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;t ..... " jiitj -f '" v;' ' '':"' ;''' '.- .'"' " Volume II 1 ! WINCHESTER, TENN, OCTOT1.RH 28, 1858, 1. '' r. p ... ..... ,.,. , . II ' II II II-- A V.jc-.i.,;-jJLSi ... ,, , 'N "-V 'v W. J. BLATTER, Editor. ffe folluw Trulk. wkcn'cr the leu da the way.' 'f' No lover of poetry can fail to be stow upon, the iollowing .beautiful I lines unbounded praise. Thcv makn K " . . 1 ' lirue poetry, ana no mistake. r Written for th Winchester Home Journtl. My Boqaet of Autumn leaves. I . BY MM. ADtUA C. CHAVES. . Spring-tiino twinoth garlands bright, Of her bgils and flowers of light; J, : Autumn weaveth some as gay l ' Of the leaves that fade away. ? Spring's swcot blooming promises A Future fruits our paths to bless; J Autumn's gny loaves only say, ;' "All that's bright must fade away." Spring time telleih of.the summer, Merry, joyous, glad new comor, , ; With her ripened fruits anil grain Decking orchard, grovo and pluin; ..' But of Winter, Amumn tellcth, i Of the Frost-king, whore he dwelled), ' How. he comes to -steal away ' jj Floors, and fruits, and lei.jlelsgny, . Draping all in fairy lighitiesn, .7 With a rob of snowy whitnness, I Hill and .vale, ami lowland meadow, ! Sleeping neath the mountain shadow, jl ' On the mantel, still my boquet, 'jW'ith its Autumn leaflets, so gay, lllcads mu lessons, as I look., iOfion from my open book. fOras, too, my eyes upraising, jj'From thu written page are gating '(Gil the mute, instructive mossngo, if)( the fading leaves, that presage, ILilu, fur me, though seeming briof, VTcmloth towards its Autumn leaf, Ami the inward spirit turncih, , i iu,o ' pago, ll".e past, ami mourneth "That there comes, lor me, no more, 'Spring and Summer, as before; jOuly when the w.ming hours, . Sweep the dry loaves from llio bowors,, ' Of Spring, Summer. Autumn reft, '"life will hove its Winter left. V Written for the Winchester Home Journal. . The Faithlessness of Man. ' DV 0. D MARTIN. Jl've wooed and sighed at Beauty's shrine, (i And threw my heBrt away, And thought the charm I won divine, And wore it for a day, -!But like a full blown rose it drooped, And lost its swoet purfumo, ., 'Till from its .lofty height it stooped, To wither in its tomb. t rfSlill thoughless I It seemed to fade, Ete 1 hail known it well, And like each beauteous flower made, It withered ami it fell. SThis flower had lost its charms to me, 1 sought anoihor flower, I wooed and won it but to see i' It wither in an hour. iht woman fickle? No! 'lis she Will love a life long love, "RIan never fades to hor 'tis we tf Who false and faithless prove. Theu wrong her not, but lot us strive, ' To merit her esteem '-nd make life happy be alive ii To good he what we seem. Philadelphia, Pa. Written for the Winchester Home Journal. The Sorrowful Heart. . BY P1NI-F.Y JOHNSON. How sad indeed must be that heart Which has no joys below, Which ever quads from out the spring From whence afflictions flow; "W hich thirsteth with o living thirst, That will not be allayed, For those sweet waters flowing in s Affection's sunny glade. v The human heart is prone to love, And it will always pine To feel affection's tendrils cling And closely round it twine; i For 'tis its'ywish to always cruvo t For ktodnoss and for rest, E'en as a stricken bird Will pine for its warm nest. .Baltimore, Md. An Axb to Gmsd. Origin of the Trm. "When I was a little boy," says !jDr. Franklin, I remember ono cold winter morning I was accosied by a smi- ling man witn ai axe on his shoulder." 4"My pretty boy," said he, "has youi father a grimlstonu?" "Yes sir," said 1. '-You are a fine litilo fellow," said he, 'will you let me grind my axe on ill" Pleased with the compliment of the"Cno iJillle fellow," '-0 yes," 1 answered, "it tjsdown in lha shop." "And will you, iy little fellow," said ho patting me on ha head, "gel me a little hot water?" VCould 1 refuso? I ran and soon brought tjk kettle full. How old are you and what's your name?" continued he, without Raiting for a reply; "You are one of the 'nest little fellows that I ever saw; will ' 70 just turn i few minute for me?" Tickled at iho flattery, like a fool, 1 went to work, and bitterly dul 1 ruo the day. ' If" was a new axa, ami I loilod and tugged Mill I was almost tired to death. The aehool bell rang and 1'could not get Way; my hands were blistered, the axe was sharpened, and the' man turned to HM with, "Now you littla rascal you've . played truant; scud for acfiool or you II ju it," Alas! thought I. it is hard ennuuh lo turn the grindstone this cold day, but to ba railed a littla rascal was too much Jtkunk deep in my mind, ami