Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, August 11, 1859, Image 1
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^ """ =i '' ' ... "'.^" '
ura&sn^iAS&r { An Independent Journal: For the Promotion of the Political, Social, Agricultural and Commercial Interests of &e ffcMi
| ' " * J ^ . . / ?- . ___ _ _ .__ - 1 _ . . 1 , . -i*
VOL 5 " YOBKYILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, AUGUST 11,1856. \ ... 3?.
'Willie figjrtJjeariY
WRITTEN FOR THE Y
"WHO IS T
* O
THE DARK MYSTERY OF
BY WILLIE ]
AUTHOR OF "LULA WOOBSWORTH," "WINN
StJN/' "OLD HEADS AND 1
CHAPTER II.
"I'm an innkeeper, and know my grounds,
* - J J-. *L?-? ? T> m I n man T ofilfltf tkflm
AUU BIUUJT kUCUl , illBlU V uiau, m. oiuuj kuvu.,
I must hare jovial guests to drive my ploughs,
And whistling boys to bring my harvests home,
0?;I shall hear no flails thwack."
Thb NEW IKN.
Ib the little town of Maysville, about fifty
miles from the city where the incidents took
place, as related in the last chapter, there
lived a certain popular inn-keeper by the
name of Thomas Gould, who had provided
'entertainment for man and horse' for lo!
these many years. He gloried in his calling,
and could justly boast of his long established
and well patronized house, as the
best conducted, and most respectable in the
whole oountry.'
-Mr. Gould?or 'uncle Tom,' as he was
more generally called by the travelling public?owed
his success in business more to
his genial, lively, and hospitable spirit, than
to his wit and foresight. Trusting that the
reader will find himself pleased with the acquaintance
of 'uncle Tom,' we Will enter his
comfortable inn, and notice what may be
going on there of interest to our story.
'Come, Jude,' said the landlord, addressing
a rough looking individual, who was
listlessly sipping a glass of brandy, 'tell us
what news is stirring in London.'
'Jude !?you are slightly mistaken, uncle
Tom,' replied the person addressed; at the
same time drawing his broad-rimmed bat
down upon his brow, and moving about un
easily in his chair.
'Not Jade Simster!' exclaimed the landlord.
'Why, Jade, what has come over you,
that you are ashamed to acknowledge your
own name? Here you are, after an absence
of ten or fifteen years, and yet cannot exchange
a friendly word with an old acquaintance,
who has proven himself a staunch
friend upon so many past occasions?pshaw!
Jude, throw away that brandy, and join me
in a bottle of good old wine, that has taken
twenty voyages to India, and was bottled before
Cromwell knew his letters.'
'My dear Mr. Gould,' replied the stranger,
'I certainly have no objections to join
you in so capital an article as you have described
; but allow me to assure you, that my
name is not Jude.'
'Pshaw !' exclaimed the landlord, placing
his hands in the pookets of his snowy apron,
and jingling his keys, 'Jude Simster may
wear a wig of red hair, and wrap himself in
a coachman's cloak, but he cannot disguise
himself so completely, that uncle Tom could
not single him out of a thousand.'
'Derils ! I begin to fear that you are
as insolent as you are inquisitive,' said the
stranger, rising from his seat and pacing the
apartment.
'Pray do not fly into a passion, my dear
fellow,' said the landlord; 'but if any person
should ask me where Jude Sinister is, I
should unhesitatingly point to the gentleman
before me, and say, there.''
The stranger started; looked searchingly
upon the landlord for a moment, then dropped
into a chair and buried his face in his
hands, and groaned aloud.
'Now, Jude,' said the landlord, what in
the Dame of heaven has come over you ??
Why not acknowledge your own name, and
trust to an old friend for sympathy, help or
money, if you are in trouble.'
'I am in trouble !' replied the stranger.
'And your name is?'
'Jude Simster?its useless to deny it!' replied
the stranger, jumping to his feet, and
grasping the landlord's hand.
'What put it into your head to disguise
yourself from me, Jude?' asked the landlord.
'Ask me no questions dow,' replied Jude;
'but promise me, that you will not betray
me, good uncle Tom.'
Betray you !?what do you mean ?'
'I do not wish to be known as Jude Simster
just now.'
'Ah ! I hope, that you have not come
home with guilt upon your soul, Jude. An
honest and good man need never be ashamed
of his name.'
'I said not, that I was ashamed of my
name,' said Jude; 'but you know, uncle
Tom, that under certain circumstances, men
are obliged to adopt peculiar measures for
the furtherance of particular purposes.'
'Jude, I know not what these 'particular
Durooses' are; but if you have done, or are
jr - 4
about to do, anything which renders the suppression
of your name necessary, I very
much fear, that uncle Tom will not be the
man to further your plans,' said the landlord.
