Newspaper Page Text
BY J. A. TURNER. [
VOLUME 11.
|oetri).
FROM THE JOURNAL OF COMMERCE.
Crave of the Missouri Bride.
BY MAJ. G. \\\ P ATT EX, U. S. ARMY.
•
On the lovely bank of a nameless stream which
empties into the rapid Colorado, is a little mound,
which, in the spring season, is mantled with flow
ers, and near which sometimes at evening may bo
traced the temporary camp of the emigrant on the
overland rente to California. It is the grave of a
young Missouri bride, who "left tne home of her
childish mirth,” to share with her partner the vi
cissitudes of a journey to the land of gold, and who
perished :md was buried by the way side:
Along the shore —along the shore,
Which seldom foot-fall echoes o’er,
There lies half hid 'mid flowrets rare,
The grave of one, oh 1 more than fair.
Oft at the hour when eve comes down
To crest the spot with glory's crown—
(When the hush’d soogters close their eyes
Unconsciously as daylight dies,
Ar.d the oov day-flower droops its bead.
Abashed to hear the night wind’s tread,)
Staid by the sun’s retiring beam,
The brief sojourner at that stream
Pauses to wonder “ who can lay
Iu that strange grave—so far away?"
Along the shore, alone—alone—
Where Western winds and waters moan,
Lull and by the murmuring voice of streams,
Sleeping the sleep unknown to dreems,
’.Neath the blue drapery of the skies,
In robes of white, serene she lies.
Without a hope, without a fear,
Without a smile, without a tear, —
When Winter’s blast is on the heath,
Never to hear its warring breath;
When birds come back on joyous wing,
Never to hear their chants of Spring;
Alone, alone, along the shore,
She sleeps, alas! to dream no more.
Along the shore, alone—alone,
That little mound without a stone,
Is all the token to declare
So lov’d a tiling is buried there.
Above her ashes dear and dim
There steals at eve no household hymn;
And yet she is not all forgot—
Love fences round that hallowed spot,
And ever still those ashes burn
Alive in Memory’s secret urn.
And prayers go up when daylight closes,
For her—the wept—who there reposes.
Fort Ripley, Minnesota, Jan. 1855.
Mlisrelkmtous.
A Wild Legend.
Oberlansitz is the name of a small
mountain district bordering on Bohe
mia ; and to the rough part of it, sit
uated round about the town of Quit
tau, the wildest legends belong. The
original inhabitants are an old race of
Czechs, and form the native popula
tion of the highlands ; but it is a Ser
vian race that occupies the plains be
low. The Oberlansitzer is a lumpish
fellow, phlegmatic and taciturn ; who,
when he does open his mouth, heaps
together vowels, so as to form the Very
coarsest of the German dialects—worse
even than the Silesian. lie would call
what, waoiout. When excited in the
beer-house or on any holiday occasion,
he breaks out into exceeding wildness,
and in that condition, he is quick at
wrath; but, slow at forgiveness, he
treasures up ideas of vengeance. Os
strangers he is very distrustful. Un
willing to guide them over his native
ground, he hides from them what he
knows, tells them none of his thoughts,
and recounts to them none of his legends.
Even at home, when he begins one of
the stories in which he delights, he
blurts it out piecemeal, from the corn
er by the oven, stops to smoke,
or breaks off altogether if offended by
any distasteful kind of interruption.
Thus it happens that the legends cur
rent in the Oberlansitz have escaped
the notice of the collectors.
Some years ago, an educated Ober
lansitzer, Herr WillkOmm, published
a small collection of the legends of
his countrymen. I propose to relate
two or three of them—not telling them
as formal tales, but setting down
enough to show that what is their na
ture, and suggest, perhaps, too, a pro
fitable thought or two to those who,
in reading them, remember what the
nature is of those poor highlanders by
whom they were invented.
