"X..
i
era ee & s
WEEKLY
VOL. 1.
GREENSBOROUGH, SATURDAY MORNING, JUNE 18, 1836.
NO. a
From' the Southern Literary Messenger.
The following beautiful reply to the stan
zas of Mr. Wilde published in the first
number of the Messenger, is attributed to
Mrs. Buckley, the wife a distinguished cit
izen of Baltimore, a lady whose fine taste
and poetic capacity are most happily dis
played in these touching lines. The an
swer is a very perfect counterpart of Mr,
Wilde's stanzas, asnd if we were called on to
decide upen their relative iricrits we do not
know which of the two would niost demand
our admiration.
ANSWER,
TO " MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SI" MM Ml ROSE."
The dewa of night may fall from Heaven,
Upon the wither'd rose's bed,
And tears of fond regret be given,
To mourn the virtues of the dead :
Yet morning's sun the dews will dry,
And tears will fade from sorrow's eye,
Affection's pangs had lull'd to sleep, .
And even love forget to weep.
The tree may mourn its fallen leaf,
And autumn winds bewail its bloom,
And friends may heave the sigh of gric
O'er those who sleep within the tomb :
Yet soon will spring anew the llowers,
And time will bring more smiling hours;
In friendship's heart all grief will die,
And even love forget to sigh.
,wThj; se a may on the desert shorn
Lament-each f recent Tiears away ;
The lonely heart its grief may pour
O'er cherish'd friendship's tat decay ;
Yet when all trace is lost and gone,
The waves dance bright and gaily on :
Thus soon affection's bonds are torn,
Arid even love forgets to mourn.
From the Sew York Mirror.
The Table Turned -A Tale of "Leap Year.
X . BY A YOUTH ABOUT TOWN.
Reader, did you ever, in your boyish days,
(for I assume, on my own responsibility, the
fact that you were once young,) when your
utmost literary fclieity was the .possession
of a few leaves, by courtesy called a book,
and filled with pictures arrayed in colors,
far surnnssin? in brilliancy .the bungling at-
j - rfJy- v .
tempts of Dame Nature ; did you ever, while
in the halcyon state of existence, meet with
a little work, roprcscntinghe world turned
upside down fishes angling lor men, (alas,
for poor I sack-Walton-!) horses -drawn by
their former drivers, (alas for our omnibus
Jehu3?) and divers other such ingenious
devices ? If you are so very fortunate as to
hare setm tM
then only can you form any conception of
the state of anarchy now existing in the
masculine-feminine world.
The sun was brightly beaming, on the
second day of the new-year, upon two fair
dnmsels, who had ascended almost at the
same instant, the step of a young batchelor's
lodgings in Broadway. The bell was rung,
and while they arc
waiting its
response,
will honor you, my reader, with an intro
duction to them ; so that, should one of
them chance to loose her footing, you may
be at liberty to pick her up. When I saw
that the damsels were fair, I spoke meta
phorically only; for though Miss Dorolhea
Bridget Beaumont was fair as the white of
your eye, ma belle reader, and was blessed
with locks as rosy as your cheek our oth
er heroine, Miss Emeline Julia .Adclgilha
Stubbs, reminded you rather of the dark,
downy blush on the peach, which tells how
rich the soil of sweetness dwells within.
For my own part I must confess a lurking
,,prefergn
thi Stubbs ; especially as the odious last
frajgment of her name may be easily chan
ged of course supposing the lady to be
willing.
By this time the door must be open, so
we will allow Pompey to usher the ladic9
into the drawing room, and then to call his
master, who is in his study. Our hcroinesj
when left alone together, gazed on each
other with eyes full of ire, each instinctive
ly divining the purpose of the other. Looks
-were followed by words : and these might
(I write with the fear of the fair sex before
my eyes) have hcen succecdod by deeds,
had not the Fates interposed in the form of
the beloved Thomas Smith, (I like to dis
tinguish my hejocs by name, as well as by
character, from the common herd of man
kind) upon whose entrance the aroused
waves of passion subsided to a dead calm,
and the mountainous sea of their anger be
came as flat and as plain as themselves.
" Well, ladies," cried Thomas Smith, af
ter the usual salutations, "to what am i in
debted for the pleasure of this visit ?"
Miss Stubbs blushed, and Miss Beau
mont sentimentally cast down her eyes, and
applied her vinaigrette to the protuberance
just below them.