ofien bavs : 1 Ibougntot it since. When I tee a mer , chant over polite to bia customers, ben- fing them to take a little brandy, and, throwing his goods on the counter, thinks I, that man tin an axa. to grind. Vhen 1 sea a man ilatteriac tht dodI aiakintf greit profession of ailschinani to liberty - won is i,aic ins in, mammas, lookout good people, that fellow would ..Ol you JO turning a grindstone. When I lea a man hoisted into office by the party apirit, without a single qualifica tion to render him respectable or unful, . alas! deluded people yoa era doomed for JftM Ittui the griath teas for hoey. A JIEART HISTORY. CONTINUED. Kotk. A rewird of JflO wi ofleml dome tlmealnce In the Home Journal for the bent Original Kory willlen lor its columns. Several were written, and liter a ieru Ml of etcli, "Madaliim a Hkaiit Hisiohv," wacun tillered the most deeervltiK. Ila etvle li timnln vet beau. ti Jill, and Ihut ell will be highly interested we have nut a uujue auuui. jiunon. About tU time a, hitter came. Madeleine bad few, very few coitcs pon lents.aud hs she took it and observ ed the superscription was not in the band-writing of any ol'thosc from whom she was uncustomed to receive com- inunicntionx, a htrange, unaccounta ble, undefinuble sens t ion crossed her mind. As she hastily tore it open and looked first at the address, and ' then at. the signature, no 'womlar it drop ped from a nerveless hand, as her eye glanced upon the old, familial' name, Henry Moreland. Yet who can say there was noi pleasure in the reflection that he still remembered her? "My dear Madeleine," so it com menced. Dj not, entreat voa.be offended i that,l address vou lv the s.unn tipnel- lutiou I have H-er djau in v '.trs de parted fori have never known you is Mrs. liiiymond and do not con sider me presumptuous that 1 uddres you at nil, after an estrangement of so many years. I trust you will not. feel thai ihere is any impropriety in my doing it; lor the same interest 1 took in your welfare in days and years departed, remains for you aud yours, though so long has been our separation. I trust not to open the wounds of your sorrow afresh when I say, 1 have heard of your allliction. Permit me to condole with you? to sympathize with you? I too have suiter ed. shall pass near you in a few weeks. Allow mo to call and olfer you my sympathies in person even more, if you will kindly' permit it, tf re'.miv the acquaintance, the delightful asso ciation of our earlier, may I not say. for myself, at least, happier days. Let me hear at once, if you will grant my request, my earnest petition to come and see you, once more. Yours ever sincerely and affectionately. Henry Mohixaxd. Gladly did she say to him to coin" and visit her, and pleasant, very pleasant, were her anticipations of meeting with him, whose association willi her in those days so long agon", was so delightful. She could converse with him of the old home, the pleasant lit tle village in which it had been loca ted, of her. old companions and hei dearly remembered mot her; and last, all that had been so unaccountable in his letters of tho past would perhaps be explained anil he would converse with her freely and frankly hs when they learned their lessons from the same familiar page. Madeleine's let'er said as much, and she rejoiced in spirit that they should meet once more, and this joy imparted new elasticity to her step and u brightened color to her cheek. For many months she bad been coin pauiouless, save her children and ser vants, and the heart of the widowed mother was almost starved fnnn pri vation of its aliment, human sympa thy, not that sort of sympathy which makes itself known in formal calls ol condolence and set phrases intended to he very consolatory, nnd, at ihe same time, so set oil' to I lie best ad vantage, the amiability and kindness of him, or her who utters them. Of these, Madeleine had had far more than enough; but I mean that unaf fected sympathy which springs from real kindness of heart join 'd to a live ly appreciation of what is necessary to in p irt comfort to its object. lie came, at last, after weeks of anxious waiting had dragged their weary liours away; he came, ho who seemed tho nearest on earth to her since the gaping sepulchre had hid den in its depths him who had ever been to her all that she needed in fo close a friend. lie came, and the commencement of their interview has been detaifed in the beginning of the narrative. She did not, could not recognize him. Tho f-atures wilh which her memory had been familiar were not there. The light, glossy curls were almost black, the ryes of deepest azure were a dark hazel, or