Once upon a time there was a maid
en, named Swanhilda, who was the
only child of a proud father, abd he
was dead. Her mother had died at
her birth, and she lived, therefore,
alone in her castle. To this lady many
suitors came, ail of whom she scorn
fully and repeatedly rejected. Her
delight was in manly sports ; she was
repeatedly thundering through the
forest on a great black Barbary cour
ser, spear in hand, in search of game.
Nevertheless, she was very beautiful,
and her many suitors, driven to dis
traction, at last me* together, and
agreed to summon her to yield herselt
to one of them, or else submit to be be
seiged by them all ; for t.iey would
combine aud march against her castle.
She sent back their messenger with
scornful words, aud went to bed.
In the night a little ball of light
% '<sl l thlii ItmTiuti:— ScSdth to literature, lolrtits, anil (fctteral Hisalfa.
came up but of her bed room floor, and
jumped about with a slight crackling
noise that awakened her and worried
her. “Be quiet,” she cried out at it.
“What fool’s triilk is this. I want
to go to sleep.” The little ball instant
ly vanished; but directly afterwards
the boards of the floor were broken
through, and a table rose into the room
covered with wine and dainty food.
Then S wanhildu foj.r But
the fear gave wav to curiosity, when
she saw sitting around the table the
figures of all her suitors, eating and
drinking merrily. One lady was sit
ting with them who had nothing to
eat, and that was the image of herself.
Little servants took to each of the.
young knights as many plates of food
as he had received rejections at her
hands; and, whenever a knight was
served in this way, there was laid
down before the image of herself an
empty sack, so that as many sacks
(the Oberlansitzers say baskets,) as she
had given she received back for her
supper. I believe that an old custom
of asking a lady’s hand by making her
a present in a bag (sack) or basket,
and taking it as an acceptance of the
implied offer if she kept whatever con
tained the present, and a rejection if
she sent the sack or basket back, gave
rise to our vulgar Euglish expression,
give the sack, and to the corresponding
German expression, give the basket.
Swan hi Ida saw her image gradually
hurried behind piles of her own bas
kets, while the knights ate or drank,
and the good wine and rich viands
came up through the floor at an ama
zing pace, disappearing again lrom the
table in a way t at was quite super
natural. Swanhilda, being very an
gry, was about to scold, when she
found to her dismay that her voice
was gone.
There was a whispering and giggling
at the bedside. To see what that
meant, Swanhilda moved aside the
silken curtains, and peeped over on
two little creatures in blue and green
c;othing, with yellow hats, who talk
ed and laughed together. She could
just hear what they said. She picked
up from their discourse that she was
being punished by the fairies generall y
for having turned her girlhood into
manhood; but particularly for one
act that had brought hex roystei'ing
ways painfully under the notice of the
fairy queen. On a certain festival oc
casion, a grand fairy assembly had been
held, a monster orchestra was estab
lished in the wood, the queen with her
whole court was present, and the en
tire fairy world was then collected,
crowding every flower with so much
eagerness that the more adventurous
had even climbed to the top of the
the highest fox-gloves to look
down on the imposing spectacle. In
the midst of the music the ground
shook, and there was heard a distant
thunder; directly after wan Is, the Am
azon, on her great Barbary horse,
dashed through the bushes. One hoof
came into the middle of the orchestra,
the other three came down among the
people, killing, crushing, overthrow
ing, breaking heads and arms, and legs,
so that the festival ground looked af
! terwards as ghastly as a field of battle,
j The queen vowed that she would
tame Swanhilda. Already the fairies
i were at work, eating her out of house
i and home. Swanhilda, hearing all
; this, turned round in bed with a thump.
I “ Lid you feel that?” said one of the
i little creatures. “Was not that an
j earthquake.” The other was the cel
| lurer who went occasionally to and
fro to fetch up wine. “No,” he said
; “that beast of a Arl must be awake
1 and kicking about in bed with anger.”
| “But then,” said the other one, “I
| think she would get up and scold us
roundly.” “No,” said the cellarer,
“our queen has taken thought of that.