"Ah!" sighed Miss Dorothea, .." have
youforg 'fon that it is leap year?" with
another sigh. " You know our privilege,"
with a smile. " You must be sensible of
vour attractions" with a fond look, called,
in vulgar parlance, a sheep's eye, a very
appropriate term on the present occasion.
" You will forgive my apparent forward
ness," with an attempt at a blush, " and at
tribute it to the overflowing of my heart to
ward you, my dear Thomas," with a sigh, a
blush, and some symptoms of a tear.
" I am aware, Mr. Smith," said Miss Em
eline, in her turn, " that I am overstepping
the limits which custom has prescribed to
my sex, but I disdain such narrow prejudi
ces. I have long loved you, hopelessly, but
constantly. While you have lavished your
attentions on those who valued them not, I
have hoarded up the t most trilling word
which you have chanced to bestow upon
me, and brooded over it in secret, as the
miser over his treasure. I need not now
recall my alternate fears and hopes; the
ccstacy into which a kind look of yours has
often thrown me, or the bitter desponden
cy into which I have sunk,, when careless
ly noticed by you. May you never feel
the agonies which I have suffered ! I now
cast the. bigoted fetters of , prudery, and o
bcyingonly the dictates of my heart, I avow
my ardent, despairing love."
" Really, Indies," said Mr. Smith, " I
should be very happy to oblige either of
you or both, but unfortunately you are a
day Uhi -late ffor I w marri&l 4atighi-"
A flood of tears relieved Miss Emeline,
and a fit of hysterics Miss Dorothea. Just
at this crisis, Pompey entered with an e
longated visage, and whispered
" Massa ! massa ! three more ladies at
the door, come a courting!"
44 Surely," sighed the half distracted Tho
mas, as he rushed out of the room," surely
it must have been a leap-year that forced
Cowper to exclaim
M Oh, for a lodge in some vast wilderness."
., Selected for the Beacon.
YEGETABIJi HlEROOIJI'IIlCiJ. .
LILAC.- FIRST SENSATIONS OF LOVE.
The lilac has been consecrated to the
first sensation of lovoj because nothing is
more delightful thanthe approach of spring,
of which this flower is the messenger. The
frcshnes3 of its verdure, the flexibility of
its branches, the abundance of its blossom
their beauty, so short, so transient their
color, so tender and varied all recall those
emotions which embellish beauty and give
grace to youth.
Trj pWirrter has ever been able to Wend
colors soft euough or fresh enough to por-
tray the velvet delicacy and sweetness of
those light tints on the forehead of youth.
Van Spaendonck himself, unrivalled in
flower-painting, let fall his pencil before a
bunch of lilac. The graduation of co
lor, from the purple bud to the open flow
er, is the least atttraction of those charm
ing masses, around which light plays and
loses itself in a thousand shapes; all of
which, blending in the same tint, form that
harmony which makes the painter despair.
What a re-union of perfume, of freshness,
of grace,' of delicacy, of detail, and of a
j whole !
There seems no sufficient reason alleged
from cither nature or mythology, why the
almond-tree should represent fickleness;
but the fact connected with its blossoms
may -be;, new to some, although they have
often seen it; and it is prettily told.
THE ALMOND TREE FICKLENESS.
: An emblem of fickleness, the amond-trec
is the first to answer the call of spring. No
thinff hai a more lovely, effect than this
tree, when it appears in the first days of
trees still unclothed. I he latter frosts of
ten destn y the precocious germ of its fruit ;
but, by a singular effect, the flowers, far
from being injured, appear to have gained
fresh brilliancy. An avenue of almond
trees, quite white in the evening, struck
with the frost in the night, will appear rose
color the next morning, and will preserve
this new dress for more than a month, and
only relinquish it for the green foliage.
Sometimes the origin of the emblem is
traced to a story, sometimes to an anecdote.
Here are two of the latter.
SCARLET GERANIUM FOLLY.
The Baroness de Stacl was always angry
if an untallented man was introduced to her.
