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GARDNER & BARROW. rm: (;eor(;ia j s published every Saturday, in Fi.oßE.vcr cewart county, (in. at THREE DODLAIIS a ~r if paid in advance, or FOUR DOLLARS, nol paid until the end of the year. V(. . E'ITIstMEVTS will be conspicuously inserted u One Dollar per square, (15 tines) the first, and -0 cents for each subsequent insertion. Nothin? under 15 lines will be considered less than a ciare. A deduction will be made for yearly ad vertisements. Vll advertisemants handed in for publication -h nii , limitation, will be published till forbid, tu j charged accordingly. !e.s of Land and Negroes by Executors, Ad ministr ttors and Guardians, are required by law , ( [ )ti advertised in a public Gazette, sixty days previous to the day of sale. •j'li • sale of Personal property must be adver ,sf.,i in like manner forty days. Notice to Debtors and Creditors of an estate must be published forty days. Notice that application will be made to the Court of Ordinary for leave to sell Land and Ne rocs, must be published weekly for four months. \jl Letters on business must be post i aid to insure attention. jj£i Q -1 M M A -S U U ± l' the Southern Literary Messenger. Ths ot * fijife. Cmcl id id. Nina soon became too weak to join our friends \«elow stairs. Ida shared with me the sad duty of administering to the meek sufferer, and not tin ■ jneiitlv would ask permission to road to her, . job .was always readily accorded. The book selected was the Bible, and with clas , , .o 1 eves, everv word seemed to • Ivins girl. The Catli was not des vnl of her i was v cx t-’.tion of a aif r : i- iU not hii ; ;, u t was not lU 1 short ti e before Ivu ieath tii t this occur d. There. ;:i tiinf chamber, oves whos- ihresh • r e l was hover •, Nna Ge aave-i abjured the Romish reli on, a cl partook ( ,f the communion . after winch a sweet and holy i!,n seemed to perv ile her soul: every thought was detached from earth, and in perfect, uninter rupted peace, site awaited the approach of- lii j , s t enemy,” fearing not her conflict. but beiiev iug die “dark valley and shadow of death” was ~ur a :, as age to the realm* ot uniadui; glory and midviuc bliss. Every word which fell from her lies was tinctured with these feelings, and as we watched her, languishing and withpri lg. like a fair flower ui'timelv crushed and blighted, such a glorious halo see .ned play mg around i lie beaut if u I min, that the tear was quenched, the prayer to detain her longer amid the cares and tumults of the world was stilled, and from the ashes of the hope we so reluctantly yielded, there was kindled the dame of a Christian’s unmurmuring submis sion. “Dearest Ida,” would Nina oftentimes exclaim, “h id it nut been for you. through Heaven's bles sing, death would not no ,v wear such a garb to me; I should shrink from encountering the billows of that tide which rolls between mo and my promised inheritance ; but uow all tears, all doubts are hushed, and all is peace, unspeakable peace. What has wrought it? The Bible, whose truths you first unfolded to me — the precious Bible, which has revealed the glories and columns and blisssof a Saviour’s love!” Each day saw Nina more spirit-like, and soon she was unable to leave her bed. The very spirit ot sadness seemed breathed over the household; and the noiseless tread, the whispered word, the -arkened room, the universal hush of every sound terrupted only bv ttie low and often labored breathings of the sufferer, told that the work ot •utii was going on. Who could count on yeafs, “!• even days, when all that was most fair and bright was fading under our gaze—when the wing of the toiler was darkening the sun-light ot youth and beauty ? Vet life seemed to nestle lovingly to tiiat form, and cling graspitigly to that faoric, "herein it had revelled in such rare loveliness*, yet Sf > briefly. But death’s progress was not to be stayed. Summer was dancing in all its richness on the flowery earth. In an hour of brightness and mel ody. the one whom we had cherished so fondly j' s called hence. Supported on Ida’s bosom, ''*<! gazed on the glowing face of nature. All "as hushed in that chamber of death; we scarce ly breathed, lest the spirit which animated that shadowy form should be frightened from its tene -1 had looked on death before. I had shuddered as l viewed its victim. I had feared, as hie shroud, the narrow coffin, the deep and sd p nt grave, passed before my mind’s eye. I had trembled as 1 thought on the eternity that was un °kling; but mantled in beauty, the destroyer in spired to terror. I stood beside Nina’s couch, holding in mine her fevered ami emaciated hand, and as the pure, bland breeze of evening swept ov er her transparent brow, stirring the dark, lux uriant curls, which rested on its marble surface, the tear gathered to inv eye, as I thought how ®°on the tomb would forever veil from us the loved ,o rni over which we were leaning. A heavenly smile stole slowly over those beautiful features, he soft eyes were raised, and the low, sweet voice, 'roke the hushed stillness. Emphatically and ' ’stinctly she spoke: “1 know that my Redeemer lvet h. and that he shall stand at the latter day l ‘Pou the earth, and though after my skin worms A stro y this body, yet in shall 1 see God.” ‘ 10 Paused, and as it were, collecting all her en ergies, she murmured, “I walk through the valley ’ ‘'shadow of death, yet 1 fear no evil, for Thou FLORENCE, GA. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 183S. i art with me.” There were some long breathings, a convulsive start, a slight gasp, and we looked on dust! The spirit was infolded in a Saviour’s em brace ! In the stillness of midnight I stole with noise less tread lo the room where lay w hat had been so lovely in life—lovely even in death. The smile had not departed from the colorless lips; the fair wan hands were folded on the breast, and between the taper lingers drooped a while rose, the image of lile dwelling in the bosom of death. I knelt bedside the beautilul corpse, and over the pale cheek, scarce distinguishable from the cold white shroud on which it rested, streamed my tears.— From the ebon tress which passed over the noble brow, 1 severed one soft curl—then casting one look at the dead, I returned to my chamber. One more night of melancholy watching bedside our “beloved and blest,” and we committed her to the breast of earth, there to repose till the resurrec tion morn! Though long years have passed since the event I have just recorded;though changes upon changes have thronged my pathway, the memory of Nina Geuovesi, and her untimely end, is fresh amid the desolation which has imbittered my life.— Her grave stands solitary and alone, and the ever greens clambering over the marble tablet which marks it, half conceal the name which tells her the daughter of a sunnier clime. The flowers of spring blossom earliest there ; the gorgeous sun bea in, the rays ot the smiling stars, “Heaven’s golden alphabet,” repose on its verdant turf, with glorious lustre, and in the blythe carol of the winged songster, as he speeds by, there dwells no note of sadness for the early fate of one who sleeps beneath the green and flowery mound! *** * ' * Time passed on, and his cold wing had chilled more than one emotion of my bosom; but my in tercouse with Idaslumbered not, and mv affection for her lost none of its freshness. For three years het married life was unclouded; and the birth ol a lovely little girl, during this period, awakened in both parentes an intensity of ten derness, of which only a parent can form an ade quate conception. That of Gerald seemed strangely tinged with melancholy, and as he sometimes stopped to caress his beautiful child, as it slumbered on the bosom of his not less beautiful wife, or as sparkling with smiles, it iprang to his embrace, Ida had morn than once marked the tearful eye and quivering lip which he in vain strove to conceal. 1 low in the very noon tide of their happiness, their could exist one shade of sadness, Ida could not conceive. That Ger ald could feel aught but joyful gratitude, at that gift which had cemented then - own ties, and promised to be “the rainbow to their future years,” she could not doubt—that his lave x>r Her continued fadeless, she hesitated not to believe. What secret and untold grief preyed on his heart, then ? It was a question she could not solve; and with the intuitve delicacy of woman, she shrank from soliciting th<* confidence her husband had thought proper to witliold from her. She had one day sung her cherub to its “rosy rest,” ami the fair child, cradled in her arms, re posed in a calm of dreamless slumber. With a mother’s rapture, she gazed on its budding love liness, aud hearkened to its soft, gentle breathings. She arose, and leaning over the chairof her hus band, who sat thoughtfully at some distance from her, held to his view the smiling babe —“How beautiful, dear Gerald,” she exclaimed, as she tenderly placed her precious burden on his lap and rested her own arm affectionately on his shoul der; “how beautiful; only see how glowingly the rose mantles to that soft cheek; and the brow, dearest, is so like your own, so serene amid the dark, rich curls!” and the silken ringlets which had escaped from the baby’s cap, were gently put aside, and Ida leaned over and kissed its white forehead, with maternal fondness. Gerald smiled, for who could resist affection, clad as it was in its most fascinating girb? He passed his arm ten derly around the waist of his wife, and looked witli a father’s pride on that beauty of which she spoke so enthusiastically. There were visible only the beams of tenderness and joy in his dark