If she awoke she was to be tongue
tied, and to lie awake till cock crow
looking at us.” “Fine amusement
that would be,” Swanhilda grumbled
to herself. “I was right,” said thecel
larer, laughing tremulously, “ the
beast is awake.” “Pretty manners,”
thought Swanhilda. “I am a beast
am I! Oh I wish I could speak.”
“Ah, my young lady,” said the cel
larer, answering her thoughts, “it is
well for our ears that you cannot.
You see,” he added to- Ins friend, “the
immense destruction of property she
occasioned, is not to be made good to
us, the queen says, until this creature
has married one of her rejected suit
ors and made handsome presents to all
the others. Before she can do that
she must catch fish for a living.”
A little before cockcrow the feast
ing ended, the tables being broken up
the fairies disappeared. At cockcrow
Swanhilda fell asleep, and slept until
noon; then she got up «nd went to
her washstand. There was no water
in the basin,; and falling, at once into
a great rage, she called her maid.
“llow is this?” she said to her. “No
water I”
The maid waSsure that she had put
water, but she went for more. Pres
ently she returned, looking much
frightened. . “There is no water,” she
said, “in the tub, none in the pump,
none in the cistern. ” Swanhilda
thought directly of the fairies, and
said, “Never mind get me my break
fast, I will take a sausage and two
breasts of Pomeranian gdo.se.”
■ f - ipiOiiißs) umvwdib ciiia imwpvfKntfi**
EATONTON, GA., SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 24, 1855.
“ Oh, miss,” the servant answered,
“there’s no sausage, and no goose and
no food of any kind ; and every cask
in the cellar is empty, and the casks
are rotten ; and the furniture’s gone
out of the house, and cattle out of the
stalls, and your Barbary courser’s
gone, and the hay is all moulded in the
manger, and the litter’s rotten; and
all the fruit’s gone off the trees, and
the trees are all dead, and the grass
and every bit of the country round is
withered up. Only look out of the
window, miss ; and the servants have
all gone, and oh, if you please, miss, I
am going.”
Swanhilda went out and found that
all was true ; the fairies had really
consumed all her subsistence. “ 1
won t be forced into marrying, ” she
said; “and I wont fish. I don’t care.
I know what I’ll do—l’ll starve my
self.” She kept to this resolution for
three days; but then starvation be
came so uncomfortable, that she went
out to look for food.
Everything was dry and barren, but
there was the castle lake; and when
she came to that it was a surprise to
see how full of fish it was, and how
they leaped and swam together at the
surface. There was a fishing rod close
by her with a hook at the end of the
line, and a worm already fixed upon
it. She dipped it into the lake and
a fish bit instantly. She threw the
line down and was carrying home the
fish for dinner, when it began sud
denly to smell so detestably, that she
was forced to throw it away.
“Ha, ha,” chuckled the little cellar
er, who was lounging upon a moss
rose close by, and drinking the maddest
draughts out of a small cup borrowed
from a heath blossom. “We know how
to tame you. Now fish.”
Swanhilda picked up the fishing
rod, and struck at the impertinent ell
with all her might. “Infamous imp!”
she cried. She knocked the rose to
pieces, but the fairy bad leaped off
and fixed himself upon her nose.
“You have a remarkably soft nose,
you vixen,” he observed. “Now fish!
Do, my dear Swanhilda, take the rod,
and while you are fishing I will play
you the. most charming music.” Swan
hilda dashed at him with her fingers,
but he bit them. It was of no use to
be obstinate, she was obliged to fish,
and while she fished hy sat astride up
on her nose, and beating time upon it
with his heels, played half a dozen in
struments and sang a song at the same
time. In his song he bade her place
the fish she caught into a basket that
lay at her feet, wreathed about with
flowers. It was soon full, and then
she was forced to carry it to market.