A friend one day hazarded presenting to
her a young Swis$ officer of captivating ap-
pearance. The lady, deceived by nis good
looks .exerted herself, and said a thousand
flattering things to the new comer, whom
she thought at first struck dumb with sur
prise and admiration: however, as he lis-
tenen tor an nour wunoui opening ms moum
she began to mistrust his silence, and ask
ed him such pointed questions thathe wasi
obliged to answer. Alas' the poor man
could only utter nonsense. -' Madame de
Stael, piqued at having thrown away her
trouble and her wit, turned towards her
friend and said: ."In good truth, sir, you
resemble my gardocr, who thought he
should gratify me by bringing a geranium
but I must tell you that I sent back his
flower, requesting that I might never sec it
again." Why, then i"askedtheyoungman,
quite aghast. " Sir, you must know, the
geranium is a flower well dressed in scar
let ; it pleases our eyes, but when we gen
tly press it, we can only extract an insipid
scent." Saying these words she arose, lea
ving the cheeks of the young fool as red as
his coat, or as the flower to which he had
just been compared.
A WHITE AND RED ROSE.
The poet Bonncfous, sent the object of
his affection two roses, one .white and the
other of the most brilliant carnation ; the
white to represent the paleness of his coun
tenance, and the carnation the warmth of
his heart.
A FANCY.
Every thing is to be gained from good
company,, . " One day," says the poet Sadi,
" I saw a rose tree surrounded by a tuft of
grass. What I exclaimed, has this plant
done, that we find it the companion of ro
ses ? and I was going to uproot the turf,
when it humbly said:-"Spare me; I am
no rose it is true, but by my scent, you may
know at least I have lived among roses."
For two centuries this tree has inhabited
our climate, but docs not yet deign to mix
its proud head with the otjier trees of our
forests ; it loves to embellish parks, to adorn
chatcaus, and to shade the dwellings of
kings. Standing alone, nothing can equal
the elegance of its pyrimidal form, the beau
ty of its foliage, and the richness of its
flowers, which give it the appearance of an
immense lustre covered with crystals.
Friend of pomp and riches, it covers with
flowers the green turf -which it protects,
oads the atmosphere with perfume, and of
fers to luxury a delightful hadef but it be
stows on the poor on Ij useless timber and
bitter fruit sometimes granting him the
uttancc of fuel from its dried leaves.
Naturalists and physicians have given to
this child of India a thousand good quali
ties which it does not possess. Thus this
rec, like the rich man on whom it lavishes
ts charms, finds flatterers, does a little good
in spite of itself, and astonishes the vulgar
by a useless display.
Here is something analogous to the fall
seaow.-'-:""-u,-"-"-"-'-';--'-;- " :- -
WITHERED LEAVES SORROW MELANCHOLY.
Winter approaches : the trees have lost
their verdure, after being deprived of their
fruits the retiring sun tints the foliage with
deep or melancholy shades the poplar re
scmblcs discolored gold the accacia folds
up its light seed-vessels, no more to be arou
scd by the sun the long tresses of the
birch float in the air, already deprived of
ornament and the pine, destined to pre
serve its green pyramid, proudly balances
it in the breeze. The oak is immoveable ;
it resists the efforts of the wind to despoil
its lofty head : but tho king of the forest
will yield to spring, its leaves reddened by
winter. We might imagine all the trees
affected by different passions ; one, lowly
bending, as if rendering homage to that tree
which the tempest cannot shake ; the oth-
er, appcanngl as u it would emoracc jls
companion, the supporter of its weakness ;
and whilst these mingle their branches to
getlier, a third trembles in every leaf, as if
surrounded by enemies: respect, lnenu
ship, hatred, and anger, pass by turns from
one to the other. Thus assailed by every
ridrind,
passion, we hear their lengthened wailings ;
like the confused murmurs of an alarmed
populace, there wpreraihng -voice, imt
a heavy, deep, and monotonous sound, which
fills the soul with vague terror.
We often See clouds of dead leaves fall
ing on the ground and covering it with a
beautiful vesture.
Wre like to look at the storm, which
drives, disperses, agitates, and torments,
these sad wrecks of a spring which will re
turn no more. Spectator.
Written for the Deacon.
"ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL,"
Thought I, a3 I was jogging along one plea.
sant morning in the county of , in this
State, on the day after the events of my
present narrative h'ad transpired. ' It
was about 2 o'clock, P. M., when I left the
house of my hospitable friend, regardless
of his frequent proposals that 1 should re'
main over night, and the appearance of
approaching rain. For the first several miles
fZ)
I met with no one, and from
the silence
which pre vailed around me, and the increas
ed darkening of the sky, I became lost in
thought, a melancholy and dreary mist o er
shadowed my mind, in unison with the drea.
ry appearance without, and in thus ruminat
ing on things passed, scenes of my home
til,
WJKMJ1jlftM. .
