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Dcootcb to Literature, Science, ani> tl)c Sons of temperance, ©bb Yellowsl)ip, iilasonrn, anb (general intelligence. VOLUME I. PROSPECTUS! & mimimmi tuna. A WEEKLY SOUTHERN NEWSPAPER, DEVOTED TO literature, science and art, foreign and DOMESTIC INTELLIGENCE, MASONRY, ODD FELLOWSHIP, AND THE SONS OF TEMPER ANCE. In presenting to the public anew paper, we are aware that it is customary to make large pro mises in advance of performance, but we prefer to perform first, and refer to it afterwards. It may not be deemed presumptuous, however, to say, that it is our intention to make as interest ing a sheet as possible; knowing, as we do, the more interesting it is, the more liberal will be the support extended to it. Arrangements have been made, by which we shall be in receipt of the latest Foreign Intelli gence, and our patrons may depend upon receiv ing the latest intelligence in regard to the staple products of the Southern country, as well as a cordial and hearty support of the interests of the South, and its peculiar institutions. The Masonic Fraternity, Odd-Fellows, and J 9 9 Sons of Temperance, will always find such gen eral information as may be deemed interesting under their appropriate heads. t s r m §; TWO DOLLARS A YEAR. Three Copies for one year, or one copy three years, -$5 00 Seven Copies, - - - 10 00 Twelve Copies, - - - 1§ 00 Irt? 1 * A liberal discount will be made to Post masters who will do us the favor to act as Agents. All communications to be addressed (post paid) to E. J. PURSE, Savannah, Ga. BE KIND TO EACH OTHER. BY CHARLES SWAIN. Be kind to each other! The night’s coining on, When friend and when brother Perchance may be gone ! - Then ’midst our dejection, How sweet to have earned The blest recollection Os kindness — returned ! Y hen day hath departed, And Memory keeps Her watch, broken hearted, Where all she loved sleeps ! Let falsehood assail not, Nor envy disprove— Let trifles prevail not Against those ye love ! ° r o h u nge w,t h to-morrow. Should fortune take wing, i>ut the deeper the sorrow, ... , Tlle . closer IU cling! Oh, be kind to each other, The night’s coming on, W hen friend and when brother 1 erchance may be gone ! To clean Kid Gloves. —Lay them flat on white paper or, still better, fix them on a wooden hand t en, with a flannel dipped in pure oil of tur y ntln e (Camphine,) rub until the dirt is re the i P art ially dry, by means of flannel, a roorr L before the fire, until the lerao °* tur P en b ne is dissipated. Essence of *° n ma 3 7 be used instead of turpentine, but it ,S more sir & m ss THE FIRST VIOLET. BY THOMAS MILLER, BASKET MAKER. “But ever and anon, of grief subdued, There comes a token like a scorpion’s sting. Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued ; And slight withal may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside forever : it may be u sound — A tone of music—Summer’s eve or Spring— A flower—the wind—the ocean —which shall wound Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.” „ Childe Harold. Our thoughts tread strange labyrinths, windings intricate, and mazes unknown even to the will. They are indeed the only free denizens that roam unchecked down the dark slopings which lead to the untrodden avenues of the past. They alone dare to climb the clould-clothed battlements that look over the distance of the Future; they see the mist, the dense gathering, the faint gold-burst ing that announces sunshine, of the blackness that heralds the thunder-storm. Restless when the body sleeps, they wing away through the pale starlight of memory; they traverse dreary shores, wildernesses, desolate and wild places, peopled with the distorted shadows of wilder realities.— When awake, like restless steeds, they start aside at objects that rear up on every hand, and bound away over immeasureable plains, sweeping earth, air, and sky, and even daring to heed the vapory track over which Time has hurried. We find monitors in every thing around us.— The slow pacing silvery cloud, as it glides, spirit like, over the blue fields of heaven, brings before our eves the white-robed idol of our youth, and we sigh to.see it vanish like the object we adored. The murmuring river, sweeping along in liquid music between its willow-waving banks, rolls away like our cherished hopes, and is lost amid the forgetfulness of the ocean. Even music is heard with a sigh ; though it awakens the echo of the eternal hills, it dies heavily upon the heart, like the sweet voices that have forever faded away from our hearth. The dancing leaf falls on our footpath, and its green beauty is soon worn away, like the happiness of childhood. Flowers wither, and friends grow cold. The hojie of Spring too soon bursts into the