But if she was to go to town and
sell fish before all the world, she de
termined that she would at least dis
guise herself. So she went first into
the castle to look for some common
clothes. But the cupboards and
presses were all empty. No garment
was left her but the one she wore, the
grand velvet riding dress in which she
had been used to go a hunting. She
was obliged, therefore, to set out in
that, and was promised a hot sop
upon her return. The fairies made’ her
labor light for her. She sold her fish
and when she came home, found a lit
tle water running from the spring,
a fire alight in the courtyard, and a
piece of bread beside it. She made
some water hot, crumbled her bread
into it, ate her hot sop and fell asleep.
Next morning she awoke very
thirsty, but there was no water. The
little cellarer was at her elbow to re
mind her that she was must go fishing
and marketing before she breakfasted.
She fell at once into a great rage. “ I
wish,” she thought to herself, “I wish
you were where the pepper grows.”
At once she felt the elf upon her nose,
where he began to punish her with a
thick bristle, beating her cheeks and
tickling her nostrils so that she half
killed herself sneezing.
“Wait a bit, madam,” he cried. “I’ll
teach you politeness. Where the pep
per grows, indeed ! pepper you.”
Swanhilda fished and went to mar
ket where two of her rejected suitors
saw her, and came up at once to buy
some of her fish and to mock her. So
the year and next year passed; the
suitors came one after another, jeering
at Swanhilda. She took every day to
market a basketful of the finest fish,
and in exchange carried home so much
money, that she was after all a little
comforted. But she was compelled to
put the money by, and live on the
spare diet that the cellarer provided.
And while she was thus humbled,
Swanhilda saw that among all the old
suitors who mocked at her in her day
of disgrace, there came pne who ap
proacln and her always as of old, with
blushing reverence, and honored her
as much as ever, though she was re
duced to the condition of a fish-wife.
Her lie'aat then softened, and she un
derstood the worth *of love. There
fore, at the end of three years, she
consented to marry this young knight.
The produce of marketing, iu which
the fairies had always helped her to
success, amounted by to a
vast sum, so tluit she "had no difficulty
in obeying the rest of the directions of
the little cellarer, who had been made
her major domo by the fairy quean,
lo every one of her old suitors, rude
as they had lately been in recognition
of her own former rudeness, she sent
many fair words a*nd costly gifts.
Bin liing with maidenly humility and
modesty, she was led to the altar by
the suitor who had loved her with a
true devotion, and to the friendly
fairies who attended at her wedding
she made her last promise, which she
kept faithfully. It was never to ride
any more Barbary horses, but to am
ble oft a palfrey as a gentle lady
should.
It is instructive to compare the
grace and delicacy of this legend of
Taming of the Shrew with the appa
rent roughness of the people among
whom it is current. —Household Words.
Death- of a Charming Author and
Woman.
Mary Russel Mitford, the author of
“ Our Village,” and of “ Rienzi,” and
a great many other works that no suc
ceeding age, in which the English
language is spoken or read, will ever
let die, is no more. The tidings iof
her demise did not startle nor sur
prise, for they were tremblingly an
ticipated by the friends of the deceas
ed lor months before.
In a letter written by her to her
friend, Mr. James T. Fields, the Boston
poet, not long ago, she said touching
ly, “You will not see your old friend
when you come to England again, for
I shall not be alive in the spring; but
they will tell you where I am sleep-
W
Mary Russel Mitford was born in
the little town of Alresford, in the
county of Hampshire, England, in the
year 1789. In the pretty village of
Swallowfield, which she has justly im
mortalized she died on the 10th of
January, 1855, in her 67th year.
Her death not only leaves a void in
the circle of English literature, blit a
vacancy in society that will be most
keenly felt by thousands. Truly,
says Fields, in a graceful tribute to
her memory, in the Boston Evening
Transcript, “no female writer of our
day has been so loved as Mary Mit
ford. To the few who have seen her,
face to face, she can never be forgotten;
and to the many who have never
heard the sound of her voice and have
known her only through her charming
pages, she must be missed like a friend.
She was so good and kind, so sunny
iu her noble character, so warn* and
constant in her friendships—that those
who knew her best will mourn her
loss the longest, and feel most deeply
that one of the purest and best of her
sex has passed away.”