'I assure you?hark ! what noise is that ?'
'Sounds like a stage approaching,' replied
the landlord, going to the door and listening.
'Why in the devil's name doyou not close
the door, and keep out the wind and rain V
asked Jade. 'You may be assured, that no
person intends to stop here to-night.'
'Nonsense! do you not see the lights from
the stage, and?there ! coming this way for
certain!' said the landlord.
'If they should stop here, do not admit
them,' whispered Jude.
'What! the landlord of the Croicing
Cork, turn away travellers, from his inn upon
such a terrible night as this ??no, sir!'
'By heavens!' exclaimed Jude, 'they are
coming this way.'
'So much the better, Jude,' said the land
' Original ftoaklclte.
ORKVILLE ENQUIRER.
1E HEIR?"
R,
THE DESERTE8 HOUSE.
LJGHTHEART,
IE AND WILLIE," "THE CHILDREN OF THE
FOUNG HEARTS," JtC., kC.
lord, preparing-to light the lantern before
the door. . * ,
'Do not call me Jnde before strangers/
said Jnde.
' Very well tnen?here is the stage at last,
said the landlord, as the stage halted before
the door. ,
'Two gentlemen inside, uncle Tom,' shouted
the driver, as the landlord approaohed
the stage to open the door.
* 'Ah! welcome to the Crwoing Cock, gentlemen
!?disagreeable night, 'pon my word !
?take in your baggage, sir!?walk in?refreshments
ready for you in a few minutes?
wine as old as the reign of Charles?this
way !'
As the landlord ran on in this style, two
gentlemen very richly dressed, stepped out
of the stage and entered the ion in silence.
'Claude Milton, as I live!' exclaimed
Jude, as the youngest of the two gentlemen
seated himself in the farthest corner of the
room. 'The other gentleman surely is?no,
it is impossible.'
'What are you muttering about, fellow ?'
asked the youngest gentleman, casting a look
of suspicion upon Jude.
'Fellow is not my name, sir,' replied Jude,
advancing toward the speaker.
'You ar? insolent, sir,' said the stranger.
'Claude Milton,' said Jude, 'I am not disposed
to quarrel in a public house, with every
bully that chooses to show his teeth?
pray quiet your nerves.'
Claude Milton's brow grew as black as
death; he thrust his hand in his bosom, as
if about to draw a weapon; when, suddenly^
as if recollecting himself, the whole expression
of his countenance changed, and walking
up to Jude, he bowed politely, and smilingly
said:
'You seem to know my name, sir; please
afford me the gratification of knowing yours.'
'In anv other particular. I should be much
f * /
pleased to afford you a gratification; but,
under the present circumstances, it is absolutely
necessary that my name be kept a secret,'
replied Jude.
'Well, sir," replied Claude Milton, 'you
will at least pardon me for the unkind, and
ungentlemanly manner in which I addressed
you. Human nature is so susceptible to the
influences of circumstances?'
'That it can be wonderfully cheered by a
bottle of wine, corked before the reign of
Cleopatra,' chimed in the landlord, who at
that moment made his appearance.
'Most true !' replied Claude Milton, taking
the bottle from the hands of 'uncle Tom,'
and proceeding to draw the cork.
'Beg pardon, Mr. Milton,' said the landlord;
'but I cannot allow any gentleman to
soil his hands with a cork-screw, while lam
present to do that service for him.'
'If those were the only stains upon some
gentlemen's hands, their consciences would
be less clamorous,' said Jude, handing the
bottle to the landlord.
'How, sir!?what mean you by that remark
!' said Claude Milton, as an involuntary
shudder shook his whole frame. Then,
as quick as the sunlight passes through the
cloud, his countenance assumed its usual
calm, amiable, and kind expression; and,
slapping Jude playfully upon the shoulder,
he said:
VVUJC) UUJ UtUi Oil . JUU IliUDt JU1U UiU 1U
a bottle of this excellent wine?I am sure
you will oblige me.'
'I should lack appreciation did I refuse
to do myself so much honor,' rejoined Jude.
'Here you are, gentlemen !' said the landlord,
pouring out a portion of the wine into
the two glasses. "Bottled before the famous
queen of Egypt could read inscriptions on Alexandrian
columns?quaff the nectar, gents!'
'Why, uncle Tom, this is indeed excellent
wine !?it actually surpasses liquid pearls,'
said Milton, draining his glass, and folding
it up for another supply.
'Will not your companion join us?' asked
Jude, in a whisper.
'My companion ? Oh ! you mean the gentleman,
that came in the stage with me?'
said Milton.
Exactly so?shall I invite him to the
table ?'
'I shall da so myself,' replied Milton, rising
from his chair and advancing towards
his traveling companion, who had seated
himself beside a partly open window, and appeared
to be in deep thought.
