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the opportunity of venting itself on the true malefactors, breaks forth on the first object (often the most innocent and best loved) that finds itself in your path. To-night it is possibly “Childe Harold," which happens to be on the window-border, and which you send whirling to the other end of the room. Or you go and waken your maid, who, ignorant of the miseries and delights of the "poetical temperament," is sleeping tranquilly, to ask her for something you could very well find yourself, or to repeat some trivial order for to-morrow.
Whenever I happen to find myself in similar circumstances, I am really most unhappy. And now, in choosing my own room, I sacrifice every other comfort to that of having no window with a vis-à-vis.
MRS. REBECCA JACOBUS
AS born at Cambridge, S. C.,
February 22, 1832. She is younger sister of Louise Manhiem. During her infancy, her parents removed to Augusta, Ga., where they remained until she reached her eleventh year, when her father, dissatisfied with his vocation, and craving that sphere of life which his poetic imagination pictured in the wilds of Florida, emigrated to that lovely land. The versatile beauty, sombre gloom, and grandeur of its scenery, awoke the talent of his second daughter, and threw into her after-life an impassioned love of solitude and nature.
Mrs. Jacobus was educated by her eldest brother, Judge Heydenfeldt, and graduated at the principal seminary in Montgomery, Ala., with credit.
She married, in 1852, J. Julien Jacobus, a good and talented man, who, contrary to the general rule, was proud of his young wife's literary ability, and who now and then took pleasure in inditing poems complimentary to her genius. The reverent affection with which he regarded her to the end of his short life is the noblest panegyric we can offer her in the character of wife and mother—the hearth of home being the truest means by which to test the higher attributes of a good and gifted woman. In her home circle, her virtues shine pre-eminent, and sanctify the genius which they adorn. Death, however, soon entered this happy home, and gathered two lovely children to his breast, casting a deep gloom over the young mother's life, which a few years later was deepened by the death of her husband, who fell while defending his home and his country on the bloody plain of Shiloh. Death claimed few nobler victims than this young and talented man, who had already given bright promise of future pre-eminence in his profession as a member of the Georgia bar.
The deep devotion which Mrs. Jacobus pays to the education of her three promising children elicits our especial admiration. She is a woman of medium height, is slight and well formed, has regular features; she is habitually pale, and her face wears a thoughtful expression when in repose; her manner is quiet and retiring, and there is an atmosphere of marked refinement pervading her every movement.
Mrs. Jacobus is a Jewess by birth, (as are all the five sisters,) and, with that native pride so inherent in the Hebrew people, she brings up her children in accordance with the Jewish faith. (Her father was a Presbyterian.)
Mrs. Jacobus is still young, and though her life has been early clouded with sorrow, we hope she will yet emerge from her voluntary seclusion, and we confidently expect much that is good, true, and beautiful from her pen.
Her home is in Augusta, and she promises a book to the world at a not distant day.
Bend low, let the blood on your cheek flush high,
THE FLORAL DAY.
Matchless in beauty, not brighter the skies
In her emerald boat on the breast of the tides,
Softly she treads thro' the aisles of the dead,
And flings from her lashes her tribute. a tear.
As the starry-eyed flowers, all radiant and light
Go, follow her; glance not behind at the form
The eyes of the sleeper seem watching her yet;
And dreaming she smiles till the grass as it sighs
Ah! it all rushes back, she remembers it now,
Yet 't was sweet once to hear, in her desolate grief,
And now as the "floral day" * dawns on the world,
The beautiful belle once her maid when a bride.
Oh! can it be? can such a dreary change fall
On a home once so bright? now draped in the pall
And there in the gay and glittering train
* 26th April.
Are her friends-friends? the cold scorn of her eye
Ay, glance not behind at the pallid young face,
Pass her by-tarry not to soothe the mad pain
That throbs at her heart, and burns in her brain.
Seek not to lift the dark pall of her woes;
How she toils, how she starves, how the day comes and goes.
What has she now to do with the world -
A serf to the haughty, a slave to the churl?
Pass her by-shun the bride of the soldier, but save
All your smiles, all your honors to brighten his grave.
Oh! flowers, bright blooms, lift your beautiful heads,
Are graven on hearts that are watching above;
May scatter the clouds, chase the "wolf from their door;"
That but for his country his ragged child now
But, alas! to the winds, as the favored of earth,
Tell the story of woe; what have they with the dearth
Of desolate homes? Ah! mourners, not here
Is the soldier's reward; hope, patience, and prayer