No writer was ever more fondly re
spected among the English common
people, the peasantry of the land, than
Miss Mitford, and they always strove
to do her honor. Her associates were
the great, as well as the wise, the
good, the distinguished. Talfourd,
DeQuincey, Scott, John Wilson,
Wordsworth, Landor, Hemans the
Brownings, and many more of that
bright class, were her iutimates, and
loved her dearly.
As Mr. Field saj’s, Miss Mitford
was eminently a beautiful woman, her
face retaining to the last an expression
of affectionate interest and cheerful
*ood nature. So we should infer from
the beautiful portrait painted by John
Lucas in 1852, appended to her latest
work. Her manner was full of win
ning kindness, and the very soul of
melody seemed native in her voice.
Her merry laugh rang through her
cottage like bird-music, and when she
read aloud a poem —her tones at such
a time always takinjia kind of chant
—itwas like listening to the recitative
of a fine s nger.
Lightly lie the turf above one of the
gentlest hearts that ever beat in sym
pathy w r ith the joys and the sorrows
of humanity ! — N. 0. Picayune.
Venality of the Press.
Among the signs of the times there
is nothing that so distinctly marks the
character of the age, and * the corrup
tions of the present time, as the reck
less disregard of moral principle too
frequently exhibited in the conduct of
political newspapers, and while we
should hold those to a strict accounta
bility who set at naught the obliga
tions of morality, aud make the press
the agent for the circulation of false
hood ana calumny, they alone, it is ev
ident, are not to blame, for they cater
to the wants of a vitiated public taste,
and if the public did not approve
'their course, and manifested their dis
approbation in a ta .gible manner, who
can doubt that the evil would be at
cnee corrected ? It is true that the
conductor of a public journal has his
own sins to answer for; the general
depravity of the public mind is no ex
cuse for him; but the men who ap
prove his course, and manifest their ap
proval, are equally guilty.
Why is it that men who are honor
able, truthful, and honest, in the or
dinary relations of life, who would
scorn to tell a lie, and who have a pro
per appreciation of the truth, can yet,
for party purposes, and to secure a
triumph of party, lend themselves to
the propagation of error arid to the
promulgation of the basest falsehoods
that ever disgraced humanity ?
{Atlanta Republican.
FROM THE MISSOURI REPUBLICAN, DEC. 25.
Origin of Camp Meetings.
Religious Extravagances at them in
Tennessee— The Falling Exercise —
The Jerking Exercise—The Barking
Exercise , <&c. —Extravagances of the
Females.
We hear now and then of the strange
effects which were produced upon per
sons and whole communities in olden
time by religious excitement, and the
peculiar phenomena which marked
periods of religious fervor among a
simple people. In a recent lecture be
fore the Mercantile Library Associa
tion of Boston, Rev. Wm. it. Milburn
gave a general descriptien of the early
preachers of the West, particularly of
Kentucky, and made a selection of a
few characters to illustrate the traits
of the whole. No part of the country
has witnessed such schisms in the
churches, and such wild and fanatical
delusions in connection with religious
teaching, as in the States of Kentucky
and Tennessee. The statements made
by Rev. Mr. Milburn were doubtless
correct, so far as they went; but the
selection of a few individuals as an in
dex of the general character of the
Western preachers of that time, gives
a very incorrect idea -of the actual
facts.
Some years since, during a tempora
ty residence of a few months in the
£tate of Kentucky, I chanced to have
ab opportunity of examining a historic
al''work, which is there acknowledged
as \he best authority, and in which I
noticed many of the incidents describ
ed ih the lecture of Mr' M., and in
which are-also found many interesting
statements with regard to that early
time, which go to indicate that there
was a vast amount of imperfection con-,
nected- with many of those whose char
acters was delineated under the head
ing of “Saddle-Bags.” Some of the
incidents of that day and region are
scarcely credible on account of the
strange perversion of the human intel
lect which they show. The churches
were torn and wasted ten years by in
testine feuds, and, in consequence of
the dissensions then existing among
the churches, infidelity prevailed more
or less throughout that whole region.