'Exouse me, sir,' began Milton; 'we are
just refreshing ourselves with a bottle of our
landlord's excellent wine?.'
'Curious refreshment!' replied the stranger,
still looking out of the window.
'How so?'asked Milton.
'I should pefer the contents of the bottle
for my refreshment,' said the stranger, carelessly
tapping the toe of his boot against the
chair feet.
Milton colored to the temples for an instant,
then smilingly replied: 'You are
perfectly right, sir.'
'You want me to drink wine with you, I
presume?' said the stranger.
'I should be much pleased to have you do
so,' said Milton.
'Then, I may as well tell you at once, that
I will do no such thing,' replied the stranger.
'Courtesy, my good sir, prompted the invitation,'
replied Milton; 'but my self-respect
demands that it be not repeated. You
are at perfeot liberty to do as you chose.'
*
I ...... .. - iA- . . - 'I
am already aware of that fact,' replied
the stranger, turning impatiently away. / 'If
, you will allow me, sir, I will pay your wine
bill for you.'
'What!' exclaimed Milton, in a towering
passion, 'do you mean to insult me by such a
palpable insinuation V
'Gentlemen/ said the landlord, 'I think,
that a little reflection will convince yen, that
a quarrel in this house would be exceedingly
improper, as such an event would not
only injure your own character, but bring
to an end the long standing reputation of
my house/
You are quite right, uncle Tom/ said
Milton, quietly walking away, with that complete
mastery of himself, so characteristic of
the individual.
'Just keep away these fellows, my good
host, and I promise to keep my hands from
their Turn-proof throi.ts,' said the stranger.
Jude did not hear the remark; and Milton,
who did, possessed too much wisdom to take
any notice -of it.
'Now, 'pon my word !' said the landlord,
'I have kept this inn for more than twentyfive
years, and entertained all classes of men;
but never saw I gathered together such an
unsociable company as the present. .True,
the weather is unfavorable, and you have
travelled far; but, bless your hearts! what
is the use of cutting and slashing at each
other, when we might make ourselves merry
over a bottle, and go to bed with a good
conscience.'
'Really, uncle Tom,' said Claude MiltoD,
'if an apology is due from any gentleman
present, I am the person who should oifer it.
I must confess, that I had no right lo break
in upon the meditations of ray traveling
companion; and, that under the circumstances,
I did very -wrong to press him to join
me in a bottle of wine.'
The stranger at tho window started to his
feet upon hearing these words; and deliberately
walking up' to Milton, said:
'I am 8 rough man, sir, ami conform very
little to the usages and refinements of polite
society; but I cannot suffer you to apologise
in this manner, for matters in which- you
you have taken no part, and for which I am
alone to blame.' ;
'Indeed, sir,' replied Milton, with a graceful
bow, 'you do yourself injustice.'
'I beg that you will pardon my rudeness,
sir, in declining, so insultingly, a glass of
wine, which was so generously and politely offered,'
said the stranger. 'I am a child of
misfortune, and my disposition has become
soured by the.villiany, inhumanity, and selfishness
of my race. I have been a wanderer
for the last thirteen year3from good old England
; having been driven from the home
of my birth by a sorrow more terrible than
death, and more lasting than the immortality
of the soul. I return to my country, as
the whipped spaniel returns to his kennel;
as the wounded birdTeturns to her nestlings,
or thesmitten lion crawls to his den. I have
noconfidence in man?none in myself?none
it} God!'
'Speak not thus, my good sir,'" replied
Milton, taking the hand of the. stranger.
'I, at least, gladly welcome you back to dear
old England; /will be a friend to you; and
who knows but what all may grow bright
again.'
'And here's an honest man's hand !' exclaimed
the landlord; 'and if you ever need
the service, of a poor, but true man, just let
Tom Gould know it, sir.'
'I'm in, too! by the gods! exclaimed
Jude, who was fast getting himself outside
of o Viottlo of Virnnrlr
'Gentlemen,' said the stranger, looking
around upon the company, 'I may need your
services sooner than you expect it; but pray
inform me where I can find that singular
woman, Louisa, the old fortune-teller ?'
'What! old Loo?' replied Milton, starting.
'You certainly do not place any confidence
in the ravings of that demented old hag!'
'For the love of heaven, sir!' chimed in
the landlord, 'keep clear of that singular woman.'
'I believe, gentlemen, that old Louisa is
a woman of close observation, sharp foresight
and cunning; and possessing a most wonderful
knowledge of human nature, and of individual
character. Of course, I am, as every
man is, superstitious in -some degree; but I
have no faith whatever in any of her predictions,
or revelations, only so far as they are
based upon natural or acquired knowledge.'
'But, this woman seems to know, by actual
intuition, what other persons never
could know even by the most diligent search,
and application,' said Milton.