.r.r., ..v..... ..- v. . , ...V. . ..- ... ..
... r m "
of my childhood, my thoughts naturally
turned, and clung with fondest delight, to
the mind's image of her, who had then been
my all, and if possible my idol ; and being
of a somewhat singular disposition, I com
posed the following lines, which, poor as
they are, I nevertheless beg leave, to force
on the reader, as they proceeded from a bo
som fired with all the ardor of youthfirf
lope :
The world may scorn and bid me flee,
This ruinous passion love ;
And friends unite in winning strain
My folly to reprove ;
May warn me, but alas ! too late,
To ."Finn love's rugged ways,
They little know what passion deep
My every action sway&
No, no, though severed from thee now,
My thoughts are with thee still,
Though thou mayst look on me with 6Corn,
Yet love I must and love I will.
Nought can persuade me to believe,
That thou to me art false,
Nought better prove that thou still lov'st
As once I know thou didst,
Than once again to view thy form,
And gently flowing hair,
Once more to view thy soft blue eye,
And read love's language there,
Till that blest pleasure I enjoy,
I'll fondly dream of thee,
And none find place in this true heart,
" KdVTOrHoT one tart lhee7 "
I had scarce finished my youtful effusion,
when 1 was aroused from my reverie by a
smart shower, which forced me to put up
my pencil and urge on my steed, finding
that I had been coming but slowly for the
ast few hours, and night was approaching.
After proceeding a short distance I had the
good fortune (as I thought) of meeting a
second person, of w hom I could inquire the
distance to the house I had contemplated
stopping at for the night ; -but on approach
ing nnd addressing mm, I received nothtng
in reply but an idiotic grin ; I repeated my
inqairvi but to no purpose-f I Aben pokei
another language, thinking he might. not
understand plain English, and however I
succeeded in squeezing from out his thin
ned brain somewhat moro intelligible words
and gestures, I was far from being satisfied.
So after again repeating the interrogation
with no better success, and being not at the I
time in a mood to be fooling, or to be made
a fool of, I bade him a good evening, and
proceeded onward at a brisk pace, and in
not a very good humor, as in addition to the
cotor'tfa
tion of the evening, twas now quite late,
and no house nearer than several miles;
but at length arrived at the long looked for
abode, was soon seated beside a comforta
ble log fire, and my weary companion doubt-
ess snugly provided for.
Of the company here, and other matters
about the house, the reader will please form
the best idea possible until next w eek, when
he shall again hear from
A WAINDEKL.ll.
TI I d CHURCH-YARD.
You have f iiintercd, perhaps, of a moon
light evening, out of the precincts ol the
livin"-, moving world, to linger and contem
plate among the grass grown, memorials of
those who are gone -
"The body to its place, the soul to heaven's grace,
And the rest in God's own time."
An appalling chill shoots through the
current of life, at the undisturbed and uni
versal silence of the scene the stars tran
quilly shining otithe -'white-jnarbkj nml free-
iy illuminating mo name,, h iucu ineimmi
had carved for the slumbefer beneath ; here
the "'grass- waving injankiuiiuiaoce, as if
to hide the triumphs and the tropaics ot
death, and there a human bone unearthed
from its timeworn sepulchre, a ghastly vis
itor to the realms of day ; a wooden tablet,
making the repose of the -humble ; a cross,
the sign of the believer, and lofty and mag
nificent memorials over the mortal relics of
the wealthy and the great. Ah! who, in
such an assemblage as this, can be accoun
ted great ! What gold survives the cruci
ble of death.
We can learn nothing from tho living
w hich the dead do not teacn us. Would
beauty be modest and unpretending, let her
quit the hall and the festival for a moment,
. a Iff i
and carry her toilet to the tomb. Would
the proud learn humility; the penurious
charity ; the frivolous seriousness ; the big
oted philantbrophy ; would the scholar a
certain the true objects of knowledge ; the
man of the world, the true means of happi
ncss here and hereafter ; and the ambitious,
the true source of greatness ; let him re
tire awhile from the living and commun
with 4he dead. vWe must all come to th
mournful and silent grave. Our bones nrist
mingle in one common mass. Our nrlec
tioo should travel in the same path, for
they must terminate in one fearful issue.