reality of Summer; then comes the staid Autumn, solemnly demure, and her heavy eyes are fixed upon the darkness of Winter. Still there are patches of sunlight in our path —tiny glades, which no gloomy um brage overhangs —spots in the unfathomable dreariness of the forest, where we in ay sit down for a moment and smile ere we resume our jour ney through the deep solitudes. I was born at the foot of the green hills. The silence of woods and the overhanging of antique boughs were but a little distance from my home. The song of the cuckoo often rang above my roof tree. Meadows, rainbow colored with flowers, spread out near my dwelling. The silver Trent wound along past my door. The crown-rose of the whole wreath has not to me charm enough to inspire a sonnet. But last Spring, heavy with care, bowing beneath the cypress, which now binds the poet’s brow in place of the laurel, I emerged from the dusty din of the metropolis, and wan dered among those few green fields which yet spread like solitary oasis around its environs.— Many a dreary day had glided by bearing its leading links along, since I had seen a budding hawthorn. Oh! how sweetly came the fragrance of that morning air ! The birds that sang around tne felt not a greater thrill of delight than that which gushed silently from my heart; I gazed up on the clear sky, and the young green that car peted the earth ; and wondered how, amid so much beauty and brightness, Sorrow dared to set her bleeding feet on such a lovely world. Wandering along by an old hedge, stunted and ivied, (just such a hedge as the black-bird wou u select, in a more retired place to build its firm nest,) I discovered a wila violet. By a mossy SAVANNAH, GA.. THURSDAY, MARCH 22, 1849. b ink it grew; the dead leaves lay around it, soli tary and blue, and beautiful; not another com panion near it, it stood alone amidst the bursting of young leaves and the decay of the old ones. I sat down beside it. A little brook funded at my feet—a low faint melody, just audible—not the triad singiii” of the hill-brook, but a mounful murmur—a sound that well accorded with mv solitary violet. Had there been a bed of those lovely flowers, I should have wished for the sing ing voice of a river, all silver and sunshine; but the brook had a low sound, and there was but one violet. I satin silence and gazed upon it; I won dered if the deep alleys in Somerbywood yet con tained those sweet flowers. * * * A solitary flower, a sweet violet, how small a key opens the door of memory ! how the vie! rolled from the face of time, the gray, the forgot ten years moved before me! I became a vouth ; —Park—house—fields—rose upon my sight; a lovely girl hung upon my arm—she bore a basket; now her face was hidden bv the stem of a mighty tree, again her white kirtle faintly glanced be tween the thick underwood, as she flew from my sight in search of violets; anon she emerged from behind the broom covered bank, then stood like an antrel of light between me and the skv. And then I closed the leaves on Comus, and we listen ed in the old wood for another voice, “To smooth the raven down of darkness till it smiled.” And trees started into enchanters, and spirits sung in the brook. We saw their long hair wave in the water-flags. Then we grew bold and threaded o o “lanes and alleys green.” Then I stole away, not far, just so far as to see her lovely figure hurrying to and fro, and calling upon my name ; then she sat down in despair on the green moss, her white drapery “Made sunshine in a shady place,” and I thought of Una. A knot of wild lilies of the valley shot up beside her, like a milk-white lamb. Then I stole gently up to her—“ How could you leave me.” 1 looked on her sweet face, on her gentle eyes as they were uplifted in kind reproach, just reaching the margin of tears, and my heart reproached me, and 1 wondered how I could leave her for a moment; and I bound our violets in lit tle bundles,and she soon forgave me ;Oh ! I could have hidden myself behind the trees again, to be so sweetly forgiven ! But she* left me—death stole her—howl have hated him ever since!— And the dead leaves that were strewn around my violet, seem neat emblems for a thing so lovely— for then I thought of her. No, these bright leaves that glittered around the stalk of my little flower, were not so sunny as her silken locks ; nay, the blue of her eye would shame the flowers’s radi ance, and her lips —so exquisite ! and to die so young ! and with her heart filled with love ! Oh ! 