'Then,' replied the stranger, 'she is the
only being, that can render me a very important
service just at this time?where
does she live ?'
'Everywhere, it would seem, sir,' said
the landlord, 'but it is more than probable
that you will find her in the neighborhood
of the 'Deserted House,' about twenty-five
miles south of thie town, on the road to
Monctown.'
But why do you give so strange a title
to the house ?'
'The common people have given it that
name for the last twelve years, or more/ replied
Milton.
'Twelve years, or more!?'tis very
straoge !' said the stranger. 'But tell me,
j gentlemen, what is the tradition regarding
| the 'deserted house?'?there must be several
tales and traditions about such a singularly
named dwelling.'
'Will you be so good, my dear sir,' said
| Milton, <as to give us your name?'
'My name ? ahem ! ahem !?call me Wentworth,
if you want a name/ replied the
1 stranger, somewhat agitated; 'but give us
the tradition about that mysterious old
house.'
'Butyou have travelled very far Mr. Wentworth,
and yet have taken no refreshment/
suggested the landlord.
'Very true, mine host/ replied Wentworth.
'Be so good as to make ready a supper
for three; and, in the meanwhile, place a
, few bottles of your famous wines where we
can find them in time of need.' 1
'Any further order.?, sir?'asked the land- ]
lord. - - . i
'Not jnst now, unoiie Tom; bat be sure to 1
give us the very best that the bouse can furnish/
'. i
'That I will, sir,' replied the landlord,
smilingly bowing, ond leaving the room. i
The landlord had scarcely left the room,
when a loud knocking at the door announ- 1
ced the arrival of another party, who seemed ?
detarmined, by blovrs upon the door, and c
loud cries for admission, to make his presence
generally known. ' . A
'Divile an' bloodjwtiurther!' shouted the
outsider, 'open the door!'
'Who is it, that makes such a thundering
noise at my door this time of night ?' asked .
ftio lon/llnrd rnnnini* tn nnon fVio rlnnr
'Share, uncle Tor:, it's a most misfortu- ,
hate crater, that's been run afther by the
verra divil!?Och! howly Moses!' And
so saying the terrified speaker- bounded into
the room, and stood trembling before the
landlord.
'Why Barney!' exclaimed the landlord in
surprise, 'how, in the name of Irish whiskey,
are you 30 far from home ? What ails yon,
man ? and what business brings you here at
this time of nightV - '
Give the poor fellow a mug of beer,' said
Wentworth.
'Arrah!' replied Barney, 'it's that same
that'll do me narves np iliigantly?bless yere
honor's di8ea^n!Ilint.,
'Well, Barney, here is the beer,' said the
landlord, handing a foaming mug to the
young Irishman. 'Let us learn what adventure
has befallen you.'
'Faith ! the divil gave me a chase,' replied
Barney, glancing uneasily over his shoulder
towards the door.
'Bah !?nonsense!' said Milton turning
away.
'Tell us the story, my good fellow,' said
Wentworth.
'Yes !?just heave ahead, old fell! I arnt
'fraid of death nor dark I?I'll go to h?11
on a streak of greased lightning! by Jhe
gods!' exclaimed Jude, who had indulged
rather freely his propensity for brandy toddies.
'Well,' began Barney, 'about a week ago
Mr. George Vandry came viry near losing
nis lingant little aaugnter?."
'Rosa ??not possible, surely !' said Mil* <
too, much agitated. 'How did it happen,
Barney ?'
'Now won't ye be aisey, an' let me tell ye
the story in a nate an' gintlemanly style !'
said Barney.
'Go on, fool!' said Milton impatiently.
'Fool! is it that ye call me ?' said Barney".
'Thin, by the powers 'o mud, a divil
a bit shall I tell at all.'
'I beg pardon, my honest fellow,' replied
Milton, coloring. 'Be so good as to proceed,
and I will not interrupt you again.'
'Well,' said Barney, 'you see, the illigant
little lassie was playing in the New
Park, viry near the river side, whin shejidt
tumbled over into the wather .'
'Well!' said Milton,vimpatiently.
'And?now be aisey wid ye !?would
have gone to the bottom of the river to feed
the dirthy orabs and fishes wid her own dilicate
flesh, the darlint!?'
'I'll ta-take a plate of pi-pic pickled crabs
myself!' cried out Jude, half asleep.
<Oh! it's yourself that's in a nice pickle ^
already, I'm thinking,' said Barney, smiling
at the ludicrous interrimtion.
? __ r
'Talking about pickles, I think you had 1
better pick yourself up, and go to bed,' said '
the landlord to Jude. f
'Much obliged?never take mustard?in 1
my brandy?its directly opposed?to my i
con-consti-tution,' said Jude, nodding away
the effects of the brandy. * ?