eye. lie stooped over the babe, and scarcely touched with his lips her velvet cheek, lest he might awaken hot; but as he did so, there was breathed a half-smothered sigh, which the quick ear of Ida was not slow in detecting. “What language speaks in that sigh?” asked she, half reproachfully, half playfully; “how should the voice of regret be heard here ?” and she glanced affectionately towards her husband and child. “It is not that I am ungrateful, my love,” re plied Gerald, “for those blessings which heaven has scattered so richly on my pathway. I ought to be happv, and were it not for one dark remem brance, which is ever throwing its shadow over me, I should be so. The cup of life, though wreath ed vvith hope’s bright flowers, holds bitterness in its draught, and as I look on my blessings, the thought of earth’s ‘pale changes’ comes over me, with an intensity I cannot banish. I strive to chase these phantoms from my mind, and your affection, mine, own, is clasped like armour to my heart, with almost a death grasp, to ward off the fangs of that viper, which is struggling to banquet ou my vitals.” The entrance of Mr. V interrupted this conversation, which was becoming so painfully in teresting to Ida. She received her child from the arms of its father, and casting a look of min gled sadness and love upon her husband, hurried from the room. The words of Gerald implied he was not happy ! She brooded on that reflection with bitterness and tears, and who can tell the crowd of overpowering thoughts which came rushing over her heart, when in the hour of lone liness she recalled the confession he had made— those words so fraught with agony to her. et she swerved not from the wife’s duty, and his tones of endearment (for he was always, even in his sad dest hours, touchingly kind in his manner to her.) melted on her ear with the same sweet influences, which had given to the early years of her mar riage such “magic of bliss.” The despondency of Gerald Wv men red daily, and seemed to affect his health. He grew ibift anil pale, and soon Ida ceased to remember her ows griefs, amid engrossing attendance on her husband, whose mental uneasiness prostrated him soon on a bed of sickness. For weeks she watch ed around his couch of Suffering, oft-times scarce daring to hope life yet lingered ; aud in the long, si lent melancholly hours of night, she hung over his pillow, with that anguish of soul, before which words are powerless, while her heart was lifted in voiceless prayer to the God of her youth, in the delirium ol lever she slood by his side, unshrink ingly, with utiblanching cheek, though another name was mingled with her own, in his wander ings. “Emily! Emily !” would he reiterate—his voice softening into tenderness as he dwell on the name—“iny beautiful, my lost oue ! why did they tear you from me?—ah !*but I remember now; they told me the clanking chain kept you from j murdering me ! but 1 would not believe them— and when they put the form 1 had loved so well, in the deep grave, I wept —oh! such tears! shall I ever shed such again! But Ida is mine now— and—and—and—but she shall not die. They shall uot tear her away from my arms.” Then with exhaustion he would sink back on his pil low, looking so death-like, Ida trembled lest his spirit might have passed as the tide of memory rolled over him. But he lived yet; and when— altera night of such deep slumber, that Ida al most feared death had come in that guise, so un moved, almost breathless lie lay—he awoke, weak and feeble, but with calmness and perfect renova tion of his mental faculties, Ida felt a measure of gratitude which found expression in that fervency ot payer known only to the sincere believer. Each day now witnessed improvement in Ger ald’s health and spirits, and in proportion as the excitement of Ida’s auxiety yielded to the almost certain hope of her husband’s recovery, the traces ol Lei until t ing vigils might be read in her faded cheek and languid eye. But her heart was light; the emotions of joy, gratitude and love filled it to overflowing. In tlie fond smiles of her hus band she saw the assurance of returning happi ness. and of the cloud which had flitted across the sky of their affection, she forbore to think.