Life is full of-facillties of virtue and Of h;n-
. ' ' i a l aL 1
pmcss ; ana wnen vou wouta auusc uiem,
go purify your affections, and humble your
pride, and leave your hopes at the tomb of
u friend, when the stars are shining upon U
like the glorious beams of religion on tho
mansion of death. -
THE BACHELOR'S SOLILOQUY".
We are informed there is in the other
world, a place prepared for maids and bach
elors called Fiddler's Green, where they
arc condemned for the lack of good fellow ship
in this world, to dance together to all
eternity. One of a party, who had been
conversing on this subject, after returning
home, had his brain so occupied with it,
that in a dream he imagined himself dead,
and translated. to this scene of incessant
fiddling and dancing. After describing Lis
journey to these merry abodes'of hopping
shades, he says, that on passing the Con
fines, he perceived a female figure advan
cing w ith a rambling rapid motion, resem
bling a hop;skij)andjump. Uc now cast
his eyes ori his own person, as a genteel
spirit would naturally do, at the approach
of a female, and for the first time suw, that
although he had left Jiis substance in tho
other world, he was possessed of an airy
form precisely similar to the one he had
1 ! tb?li:nl hi'OjJind yvaslad htlia ghost of- -a
suifof clothes made after the new est fash
ion, which he had purchased a few day s be
fore his death. As the figure came near
she slackened her pace, and struck into a
beautiful chase forward, at the same timo N
mo'ioiiing to him to cross a rivulet, which
he no sooner did, than he fell a dancing
with incrc.iscd agility.
11c is then conducted, or rather whirled
awuy by his fair companion, to the mana
ger of the green, where he lias an opportu
nity 01 beholding the congregated cehbicy
of the place. The grotesque oppearaiicu
of the various groupes particularly amused "
Mm" Tl
ToLythe Monkish cowl, tb? Monastic veil,
ii d tile blankets and fr-ith.rsof the Indian,
were mixed in luocious contript. Iho
allotment of partners was equally diverting.
"A gentleman in ah embroidered suit
led off a be.'gar girl, while a broad shoul-
red Mynheer flountcd with an Italian
countess. Queen Elizabeth was dancing a
jig with a jolly cobbler, a person of great
bonhommic, but w ho failed not to apply tho
strap when his stately partner moved with
-agility- than ''com'prfMwriKltHiom---
His attention was then arrested by-the ap
pearance of a spare looking gentleman, ad
vancing to the genius of the place in his
glee. Poor man ! he had no sooner como
ip to the group of ladies, than a tall, swar
thy, lantern-jawed, antiquated virgin,' rai
scd her foot as a challenge for him. to
dance, whereupon they both fell to, and "
had danced six months when 'he left them,
w ithout any propect of cessation.
Among all the productions and inventions
of human wit, none is more admirable and
useful than Writing, by means whoreofa
man may copy out his very thoughts, utter
us mind without opening his mouth, and
signify his pleasure at a thousand miles
!' stance; and this by the help of twenty-four
Iv'tters, by various joining and infinite com
binations of which. all words that are attain
able ami imaginable may be framed, and tho
several ways of joining, altering, and trans
posing these letters, do amount (as Ualvm
the Jesuit has taken pains jto compute) to
5,B36,T39,4f;964,uO::ways,so thai all
things that arc in heaven and. earth mav
be expressed by the help of this wonderful
alphabet, w nich may be comprised in tho
compass of a farthing.
Three excellent things, and of great
utility, aro Reading, Conversation, and Re
flection. By reading we treat with tho
dead; by conversation, with the living; and
by reflection with ourselves. Reading ep.
riches tho memory, conversation polishes
the mind, and reflection forms the judg
ment. But of these noble employments of
the soul, were we to say which we think
the most important, we must confess that
reading seems the ground work of the oth
er two, since without reading, contempla
tion is fruitless, and conversation, dull and
insipid.
A long life" may be passed without find
ing a friend in, whose understanding and
virtue we can equally confide, and w hoso
opii.:on we can value at once forits just,
ness and sincerity. A weak man, however
honest, is not qualified to judge. A man
of the.worl.l, however penetrating, is not fit
io counsel. Friertds arc often ,choscn for
similitude of manners, and therefore e: ch
paliatcs iiw other's failing, because they
ar his own. Frie ids are tender, end un-.
willing to give oain, or they are interested
aiid fearful to offend. AAraon.
J-
, -fc..- .jt.-.