1 would sooner that Spring had withheld its flow ers for ever ! The sweetest violet that ever blow ed withered when she died —the woods will never bear such another ! A little flower had assumed the reins of my thoughts;—how feeble a charioteer can drive the fancy ! Within one short hour I had visited the old forest of Sherwood. Robin Hood in his garb of Lincoln green, followed by his many outlaws had swept before me. The bugle had sounded through the glimmerihg glades, and rude drinking horns were seen waved to and fro by powerful arms, keeping chorus to the loud “Derry Down” that rang beneath the greenwood tree. The dark groves of Newstead had again risen before the Arcady of England, where the mighty minded Byron had so often trod. Again I trav ersed those violet scattered solitudes, again paced the long oaken galleries, rugged with the dregs of the blood-red wine, seeing the smooth lakes on whose surface he loved to ride, or within their sullen depths to plunge. The ruined window with its eternal ivy ; the old fountain, with its quaint imaginary, the solemn cloisters, the rusted armor, the satyrs partly covered with the green moss —his impressive portrait above the wide fire place—had all risen before me as distinctly as when i first saw them. That simple violet brought the velvet vallev of Sneinton before my mind’s eve, the rocky hermi tage, the flowery banks, on which 1 loved to sit and angle in the sunshine of morning, or thegrav twi light of eve. The finny tribe had but few charms tor me, unless it was to see them leap up and: scatter the loosened silver spray of the river, like fairy stars in the sunshine, then glide away be neath the clear water. The dreaming trees, the distant hills basking in their variegated beauty, the rustling of slender Hags, the rising and falling of the water-lilies, the breeze sweeping across the long grass, the tall willows bending to their own shadows in the river, the slow clouds mirrored be low—ail these were sights and sounds thataccorded well with my varying moods. Then those dead leaves so closely surrounding an object of beauty ; Oh, how like past pleasure they seemed —the dark night closing upon a sunny day, the grave surmounting a flower-bed, the bier placed in a ball-room, the funeral bell knelling homeward the wedding party, the slow muffled footsteps of death stealing mournfully behind us ! What changes had taken place since I last saw a violet. Could I forget the dark room, the nar row window of which the sunbeams beat not, lest they should become prisoners. Hope had whis pered me away from my green hills. Ambition had allured me from my quiet woods; and they had all lorsaken me—even Patience grew wearied, and bent over the pale paper her pale cheek. — But memory went not away; she still recognised the blue sky and the bright sunshine, and sighed when she thought on such mornings. How fair the primroses grew in Clifton Grove, what a gush ing song there was then in the green woods ; how the sunshine slept upon the river ; how the happy breezes were laden with the perfume of violets.— Then rose the blossoming hawthorn, the hill-side white with daisies, the golden glow of king-cups, the gaudy beds of crocuses ; —all these still exis ted. And even their light hearts and merry voices were ringing through the haunts of the dove— Dryads fair as those which peopled the-forests of poesy. Perchance they were singing the songs which I had woven in my happier days. And could they think of me! wish me seated on the well known bark, beneath the old oak ‘{ — There was pleasure in the thought—the dingy couch, the torn dictionary, the neglected candle, that had burned down unwatched in the moments of wandering thought; the expiring fire with its dying embers ; the low chilly feeling that follows a sleepless night; the pile of papers, showing confusedly its rows of scribbled lines; voices in the streets; the sun struggling through a murky atmosphere ; —from gloomy contrasts to the little window in which the woodbine peeped When free from care and refreshed with slumber, the lark awoke us with its song, when the woods emerged from their misty canopy, and the early breeze brushed the gentle dew from the leaves; when contentment smoothed our pillow, and the white wings of peace wafted us into slumber; when we heard not a mournful sound in the brook and sorrow came not at the sight of the first violet. Innocently popjnng the Question. —“Charles,” said a young lady to her lover, “there is nothing in teresting in the papers to-day, is there dear?” “No, love; but I hope there will, one day, when we both shall be interested.” The lady blushed and said, of course, “For shame, Charles /” ‘ To remove stains and marks from Books . — A solu tion of oxalic acid, nitric acid, or tartaric acid, is attended with the least risk, and may be applied upon the paper and prints without fear of dam age. These acids taking out writing ink, and not touching the printing, can be used for restoring books where the margins have been written upon, without attacking the text. NUMBER 3.