— Her confinement to the sick chamber of Gerald had been uninterrupted, but as his strength re turned, and he was enabled to dispense more fre quently with her attendance, he used to insist that she would sometimes exchange her duties there, for the advantages of air and exercise; which she so much needed. One morning, when Mr. V —was paying his accustomed visit at Gerald’s room, he proposed that he should take h:s daughter a short drive, saying she would be refreshed by the excursion, and that Gerald would not require her attention for at least tho space of an hour or two. Ida b gan to excuse herself, but Gerald seconded Mr. \ ——s proposal with so much earnestness, (hat she assented, and prepared to accompany her fa ther The weather was unusually bright and calm for the season—stern winter having just sunk the lance point —and Ida acknowledged the in fluences of the soft breeze, as bearin, the fra grance of early spring, it breathed upon her pale cheek. But the thought of her husband’s loneli ness, rendered her anxious and impatient, and af ter a ride of an hour, she prevailed on her lather to return. It was earlier than Gerald expected her, and on hastening to his chamber, she entered so noiselessly that he did not arise to welcome her, and indeed seemed unconscious of her approach. He was sitting with his face buried in his hands, and yn a table near rested the miniatuie of a very young and exceedingly beautiful girl. Ida leaned over the shoulder of her husband, and as her eye glanced momentarily upon it, the rich crimson leaped into her cheek, leaving it as sud denly deathly pale ; she stood transfixed; she could not speak—her breath came faintly through her closed lips —the room swam before her like the shadowy objects in a dream, and she swooned. — When she recovered, she was supported ou the breast oi her husband. With a shuddering re membrance of the past, she looked towards the table. The picture, in all its glow of young beau ty, was still there. “Then it was icality, and not the phantasm of imagination!” The recollection of Gerald’s confession of unhappiness, the name so fondly repeated in his delirium, connected with such passionate expressions of tenderness, rushed like lightening through her mind; scathing in its passage every bright anticipation she had dared to foster. The “thick, warm tears” gushed to her eyes, but she quickly checked them, and with assumed calmness, attempted to disengage herself from Gerald’s arms, saying “the exertion of riding had exhausted her, and exchanging so suddenly the cold air without for the close warm temperature of a sick chamber, had occasioned her swoon. “Not, so, my love,” whispered Ger ald, as he twined his arms more closely round her. “Leave me not yet —1 have something to say to you, which should not be deferred,” and as he spoke he glanced towards the fatal miniature—lda trembled. Gerald resumed—“l have long wished, mv dear Ida, to communicate to you some circum stances connected with my history, but which are of so painful a nature and awaken such bitterness of anguish, that I have always shrunk from dwel ling on them—however, after the event of this morning, in justice to myself, 1 can have no farther concealment from you. Listen to me, and jon shall hear what has been the hushed secret of m v soul, what has haunted my dreams, engrossed every thought of my bosom, stilled every hope of! happiness which I tremblingly cherished, aud is slowly drinking the lifeblood of my heart.” Ho paused, and extended his arm towards the table, grasped the picture, and placed it in Ida’s hand. “Think you that beautiful ?’ tremulously inquir ed he. It represented, as I have before said, one in extreme youth ; the long, sunny hair waved on the timnJed shoulders, unconfined, save by a nar row lilet of blue, which vied with the clear ceru lean of the beaming eyes. In the rounded cheek, the tint of summer’s sunset seemed to linger, and the ruby lips appeared almost bursting into a glorious and exqusite smile. Hut the radiance of loveliness rested in the expression—it was indes cribable. Hope was there, with her kindling in- WaUtifully with a thousand otedV irtVigttttegsv that one could have looked fVHßtfttf Wfc young creature, without de lihittg Mbit Was shadowed forth iu the seraphic cottttitnance-. Ida gazed long on it, aud as she restored it to Gerald, expressed her admiration it* a tone calm, through sorrowful. “Such,” said he, “was oue whom I loved with all the fervor anfl impassioned devotion of boyhood, and her woh drous beauty and endearing qualities commanded my affection long after her bitter fate had severed us farnnd wide. In the glow of day, her memory is wafted to me, as I remember her, ‘mantled with lair loveliness’—in the deep Sublimity of night, I hear again her accents of tenderness and love, which never failed to awaken an echo in uiy bo som—then the remembrance of her dark destiny flits belore me, filling uiy soul with uncontrollable anguish.” “And her name?” asked Ida, iu a voice of iiv repressive anxiety. “Was Emily," replied he; ar.d her heart seemed to stand still, as be slowly and tenderly pronounced tho name. Gerald ap parently observed not her agitation, for which sho was grateful. Woman, even in her first romance ot passion, with inherent delicacy, veils from the eye ol the beloved oue, the deep bright fount of love, which is ever bubbling up iu her heart’s depths—conceals how inseparably “Her life is ever twiued With