The writer to whom I have referred
says that “ nearly half of the ministers
of that period, were fit one time or an
other subject to church censure for va
rious faults.”
Camp meetings originated among
the. Presbyterians of Kentucky. The
first camp meeting was held near Goose
berry river, in July, 1800. The min
isters present were Messrs. MeGready,
Wm. McGee, and a Mr. Hoge. The
author, whose language I quote, says:
“ Camp meetings being once introduc
ed, the plan spread like wild-fire. The
laborer quitted his task, the youth for
got his pastimes, the plough was left
in the furrow, age snatched his crutch,
the deer enjoyed a respite upon the
mountains, business of ail kinds was
suspended, dwelling houses were de
serted, whole neighborhoods were emp
tied, bold hunters and sober matrons,
young men aud maidens and little chil
dren flocked to the common centre of
attraction—every difficulty was en
countered, every risk ventured to be
present at the camp meeting.”
In connection with these camp meet
ings a great variety of strange exer
cises grew up. Children ten or twelve
years of age were prominent actors.
Under paroxysms of .feeling, persons
fell down, and this was called “the
falling exercise.” There were also
“ the jerking exercise,” the “ rolling,”
the “ running,” the “dancing,” and the
“ barking exercises,’” besides “ visions”
and “ trances.” At Cabin Creek camp
meeting, May 22, 1801, so many fell on
the jhird flight that, to prevent their
being trod on, they were laid out on
one side of the meeting house floor,
like so many corpses. At Boone Creek
sacrament two hundred fell; at Pleas
ant point three hundred, and at Cane
Ridge three thousand, August 6,1801.
It is said that children eight months
old, were affected by these strange in
fluences.
The first instance of the “jerking
exercise” was at a sacrament in East
Tennessee. Persons would be jerked
in all directions, and over whatever
object happened to be in the way. —
They were always left to thsmselves,
because the people said that to oppose
them would be to resist the influences
of the Spirit of God. Sometimes those
who had long hair, it is said, had their
heads jerked so swiftly that the hair
snapped like the crack of a whip. It
is said that none were injured except
those who rebelled.against the opera
tion of the Spirit and refused to com
ply with the injunction it came to en
force. Some who went to the meetings
with whips in their hands to flog oth
ers had their whips jerked out of their
iiands.
In the “ rolling exercise,” they dou
bled up and. rolled over, and over; and
it made no difference whether there
was mud or filth of any kind in the
way. In the “ runningexercise ” they
would run over every obstacle and
keep running till quite exhausted.
In the “ dancing exercise,” a writer
of that time says they had the privi
lege of exhibiting, by a bold faith,
what others were moved to do by a
blind impulse. In one instance a Mr. '
! Thompson, a minister, commenced dan
cing after meeting and danced an hour
and a half; and said he, ‘‘This is the
Holy Ghost!” A girl danced for an
hour in an empty pew, and others dan
ced in so violent a manner that they
could not be held by strong men.
The writer whom I quote says:—
“ One might be tempted to think that
the climax had already been reached,
but there was a piece of extravagance to
complete the degradation of human
nature. The 1 barks ’ frequently accom
panied the ‘jerks,’ though of later or
igin. This exercise consisted of the
individual taking the position of a
dog, moving about on all-fours, growl
ing, snapping his teeth, and barking
with such exactness of imitation as to
deceive any one whose eyes were not
directed to the spot.”
All classes became affected by this
degrading mania, and the only method
of securing relief was to engage in a
voluntary dance. It was supposed first
to be inflicted as a chastisement for re
missness in duty. Such as resisted the
impulse and declined the dancing con
tinued to be tormented for months and
even years. From being regarded a
mark of guilt, the barks at last be
came to be regarded as tokens of di
vine favor and badges of special hon
or. “ Ridiculous as it may seem to us at
this distance of time to hear such ex
traordinary sounds as bow, wow, wow
interspersed with pious ejaculations
and quotations of Scripture, we are’
not at liberty to doubt the truth of the
assertion that then the effect, or at
least one of the effects, was to over
awe the wicked and excite the minds
of the impious.”