Go on with your story, Barney,' said Mil- <
ton, casting a look of indignant contempt '
upon Jude. 'Well,
the poor lassie was jist about being
dhrownded,'?continned Barney, 'whin anate ?
lad, that sells matches on the streets, jump- {
ed into the watBer, an', at the risk of his ?
own life, held Miss Bosa up until a boat ?
could come to her rescue.'
'Noble lad !' exclaimed Wentworth. }
'What is the name of the boy ?' asked (
Milton.
'Miss Rosa calls him Jim,' replied Bar- 1
ney; 'but she is the only person who knows ?
the boy.' i
'She know a common match-vender?? 1
impossible !' said Milton. ?
'That's jist how the folks talks about the '
mather,' saicl Barney; 'but Miss Rosa tells
them, that she had been spaking with the
lad, a short time before the accidint hap- 1
pened.'
'This is very strange!' said Milton, mu- '
singly; 'but I suppose the noble boy has ?
been handsomely rewarded.'
'Bivil a bit of it, plaze yere honor,' said
Barney. ?
'Not rewarded !'exclaimed Milton, with 1
surprise.
'Bless yere honor, nobody can find the lad,' 1
said Barney.
'Find him !?why did they suffer him to
get out of their sight after the accident V 1
asked Milton.
Well, what with the joy, the confusion, 1
and the noisy crowd, and all that kind of 8
thing, they forgot all about the lad; an'
whin they did remimber him, he was no- c
where to be found,' said Barney. a
'Really,' said Milton, ?it will never do to '
let the noble little fellow go unrewarded? i
I will advertise for information concerning 1
hira.' 8
You are quite right, sir,' said Went- )
worth; <1 will give the boy ten pounds my- 1
self.' t
It's all no use gintlemen; for Mr. Yan- 3
dry has already advertised,' said Barney. a
But Barney,' said the landlord, 'you have t
not yet informed us what brought you in 1
this section of country, or what occasioned 1
your fright.' a
Well, you see, Mr. Yandry offered me t
twenty pounds for any information I could a
bring him about the boy. I detarmined to
jay a visit to old Loo, the fortune-teller} for
f she couldn't tell me something about the
joy, thin nobody can.'
'And did you see this strange -woman ?'
isked Wentworth.
'Jist tape aisey, and I']J tell ye.all about
t,' said Barney.
'Pray proceed, my good fellow/ jftid
Wentworth; 'for, I know not why, but I feel
i strange interest in the noble lad you speak
if' . - '
{TO BE CONTINUED.]
Original Jjaptrs.
? . .. ,. , _?
> ' ' * Pot the Yorkrfflo En<jdtrtr.
rHE DEATH WATCH-!UNDER THE WALL.
BT HABT A. DENISON.
' 0, stop the clock dear "Margarite? \
I cannot bear it now;
Against my heart its pulsings heat,
Upon my fevered brow; '* ,
Like a slow bell, whose funeral* tones
Sigh trem'lons on the.air, .
It tells of tears and trcubled moans,
And mourning everywhere.
So sorrowful out went I, to still
%
The pend'Inta swinging free ^
The air through the anoient'hall blew ohill,
Its pinions wet from the sea ; . <
I hurried back, to the Bb&dowed bed.
To watch through that night of pain,
"0, listen, darling," the siok one said,
"For the clock is ticking again." '
It could not be?and J bent my ear
Low down to the pillows white;
Tick?tick?with a stroke so sharp andolear
How it sounded out on the night 1
And grayly tinted the wan face grew,
As the sea-wind moaned in the hall,
It was not the clock?now the maiden knew,
But the death-watch under the wall. '
The morn's white glory bannered the west,
When a soul outsped the day,
And the Bnn shining lovingly over her rest
Crimsoned the beautiful.clay ;
The wind, no longer damp from the sea,
Blew rose-leaves into the hall,
But the only watcher who watched with me,
Was hidden nnder the wall.
Written for the Yorkville Enquirer.
SNATCHES FROM BUSY MOMENTS.
BY AUNT MAKY.
BABY TALK.
'Don't you despise to hear baby talk?'
laid a maid of forty summers, to a toastvitbout-butter.looking
bachelor.* Such a
specimen could do nothing less than growl
Yes, but?No,.idon't: it's the only language
;be little darlings understand, and why forDid
it!'
Look at the little chubby-faced, toddlibg'
;hing, not able yet to lisp 'Mamma.' Let.
is try her with something sensible ;*sbe*bas
loul enough to understand. You cannot doubt
t if you watch her, as she springs to catoh
;he lamp extended for her pleasure. See
;very muscle quivering with delight, the
patting' of the dancing feet, the nervous
grasping of the dimpled hands; look at her
iparkling eye, her heightened color,, every
feature beaming with eagerness! Hef dimpled
hand is almost in the flame?check her
?say?- . . ;
'Alice, the lamp will burn you, and though
ihilosophere have insisted that Are does not
)urn, yet I do not care to sacrifice the velvet
loftness of this little hand to test the expermeDt,
although at some future day I will be
ible to prove it to-you/ v How/does
she receive your sage advice ?