rather grey', and the chin nnd face, on which had been the first down of man hood, were covered with a hick nnd lengthy growth, yet' darker than his hair. He was taller and stouter, al together a different personage from the irnaye she bad io long ago placed among tho hourecd treasures of faith ful reoollection. - -' "' The letter which had been written In answer tp his, had been more free ly and affectionately worded than any she had ever beforo addressed to him, unconciously so, in very truth, but her pen had transcribed from the pages of her true and womanly heart; for sho was so grateful that ho who had known her so long and well, still re membered her with so much kindness and friendship. Tho affections are woman's world. It is love, and love only for which she pines, from tho cradle to the grave. For it she will sacrifice every selfish feeling, everything which tends to her own gratification, and doit willingly, cheerfully, gladly, if her self-sacrifice and self-denial are only appreciated, and she is loved in return. It is only when tho deplhs of her woman's na ture have not yet been aroused and called into action by this one great tnash'r-passioii of her destiny, or have been aroused but to be (lung back to her with coldness ami indifference, that she becomes the thoughtless friv olous creature, she lias been too often truthfully represented. Love ennobles, intellect utilizes, puri fies and refines the whole being, and !('u """" whom . t . . t i ... w"M,,i '" ""' "!'l"'". pure-!, mi-si ic.eiings oi wnicii If is enpitiiie, sue becomes what s'ie was designed to be by er Creaator, an angel of li,ht and loveliness lo him who is so fortunate MS to M'.l UI'e the j.l'iCele.vs gem of her alfections. Let. us rrlui n io the commencement, of our history. We left, our heroine in doubt what an.-wcrshe should make to the passionate, reproan.iful lan guage of her newly-arrived liieud. '"(.)! Madeleine, you do not e.no (os,i,. me, your tnau-ier shows '.r, your tone of voice, speaks it, yl)U m ,,... cial in eiest in "Tiy coming, more than you would o'0 the approach of the hun dred and. one others, who, years ago, soinj'it your favor and aspired to your I Cvie;,dship." Such was theover-exeited language of severe, unexpected disappointment. He fixed his eyes upon her, wilh an eager look as of one in great pain, who gazes beseechingly at him who can relieve suffering if he will. Madeleine's nature bad always been frank and truthful. She was a stran ger to dissimulation, and when she spoke at all, spoke what she felt. "1 was altogether unprepared for such demonstrations ol feeling, I do not. understand it, 1 expected to meet you most gladly, most cordially as a dear and welcome friend, but not ns a lov er. Nothing that I have heard of late, or ever before, could have led me to expect such an interview ns this. Your letter, which I was fo lejoiced to receive, so pleasant lo answer, could not have raised in my mind I lie slight est anticipation id' such a meeting as this." 'My letter, Madeleine ! Is that one letter all you have heard if me of Intel Have you had no communication lioin me since that? Did you Hot receive from me the sad, sorrowful history ol my life for many years." .Madeleine shook her head. He re sumed. '1 wrote to inform you of all that had reference in me since you and 1 last met. In it, I slated to you the deep, deathless ati'ecli'ii I had ever eher-i-h.d for you almost since the first day of our ai.'('i.inea:ic". I said lo you, that 1 trusted t hat the love for J on whieh had lived on, ami on, in my bo soiii, even vl.ile 1 was a inly i-irleav-oring to smother andstille it us a feel ing unworthy of you, of me, in the relations in which we bad been placed towards each other by an unfortunate t tain of eircuinstnuees, might find an answering chord in your own heart, i said if this relation of my life and the disclosure of my constant affec tion should elicit responsive feelings towards him, who was your ardent lover in his youth, and faithful wor shipper in manhood, there would be no need for a reply. Silence should be the omen of favor. If, on tho con- I trnry. you should have no desire tore- new our youthful association, to ap prize me of the lact immediately. I received no reply, o nc w jou can un- derstaud my strange inexplicable con duct." "Aud I," said Madeleine,"havc nev er received the communication of which you speak; I am entirely igno rant of all it contained." "It seems,' replied her companion, -as if the fairs d lighted to play ut cross purposes with me in all my in tercourse with you.'