other lives, aud by no ftortby WicA May thence be shaken.” Gerald clasped the picture in its case, after gazing fondly on it, and resumed his seat. Wheu bo spoke again, his voice wasstartling, it its deep and hollow tones. “I have said,’’ continued he, “that 1 loved that Bright being on whose resemblance you have just looked. Loved—oh! God! how worshppingly, how exclusively, who can know, who conceive ? In the entire and uninterrupted happiness, which Ibr years marked this affection, a thought of change never intruded, and it was long before the threatened and lowering tbnipfeit; which had gathered so slowly, yet so darkly over the fair face of my dream-like existence, burst forth in irrepressible violence, devasting aud deso lating every sacred tie—blasting every basis iu liie’s pilgrimage. There was ofttimes a wildness m the eye of Emily, before which I quailed—« fierceness even iu tile demonstrations of her love, at which I trembled, but I ascribed it to tho wor kings of that noble intellect, that glorious mind, which were as Worthy of adoralion as the beauti tul temple which enshrined the rare gifts. “Well dd l remember the feeling of agony aifii which I rest myself from her for the firs! time, when I bade adieu to the scenes of my boyhood for the more tumultuous career of my collegiate course. I was an orphan, but tho sacredness of every feeling seemed concentrated iu my love for her. “5 ears passed, and my ouly enjoyment wits poring over the burning professions of her uuwau mg affection, traced in her own lair aud delicate characters, it was now drawing towards the close ol my last year at college. Emily had not written to me at all of late, and though I had continue scrupulously punctual in my letters to her, days, weeks, mouths rolled by, and I hailed not one iu return. This was inexplicable, and when, at length, I was emancipated from the frowning walls ol my university, 1 hurried homewards, oppressed by a thousand indefinable apprehensions, whose shad !ws 1 strove in vain to cast from me. It was evening when I reached Park. The weather was stormy aud tempestuous, and as I drove with i rapid pace through the long avenues which led to the bouse, the old trees bent with a melancholy, iirge-like moaning, to the angry blast which swept onwards. ‘lsEmily well ?’ asked I hastily; as i bounded up the noble staircase, and was met ou the landing place by one of the domestics. I had arrived unexpectedly, and fotmd no one wai ting in the hall to receive uie, 1 hrtd therefore as cended, unbidden and unwelcomed. ‘ls Emily well ?’ repeated J, as the old anil faithful servant turned from me, to conceal the tears which gath ered iu her dim eyes, and to hide the expression of agony which crossed her time-worn features^ 1 seized her by the arm with a grasp which seemed! to startle her by its fierceness. She turned tow ards me; ‘old woman,’ muttered I, in an intensity of apprehension, which almost deprived me of breath, ‘old woman, tell me the worst—is Emily dead ?’ and my voice sank into a whisper, a cold ness benumbed my heart, a sickly dread came over me, as m_y worst fears found Utterance. “ ‘Not dead !’ replied she, ‘but a living tomb ii» more fearful than the sepulchre of the dead !’*l re leased not my grasp—‘Explain,’ said 1, ‘why is it Ido not see your young mistress?’ She burst into tears, and between the sobs which seemed to come from her soul’s depths, 1 learned,—lean down to iffe, Ida,—that Emily was a maniac, a raving, furious maniac! Oh! Heavens! the agony of that montent— I can not tell how I sur vived if .'—there came a few scalding drops, wrung from my heart’s angttsh—btft I could not weep— the fountain of tears wag quenched—the fire of heaven seemed to have scathed my bosom. I, laid my burning brow on the cold floor, where I had prostrated myself; and in that moment, 1 the events of the past, the images of Vanished hrfuis, flitted before my nientafl vision, anil seemed to taunt me as they passed, f arose; thp fearful, appalling calm of sorrow Ward on life.' ‘Lead u:° to her— quick’—rfdded I, its the old womnto seemed t » hesitate—‘instantly.’ There was that' in my tone, which intimidated Her intd obedience, i followed her through the Icfng, dim passages of that old mansion, with a firm step. She lon to wards a portion of the building which had not been tenanted since my remembrance; and its crumbling dilapidation told that time’s footstep had crushed it in Lis passage. We ascended a narrow and winding stairway—she paused:—‘lf I dare remonstrate,’ urged she, hesitatingly—l waved my hand with an impatience I could not control,—‘Continue—l see her, if my life is the forfeit.’ We proceeded, and before a door on which the damps of years had rested, she stopped. Blip applied a key to it, find as it slowly grated ori_ ts lung**, I involuntarily and rttgerfy urifui* I.—No. Z%.