E'll warrant, by kio&ng ten times more furi-~
>usly, audio 'crowing'triumph attesting her
iner inainerence. Try baby talk 1
'Ah, Ah, daughter! fire burn baby!'
The little head will turn quickly, and with
in air of anxious inquiry she will seem to
jueation how far she msy rely upon your
luperior judgment: and if on the next in*
itant she springs with redoubled ardor towards
the forbidden object, set it down to
rant of power to retain, not inability to understand
the warning.
Try another. The baby is in a pet; she
would have what you will not give her, and
ihe throws herself upon the floor in screamng
passion. (Who can doubt original sin,
who tends a child!) Talk 'sensibly' to her,
jay, 'Alice rise this moment, or I shall be
obliged to correct you. Do you not know
what Solomon says respecting self-command ?
Better is he that ruleth his spirit than be
;hat taketh a city,' that 'evil temper must be
jorrected lest your 'hasty spirit exalt folly.''
She does not hear a word of your homily,
save that the tone may excite her to redoujled
fury.
But 'Naughty Baby, mother don't love
pouj get up, mother will switch bad child !'
s like oil upon troubled waters; the passionite
cries are checked, the little creature will
ise, and looking for a moment in your face,
is if searching for the love that never fails
ler, though now hid under a rebuke, that
nakes her little heart tremble; she will run
owards you, and hiding her head on the
nother's breast will sob out her repentance
md her grief.
DpflniflP hnhv tnllr ! NV> ! Pek nomoo
r ? J --W .
aresses, and baby talk, are all seeds of Par,dise
that Mother Eve hid in her fig leaves
rhen she fled from happiness and peace, aod
f you doubt it try the former on those you
ove, and the germ from Eden will yield
uch an harvest of trusting affections that
rou will recant your skepticism, and be wiling
to take on faith, even before Nature
eaches you, that the baby who springs to
rou in such joyous eagerness, whose dimpled
lmqs clasp so lovingly your neck, who nesles
with such trusting abandon in your arms,
tnows that the lullaby with which you soothe
ler is composed expressly for her benefit;
md understanding that every note is a voice
if love, a pledge of care, she falls gently
isleep upon the breast that beats so tenderly
' "l,! "J* I 1 >' 1 1 - ' rf
for 'thebabywhile the bajjpj shrflif a pot) c
the rose-bad Hp, the careless security of the I
little figure, testify to the belief that she on- *
derstands and appreciates caresses, lore and 'baby
talk/ v
* ** ? # f
Written fer the Vorkrflle Enquirer. q
A LEAI~FROM f p
THE JOURNAL OF A SEAMSTRESS.
BT MAUD IRVING. g
I hardly know why I write my bitteT ex- ?
perience; but to-night live wandered in b
memory's halls; I have again mingled in the
scenes of my youth. I see our heautiful 8
| home-stead, where I was reared in luxury; c
the pride and ambition of a father who is r
sleeping quietly beneath the cold sod, the t
dear object of a mother's love, carressed by I
: her smiles and kisses, the joy and oompao- c
!ion of her lonelyhoors. Bat theyhaye gone; <3
gone to a better land. I am left alone. |r
I love to sit in the twilight, lay the win- 0
dow of my study, and safer my thoughts to 8
stray mnsingly over the varied scenes which *
tempt their wanderings. Oar minds are 11
restive?a spirit is within us that "will not
down;" but, rising- and -Struggling with its
trammels, longs t<T range the vast fields that f
stretch out temptingly *befofb its vision, and 1
soar "nntrodden heights, where ingePB bash-. 1
ful look." ^ r
% t; j ' * * 11
The first prompting is to the days and J
scenes of the past, as with magic power, the
mVgnificent panorama passes before . us*? ?
Home, parents, childhood, associates?all
these are there. O, how th'e "heart beats, *
when we think of those whose forms were *
once so dear; whose eyes flashed baok to ours '
the hopes rising within !* Then this was the
world to us?the horizon that limited our ?
view was -the boundary of the universe. But
now how changed; the ingenuousness of youth
has passed away.
A mother, too, was with me then. 0, f
yes, I seem to see her now-^tbat lovely
form, whose gentle eye beamed on me with
such deep unutterable tenderness; those
lips, that so often imprinted upon my cheeks 8
the kiss of maternallove? that sunny brow, r
calm, tranauil and heavenlv! In the Stern 1
conflicts of life, my spirit sometimes sinks;
and then I turn, for consolation, to those lessons
impressed upon my infant mind by her
gentle love. She -guards me still: the aegis
of her heavenly oonnsel defends?the poisoned
shaft of the foe falls harmless at my feet.