. Many times while we were yet school-mates, theconfession of my love for you wns trembling on my tongue, but two considerations withheld me from the avowal. The timidity of youth, and tho feeling that I ought to wait to know myself, if It wern In deed that pure, undying lovo I felt for you, which could bear all, suffer nil for its object, or if it were a mere passing, boyish fancy. VVe were both so young, that it seemed, perhaps, not wise to exchange vows of affection whieh might prove, some day, shack les of iron rather than silken cords. Still this Inst consideration had but lit ilo weight. But the chief reason why I never told you in so many words my entire devotion to you, was that it al ways seemed to me that you read my heart as nn open book. It seemed lo me that my thoughts, almost before they ivere formed in my own mind, were fully known to vou, nnd that notliiiig I could say could make you understand me or my wishes and plans better than you did and ever had from the first of our association. My very soul, in my own estimation, lay bine before your gaze. Do you not recol lect that sometimes when I commenc ed to express my feelings, or .senti ments. 1 would hesitate for the exact word and turn lo you, wilh, 'Say it for me, Madeleine? You know what I mean," and you would linish for tnc " She bowed her head and ho con tinned. "Oftentimes when writing to you, my confession, my avowal, was on the nib of my pen, but something with held ir, this sanii: jdei. that you un derstood all I woul.'isay, nil I felr, nil my expectalioi.s and ail my hopes. liesides I ha'', a shrinking, morbid sen sitiveness about nutting such sacred leeliD'.-s upon paper, for other eyes to 4ll''.t! i.iit save those for which they were intended not that I feared you would show my epistles, 1 should have been willing you should have done wilhihem as you chose, for I always fell you would do right, but ihe un eeri linty of mails, and the dread that smm; one might, in sonu way, get possession of theni to whom, that which was so pure and holy to me and lo you, mig;;t become a theme, for coarse, or ill-limed jesting. 1 ac knowledge this lo have been a child ish, an unmanly sentiment, but it ap peared men to ne a part ol my na-1 tore and I could not overcome it, or rather did not try until I found what it had cost me. Madeleine I cannot call you by any other name I have never been happy, never contented, a moment since you were lost to me. liver res, less, ever uneasy, my mind has been like the troubled sea, cease lessly moving, never quiet. 15i it I will not enlarge on my own sufferings nov. It is due to you to know what has passed since we par ted, and as that letter has never ar rived, what was to have told you all, you will have to hear it from my own iips." "IJetter so, u thousand times," ans- ( red his companion, "I can now ask you what. I do not fully understand, and you can explain sat isfaetoi ily, Mimeihing which could not ht) done if it had been cuamuiiiicati liy I In? pen, I ihmk you must confess fate has not. been :o very much against you alter all." It wns yet early morning. The bland summer zephyrs blew through the blossoming shrubs of ihe grassy yard, fluttered the leaves of the vim s which clambered over the white pi azza, and stealing in through the half closed blinds id' the co! and pleasant room, laid their gathered .fragrance lovingly agaitu.t the faces of the loii? p.irted friends, as composing herself quietly to li.-t' n to what she so much wi&hcd lo hear, Madeleine said, ""Tell me all, will you? lam alone in the world except my two chihlten. I have ever bi h ived you a friend, and friend ship is never so precious as when there are few lo feel and profess it for us. Yours for me, I never doubted, was sincere, and your seeking mo in this manner after so many years proves it was not but a name. I trust you have not suffered too deeply, too se verely, but tell it me," and she bent her head eagerly to listen. PA11T SECOND. "You will first accord inc your par don for the strange excitement of my manner, and the unwarrantable free dom with which I nddressed you, now you know all the circumstances con nected wilh my present coming. You can understand the keenness of my disappointment when you held your self at such a distance from me and seemed so indifferent. You can for give, can you not, that I was, for a time, almost beside myself," and his companion bowed her head, and smil ed upon him the forgiveness and the pardon for w hich he asked: : He proceeded "When I left you it was my intention, after a brief visit to my home and friend, to enter eol lego, as you are well aware. Durirfg my courso of study there I intended to decide the question whether 1 should