In the midst of these disorders those
preachers who labored to direct the
minds of the people to the true marks
of grace, were denounced as deistical,
and thus their influence was greatly
diminished. Some of the results were,
the people would be singing half a
dozen n.ymns at the same time, very
loud, with violent motions of the body.
Sometimes a dozen would be prayiiig
at a time, for they said the Lord could
hear even if they all spoke at
, once. The preachers were often in
terrupted with singing in the midst of
their sermons. Whoops, cries, hyster
ical laughter and the repetition of the
words of the preacher even louder than
he uttered them, constituted a combi
nation of annoyances to which the
waves of the sea, harangued by the
Athenian orator must have been a tri
fle.
These cases are enough to show what
a state of things existed in Kentucky
in the beginning of this century. Our
author asks, “ Will it be easily cred
ited that in 1803 the females from 14
to 40 years of age, got in the habit
of hugging and embracing every one
in their vicinity, and that the men, es
pecially the preachers, came in fora
good share of their embraces?”
FROM THE NEW YORK MIRROH.
Ruth Hall —By Fanny Fern.
Here is a remarkable book—a book
to create a profound sensation. We
have read it through--the volume of
400 pages—in six consecutive hours,
and we accept its revelations as the ver
itable “ Life Sketch of Fanny E’ern”—
a leaf from her own life-tragedy. It is
a romance without fiction, and every
character introduced is drawn from
life, not imagination. The heroine,
“Ruth Hall,” is Fanny herself, and
the disclosures made in her autobiog
phy will astound the world. The prin
ciple persons shown up in the volume
are the author’s nearest relatives, not
one of whom, with the exception of
her husband and children, inspires the
reader with any other feelings than un
mitigated disgust. Her father, (Na
thaniel Willis, of Boston,) under the
name of “ Mr. Ellet,” is represented a
cold, cruel, canting, miserly hypocrite,
who would occasionally and grudging
ly toss his famishing daughter a dollar
as he would toss a starving dog a bone ;
and her brother, (N. P. Willis,} who
figures largely as “Hyacinth Ellet,”
is made to play the part of a heartless,
cowardly, mercenary fop—“a misera
ble time-server, whose God is Fashion;
who recognizes only the drawing
room side of human nature, and who
can sympathize only with sorrow in
satin.” Her father-in-law and mother
in-law are also exhibited as despicable
specimens of Puritanical bigotry, cru
elty and hypocrisy. The characters
are all powerfully sketched, but in this
labor of vengeance for foregone wrongs
we must admit that Fanny evinces a
pertinacity of inverted affection for her
family as unnatural as it is rare. It is
true the brutal treatment she received
from those tv ho who were under bonds
to nature to succor and assist her in her
heart-crushing affliction, was enough
to call down the wrath of heaven on
their guilty heads ; but Fanny should
have remembered in the midst of her
great wrongs, the words: “Vengeance
is mine—i will recompense, saith the
Lord;”
. That Fanny could not love such an
unfatherly father—such an unbrother
ly brother, we can readily understand.
There is no tie of consanguinity that
can bind the outraged affections of the
human heart. But how a woman, so
full of the “ milk, of human kindness”
as Fanny Fern, could deliberately pour I
j rur *33 mm mm: am *
j $2.00 A YEAR, IN ADVANCE.
NUMBER 8.
but in print her hate in such a lava
tide against one who was pillowed and
nurtured on the same bosom with her
self passes explanation. It surprises
us even more than the fraternal cruel
ties of which she so bitterly complains;
and we must class it among those fem
ine enigmas whose solution baffles our
philosophy.
r fhe poignancy of Fanny’s tragedy
is briefly this: She married young,
and gave her husband her heart as well
as her hand. The only drawback up
on her connubial bliss, was the afflic-,
tion of a devil of a mother-in-law
one of those sour drops which an all
wise Providence frequently lets fall in
to the cup of rfiatrimonial honey, to
prevent the beatilic pair from dying
of excessive sweetness. Iler husband
prospers in business; and Fanny now
finds herself “ living in clover, and a
cottage orne a few miles from Boston,
where little “Daisy,” the first flower
of wedded love, “only blooms to die.”
