seedy black. Both were
astonished when they discovered the hour, and, on parting, tlie
young barrister could not avoid thanking his companion for the
treat he had enjoyed, assuring him that though he could no|
take his house, he had taken what was more valuable.”
‘ If he attempted puns such as that,” interrupted Cbarle»»
“ he deserved extermination ; but go on.”
“‘The house belongs to Mr. F——, sir,’ replied the old
man ; and I will inform him who called to see it.’
“ ‘lt is quite useless,’ said Basil, with a sigh, ‘quite, in
deed ; I could not pay the rent of that house, and live .”
“The next morning, as Basil was sealed at breakfast
his charming wife, enjoying ”
“ The rural felicity of Pimlico,” again interrupted his tn-s
corrigible friend, “ with a sweet pledge of mutual afiection, (u
curl papers and brown-holland pin-be-fore, upon either knee,
a Pimlico muffin swimming in salt butter on the blackened
thing called a ‘hob,’ and Mrs. C. in slippered feet, looking ug-#
ly, as even pretty women do by morning light ”
“ Faith, Charles, you are too bad ; finish the picture and the
story together, if you will, but do not interrupt me again.—■.
Where was I ?”
“ Breakfasting with Mr. and Mrs. C., tfie two pledges, and
the butter and muffin, at Pimlico.”
“Well, to his astonishment, he received a letter from Mr»
F , offering him the house furnished, for one-half the rens
he had before demanded ! Basil was almost dazzled with the
splendid offer; it was just the house he would desire; it might
be the means of obtaining him notice ; he might get on i.R h'«
profession ; but a gentle hand rested on his arm, and a soft
voice whispered iu bis ear, that the possession of such a bouse,
however moderate the rent would be, must entail expenses,
which their present means could not defray
“ Basil’s decision was made ; he wrote, declining Mr. F
liberality with many thanks; and added, he had so great g
dread of debt, that he preferred ”
“The muffin and Pimlico,” interrupted Charles; “ well, I
myself have a great dread of debt.”
“Did you say debt ; perliapsyou meant duns I” retorted tha
other.
“You are too hard upon me, Fred.,” laughed the good-hu
moured officer, “ but, perhaps, you are right; go on.”
“ The next day he received an invitation from Mr. F -to
dinner. This astonished him a good w deal, hut his astonish
ment passed all bounds when, in the magnificent drawing-room
in square, he discovered that his host, and the mean,
shabby, dirty, little elderly man, in seedy black, were one and
the same person ! He did not again urge upon him the accep
tance of the house, but he had procured him an appointment in
India, in unison with his profession, yielding an annual income
of two thousand pounds.”
“ Fred.” exclaimed the listless officer, running bis fingers
through his curls, “suppose you and 1 were to walk near Grp, th
venor or Belgrave-square, and look up at the windows whpre
‘ house to let’ is placarded. Do you think anybody would
a fancy—a fancy after that fashion 1 mean—to either of us ?”
“ I doubt if w e should have the fortitude to withstand the
first offer,” replied his friend. “ And if Basil had accepted the
first, he would never have had the second ; it was his extreme
uprightness of principle that fascinated the old gentleman. It
convinced him that where there was rectitude and fortitude,
there was little doubt of eventual success. And when he waq
introduced to Mrs. Crawford, and saw bow naturally proad
any man would be to withdraw so beautiful aud so amiable *
woman from retirement, and exhibit her in her proper
respect was added to his admiration.
“ Crawford filled the situation with ability and credit dariag
a period of six years, nnd then Mr. F proposed that he
should return to England, having provided something beltep
for liitn in his own country.
“‘ You are one of the few who have not disappointed me,’
was his friend’s salutation on his return, ‘ and 1 have prepared a
house for your reception, which, I hope, will meet with Mrs.
Crawford’s approbation.’
“ Such a house, Charles! the very one which, several years!
before, Crawford bad so wisely rejected ! —there it was, eveiy
room furnished precisely in accordance with the barrister’s taste:
the library filled, not only with law' books, but with all that
should adorn the shelves of a scholar and $ gentleman ; and
what, if possible, he thanked him most of all for, was, that the
few bronzes, the soiled Cicero, the rare‘Ben Johnson,’ the old
Shakspeare, w ere in their original places, so as to recall the four
hours lie spent in that same room, with the mean, shabby,
little elderly man, in seedy black. not that an episode iq
a man’s life worth recording ? Said I not right, that the o|4
merchant’s heart was full of sap?”
As the snowbird comes amid snow and sleet, appearing as the
herald of the rose, so religion comes amid the blight of afflic
tion, to remind us of a perpetual summer, where the brighf jij|j
never retires behind n wintry cloudj
WHOLE NO. 25