become a missionary, ordevote myself to some calling in my own country, II I did not become tho for mer, I had thought of no plan in re maining here. . I felt within myself that I was not fitted 'to become an ex pounder of gospr.l faith to the peoplo of my own land, but that I might bo useful to the benighted pagan, and to wards them my heart turned in sym pathy and pity, and desired to do them good. But that was not for me. Owl did not need mo for that work, for I had thought he would open to me the palfi in which I should walk, or rather direct the circumstances of my life, sol should understand what was my duly. When I reached home I found my father in trouble about his property in the West. Some years ago ho hud speculated largely in Wes tern laud, and there was some consid erable dispute about the titles to the different tracts. Fart of it had been government land, and in regard to that there wns no dilliculiy, but by far the greater portion of it had been pur chased from those who had settled anil made improvements, claims had been setup, by different persons, to a reat deal of it, and a thorough in vestigation was necessary, and, prob ably, no small amount of litigation would be the result. My father's health was much too feeble for him to leave home nnd endure the bodily fa tigue and menial harrassing conse quent, upon so lengthy and vexatious an under! tiUing. His other, and older son, who lived in your village, was married and bad business of bis own which be could not well leave; conse quently I was the one, who could well and properly attend to to it. Young as I was, my father had great confi dence in my business powers, fori had alwas a way of seeing my course clearly through before 1 took a step in any undertaking. It became with me, at once, a, question of duty as to whether 1 should go. or not. On the one hand, my conviction of the filial obedience due. from a cherished son to the best of fathers, a knowledge that wealth would very readily and easily be accumulated if I was suc cessful in accomplishing the business, as I had reason to expect I should be, and the good 1 might do anywhere, if my heart were right; and on the other hand, the feeling that 1 ought to de vote my life and its energies in anoth er, holier, higher and more noble pur pose than worldly wealth and world ly distinction, and the sacrifice of one of the cherished desires of childhood and youth, a thorough collegiate ed ucation before I should engage in any business, profession, or avocation of any kind, were the circumstances 1 must take into consideration, weigh ing then) wisely and well before com ing lo an ultimate decision. When I thought of my own cherished plans, 1 found it exceedingly dillicult to re linquish them; but when 1 looked to my father, feeble in health, and ad vancing in years, trusting to his son to assist him in securing for him I he savings of a lifetime, (Cor all bis prop erty except I he place on which he. lived was invested in those land-,) I could not feel that Providence would bless any elfoils I should make, however noble, or disinterested they might be, if I should refuse to assist him who had (he best earthly claim upon my services, when he had such pressing need for them. Yet it was not with out quile a struggle that I made up my mind lo go. Tim morning before I started, my father said to me, 'Henry this will bea perplexing and vexa tious business. It will probably not all be satisfactorily arranged under two, or three years. 1 do not wish your agency in this matter for nothing. You ought to be rewarded, not only for the actual labor you will perform, but lor the sacrifices you are making on my account, and you shall be. Half of all the land to which you can secure an undisputed title shall be yours. I am aware of the plans you have cherished in your own mind for your future life, and I am grateful that you so readdy abandon them at my desire and for my interest. There is no one to whom I could so willingly entrust this affair as yourself.' A few days and I was on my way. It wns necessary I should bo on the ground as soon as possible, so I denied myself the pleasure of stopping to see you on my way to the scene of my labors. On my arriva II found matters worse than I had anticipated. Much of the land, which had been bought of the settlers, it was found they had sold without having, themselves, any le gal claim to it, so it .was in 'part yet government land, nnd in part owned by men who lived at a distance, utidhotdMp was a 'man of God, and es- , .w. ,.iaio 'chewed '- .' fis uv were uiiuwur vi mw yv- of their property there, so it must bo',;.