Two little angels, Kate and Nettie, are
sent after Daisy to console the mourn
ing mother; and then the great be
reavement, comes. Fanny is stricken
pennyless, with two orphan babes.
Her relatives who flocked around her
in strawberry time, and fed on her hus
bands generosities, now push her from
them with their icy shoulders, and
tell her, “go to work for a living.”
So sadly true are the -words of the
poet:
“ The friends who in our sunshine live,
"When winter comes are flown.”
Then came the struggle, the humil
iation, the suffering. Fanny, with her
two little ones, were starving in a gar
ret in a wretched street, in the rich
city of Boston, while her own father
whs going round “ taking up contribu
tions for the distant heathen ;” and her
luxurious Hyacinth brother was
squandering thousands on trifles, and
making lachrymose appeals through
the columns of his journal in behalf
of poor actresses and other fashionable
candidates for charily. Such is the
difference between seeming and doing
good. Fanny tries to live by sewing
at sixpence a da} r , and tries to get a
situation as a school teacher. Both ef
forts fail her. Then, seeing a carrier
leave a newspaper at a house across
the street, the thought strikes her to
try her hand at writing for the papers.
Her applications to the Boston editors
are coldly received. But she perse
veres. Her communications are ac
cepted. They attract attention; and
are universally copied. A New York
editor finds out her secret, and out
bids the Boston publishers. She binds
herself to write exclusively for one
year for the New York journal. In
the meantime she collects her “ Fern
Leaves ” (which she touchingly says
grew upon her husband’s grave,) into
a volume. The sale is immense, and a
certificate for SIO,OOO in Bank, is the
result. And now with the laurel on
her brow, and plenty of friends in her
pocket , the Priests and the Levites of
her own family, who passed her coldly
by in the winter of her distress, she
in turn chooses to disown and expose.
Such, in brief, is Fanny’s book and
Fanny’s history. The story is told
with extraordinary power and pathos.
There are pages in “Ruth Hall” equal
in tragic description to anything in the
works of Dickens. It is a book that
will make a sobbing among mothers
and widows, and cause a general sigh
ing over the sins of the rich, and the
sufferings of the poor. But, Fanny,
both you aud your readers have abun
dant reason to kiss the rod that has
afflicted you. There is truth as well
as poetry in the words of Longtellow :
“ Who hath not bread in sorrow eat,
He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers.”
The Supreme Court of Georgia.
Florida has lately abolished the Act
establishing the Supreme Court of that
State, and our lawyers are canvassing
the utility or inutility of our own
Court. In the Macon Telegraph, a
writer presents the Court in a very un
favorable light—showing that instead
of rendering the law more certain and
uniform, it is more confused under its
administration than before, and instead
of decreasing litigation, it has inereas*
ed it, and all this at an expense to
the State for the nine years it has been
in existence of $666,420. The writer
says the Court in its decisions grows
worse with age. The first were the
best, and yet these early decisions are
now declared bj r the, judges to be
mere opinions, and not law.
The writer thinks there can be no
remedy for these evils until dunces and
demagogues can be kept out of the
Legislature, and that contigency being
very remote, he suggests the expedi
ency of falling back upon the Circuit
Judges and special juries as far more
reliable than the Supreme Court.
We are not prepared now to give an
opinion upon this subject. We used
some exertion in a very favorable po
sition to secure the establishment of
this Court, and still believe, if rightly
administered, it will prove highly ben
eficial to the State. It has fallen un
der the control of partizan spirit for
the present, but, we are not prepared
to abandon all hope of its usefulness.
[Cherokee Georgian.