It is no longer twilight. The moon is
beaming gently down on lake and hill?the
light clouds are flitting slowly aoress the aky.
Twas just such a night, wlicu Bluest Mw>ton
told me of his love, and asked me to be
his bride. I was bnt a girl of sixteen summers
then, and I loved Ernest with a strange-'a
wild devotion. I promised 'there' beneath
the gem-eyed watchers of the night, pale
beams of the silver moon, to be his bride.
Years have passed since that time in the
long ago; years of cares and sorrow When
the storm of misfortune lowered darkly above
my yonng head, he left me. With the sonny
hours of prosperity .he fled, when my
heart was slowly saddened by the dying fare,
well's of my parents. Oh 1 - when I found
that all I once thought dear had fled, my
home, my parents, my wealth, my position,
in society, and above all, the love of Ernest,
how lonely, how sad was I. I-felt, how vain
it is to bnild up hopes for the future. The
glittering hopesof youth will fade ^the scenes
of jey and happiness that are spread before
dur admiring gaze will vanish; while the
dreams of peace and contentment, in which
the aged often indulge, will flee away.
Disappointment is ever near ns. In the
hour of joy and festivity, when all around is
light and song, he comes and blights oitT expectations
and drnshesouf hopes. Whenhigh
asperations are on the wing, and out lofty
desires soar far in the future?wheu fancy
has adorned Oar pathway with flowers, when
imaginations fairy finger's have traded, in lines
of light, our title to fame, we know that a
-dark and sad shall be the reality.
When oar heart ia fall of mirth aod mel- ^
ody?when the bright beams of joy play t
around as; when the sunlight of happiness r
rests upon the brow, and earth seems washed ^
in the golden sea of bliss, then be assured
that soon the sunlight and the sunbeams
shall be quenched in gloomy night, and the Q
dark pall of sorrow shall shroud the earth. Q
How chilling is disappointment?how se- 8;
vere the dart of sorrow ! When our fondest f
expectatior%have been destroyed, and the ^
sweet flowers of hope withered and blighted, v
how changed the aspect of every thing a- f(
round us ! All that was bright and heautiful
has fled. The summer day is tinged
with gloom, and the rainbow of heaven is 0
bathed in the tears of anguish. The silvery b
stream that wandered, in strange beauty, ]<
within its banks, and sweetly sang of mirth j,
and melody, as its sparkling waters 'bjpke j]
into dimples, and laughed in the sun/ now n
wh:spers only of blighted hopes and bitter t]
disappointment. Earth is clothed in sad- g
ness, and life is veiled in misery.
I cannot help shedding bitter, bitter tears,
when I think of the happy past, and com- ?
pare it to my purest condition, alone?friend- a
less, aDd a seamstress. Yesterday 1 went t]
to return some work to Mrs. Davis, and on
my way home I was startled by the voice of 81
a man?
<Whither so fast my pretty one ? Pray
come with me; you'll suit me nicely! Do t]
you know your eyes are worth a fortune ?' g
and the vile man threw his contaminating
arm around me, and stared impudently into
my face. p,
'Villian !' I cried, and with a mighty effort
I released myself from his polluting jj.
grasp, and looked up into his handsome, but
crime-stamped face. Heavens! T'was
Earnest Monton, but he knew me not. P
'Villian! molest me further at your hi
peril,' I cried, without removing my eyes at
from his features. cc
He left me. No doubt he marked that hi
I was poorly clad, and took me for one of cc
those pitiable beings, the thought of whom
brings a blush to the cheek of purity j or if J
not that, he probably thought the magnifi- di
r?* ^ "-v
ent gold chain, the stwtiiOQjcU ftwWhg -on
lis bosom and finger, the costly fMine .it
rbhoh be was erased, end lastly?fcot lost
?hie faqe of perfect fceanty, pf oowjh*
ronld conquer any lit tie scruples J might
oel, for heJtpev -that 1 .was pact, bat tWk
rod, as pore as poor, aye! ten thousand fold
urer. . . - .
'To return. He was gone., |opold fljfc
train myself no loneer, and fonnd relief in
flood of tears, pad-staggered against the
irick wall for support.
?,Nay, now, yep mnat pot weep, my njbil^'
poke a fine old gentleman, who had been an
baerver of th? iflrole scene, 'yon should
ather rejoice, for you have triumphed well
hfa Viierlrf Whither Anna Trnnr rvnfh Ka?__
f you will trttot in me,you shall safely reach
ome. God Hess yoju1 tonooepce/ and the
fear, good old man, whoaenameis Mr. Forest,
never left me till I had reached ttfy
wn door, and this morning called again,
nd in a'few-flays, I am to go with him to
fis Southern home to be,,to his two little
aotherlesa children, a governess.