-' relinquished entirely, or purchased!,'-.4 , nnow, and yet it had beon bought inj good faith, a fair valuation, at the tinted "t having been paid for it. To some of ' it, too false claims were set up, which claims had to bo looked into and some- -times a court of justice could only de- k, cide who was tho legal claimant. - 'h That,' whieh wns in reality govern- ? . ment land, but which had been pur-1 chased of the squatters, by paying ' them tho highest price lor their bet-. tennents, ns tho improvements they v .; had mndo were called, gave mo no " inconsiderable trouble, for when it was 1 ascertained to belong still to tho gov- '.' crnment, oftentimes, as many as two ; or three persons would stand ready : . to enter it for themselves. Then a- ;, gain, on land lo which the title was . really valid and indisputable, settlers in several instances, were found to have come in, built n log cabin, clear- K t.-dafew acres, tind . supposing they j-, had a squatter's right there, made ' themselvcsquite at home. And it was I generally very hard to make them un derstand that any ono could have a prior, and better claim to it than they had when they located there be fore a slick was cut, or a stroke made for subduing the wilderness. But by dint of calm reasoning and explanation, anil paying for the labor they had done, I, usually, succeeded in amicably adjusting matters without making many enemies, or paying much more than I ought for the little they bad done for the improvement of the portion on which they had located themselves. lint, lo unravel the whole skein of this most perplexing business took a much longer time than I at first sup posed it would, livery Spring, 1 thought 1 should have finished it by the Autumn, and when the Autumn came and found me still ut work, I was sure another Spring would have set mailers nil to rights, so I might be, once more, a free man again. I was ever planning to return to you to speak to you, the deep, pent-up feel ings of my soul, for it seemed to me 1 couhlnol, write them, and yet, though 1 was always hoping, the time did not appear to draw any nearer. And yet, 1 intended you should understand nil my designs and intentions towards yourself Iroui ihe kind of letters 1 wrote. I fancied you did, for it al ways seemed to ma that you could read my heart and know all its hopes, desires aud fears, with the motives that controlled my actions, even bet ter than I did myself. I was certain that you could not misapprehend me, and 1 was equally certain that your heart was mine, and that I had but to come, to claim mv love and bear you lo my home. I was sure you loved me aud my hopes were always bright. At last 1 was through my perplex ing toil, both of mind and body. My business, except a little of minor im portance, was all closed up. The very first year of my sojourn, in that coun try, I selected the pleasantest locality of all the region, as a most desirablu spot for a home, when 1 should be rea dy to occupy it. Little, by little, I beautified and adorned the place, call ing both nature and art to my aid to embellish the scene. The last year, my house had been built, a neat, tasteful cottage, in a grove of forest trees, of nature's own planting, which had been intentional ly left there for that very purpose, near the waters, of one of those small sand-margined lakes with which the region abounds. 1 had selec ed this spot as one which would especially please your fastideous tasle. and every natural and acquired charm, which belonged to it, gave me additional pleasure, ns 1 looked at it, from the thought it was beautifying tho home lone day hoped and trusted would be shared by you. liy topping and trimming the low er branches of iho sheltering trees, views were opened indifferent direc tions lo the shclvy shore of the lake, for the spot selected for my cottage was on a portion of land which had tho water on three sides of it, and of course running out into I be embracing waters. To tho cast the ground rose gently ascending almost to a, hill, while in front or to the West, it sloped down to tho very margin of the beau teous lake. Towards the North I had left a strip of dense, primeval forest, as a shelter against the slorms which usually come from that quarler, while beyond were to be my pasture grounds and Cultivated fields. ' in our present prrv-rae state or so ciety, it islincui for nun or .woman (particularly -i . .... -..!, nr. nprr.hnnrp. a rrnrt ' ,l head, by way of an admonishcr! t , -Tho grew the truth, the greater the i.-iwraaiih Lord Mansfield. and his i . t- I P ti I' P h t! ti )' fs' n ki ki m C) di in if n is tl ci P sc fir Io II. st I an stt foi CO. Jo J