A year has patted Since I-^ntertd 4kf6
amily of Mr. Forrest, as the governess of
tie children; and hereafter, they Will <AH me
Bother. Yes, Mr. Forrest and T were mar- .
ted yesterday. ^It was^dch a quiet bridal,
t hardly seemed like one' at alb I was WH
ed from my chamber adorned with flows*
nd satin and lace. *jfo, '%of we stood side
iy-aide in the grand old pttlbr of Hivemide,
rith co more than' our usual decoration**
here were no bridesmaids.^ It was so-.difc
erent from what I had always picfiartd 9
irid&l to be. Yet, I washappy, very happy;
nd I resolved that my future life should be
ievoted to my benefactor and his children*
Bat, hark! 1 hear hit footsteps on the
tairs. I moat lay aside my pen and enter*
ain him. For the present,r dear reader, an
cvoir.
fmmmwww??w w * ** '.s
Locusts.?Next year, 1860, ah certiirrly
s the year rolls around, will the cetMK^ be
nfested with locusts/ Whether Ibey ore of
he family of loensts Which prevailed tn
Sgyptit is", one thing certain, they Willttppear
s a general thing in ihe United State# in
860? v- *
It is too late to ask bow this return canto
poken of with so muoh certainty, if we will
mly remember the peeuliaritiai of tbw
trange adventurous insect Jt
is not a prophecy which induces the
lonclosion made, but a judgment founded
ia tLo paMi Haw ia it thatlha-cgg-pf
ocust remains ia the ground for seventeen
rears before it is hatobed, we are not natur*
ilist enough to divine. But so it is, and all
vho live will bear the tumultuous cry of the
Seventeen Year Locost next year. TJbese
vas a great falling off in tbeirjiBmh^lK^in
18.43, owing no donbt to the hcreasecEoearng
of wood lands, and asto>?batement in
hese clearings has existedsiao^^betf last
ippearance, bat rather an
ng off will be more noticeable. But wbereiver
any original growtfadfefennd, there will
ilsp be found the Seventeen Year Looust
n 1860. x .. . ;
,.-T~r
Stay at Hpme.?The Washington (K.
3.) Times closes an article on the relative
id vantages of farming fn Texas and. North
Carolina, With the following just remarks:
'No one pan go into a new State and realze
more than in an oid one, if he lives as he
ponld iu an old State. One reason why a
nan sometimes realizes more in a new State
nan 10 an Qld one, is, be lives in a log Cabin,
,nd on coarse fare, there; while be'^?r<rald
tot be satisfied here with less than a fine
loose attended with luxury and other exravaganoes.
If men would make the sauie
acrifices of ease and comfort here they 3b
here, they would realise equally as much if
tot more. Let the sons of North Carolina
mprove their own State, let them buy up
iqt rich swamp lands and bring them into a
tate of dultivation; let them build up their
?owos and Cities with their capital, and
heir children will be proud of their birthight,
and will honor the State of their naivity.'
?
An Aged Woman.?Let- the aged wo3an
be no longer an object of contempt.-?
Ihe is as helpless as a child; but as aohild,
be may be learning the last awful lesson
rem her Heavenly Father. Her eye is dim
rith suffering and tears; but her spiritual
ision may be contemplating the gradual unhiding
of the gates of eternal bliss. Beauy
has faded from her form; but angels in
be world of light may be weaving a wreath
f glory for her brow. Her lips rre silent;
ut it may only be waiting to pour forth ceistial
strains of gratitude and praise. Lowf,
and fallen, and sad, she sits among the
ving; but exalted, purified and happy, she
iay arise frsm the dead. Then turn, if
bou will, but remember she is not forottenby
her God.
A New Idea.?Lieut. Maury, in his
Icean lectures, announces the startling fact,
ccording to the Cleaveland Plaindealer,
bat "animal matter at the bottom of the
eep sea, owing to the superincumbent presire,
the exclusion of light and heat, and
lie saline properties of the water, could not
ecompose, bnt must remain precisely in
be state in which it is deposited for ages,
o that Pharaoh and his host, when the last
-ump shall sound and the sea give np the
ead, will come forth fresh in features and
erfect in form as when in pursuit of the
ie children of Israel they were engulphed
j the waves of the Red Sea."
Oil op Tar.?A consumptive man in
ortsmouth, says the Norfolk Argus, who
id used many remedies without reliefvwas
Ivised to take the oil of tar, and acted acirdingly.
He was considered a perfectly
opeless case, but the tar oil has cured him
impletely. He is cow hale and hearty.
19" Genealogists agree that 'skippers' are
irectly descended from Ham.