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SHOULD MAN BE PROUD!
Should matl he proud .'—go nsk the Strut.
The great in wenlth or power, of nnme
Yun will notfiud wiih nil their Mate,
Th«* true in heart, the pure iu fam*.
The world wittt its infectious breath
Thot.gh lair wRnMT,' vu* within.
J. H. STEELE & P. THWEATT, Editors.
Should man he proud 1—n.k poverty—
IJccrmletl oft below the brute,
Will not ittt burning tcara reply
In I nog tinge eloquent, ibtingh inute—
I is consoler. lain of biller wrong,
Its deep nboscinent—o’n in dust,
Will nmwor loud ttnd nnttwnr long,
And answer true— u« true it uniat.
Should man hr proud t—go ask the grave,
Tho cold, Ihe Inne down trodden
Where sloop, the monarch nml the slave,
In kin mil dual and kindred gloom—
(i„ to tiio place wero ihouaatlda sleep
In still oblivion's midnight shroud,
And o’er tho wreek of being weep
And nsk, nsk there—should man be proud I
MISCELLANEOUS.
FEMALE REVENGE.
A TALE FOUNDED ON BOMB INCIDENTS FROM EVENINGS
WITH PRINCE CAMBACERES.
CHAPTER I.
And dost thou lovo me, ma bcllo Marie, with all
the devutedness of n woman’s heart 1”
“Canst thou doubt it my otvn Adolphe?” said
the lovely and confiding girl, to whom these words
were passionately addressed.
“Is thy heart susceptible of no change, my own
one ? bust thou never dreamed of some gny cava,
lior, who would make lltee soon forget me 1"
“No, Adolphe, I never knew happiness until I
beheld thee, I could never love another.”
“But, Marie, among tho unnumbered suitors who
•ought thy love, there wero those upon whom a
muiden’s heart right well might have bestowed the
rich treasures of ils love; the fame of thy beauty
brought the bravest, the wealthiest, the noblest at
thy feet! How strange, dearest, to choooe a rough
•oldier, whose blunt address and unpolished mien
were ill calculated to win so fair a flower!”
“And now, Adolphe, be generous; question do
more the true and devoted lovo I hear thee ; more,
a maiden could not say, than I have said, to prorc
my heart is all thine own. I have ever confided ip
thy devnted tenderness, and never doubled thy
constancy.”
“But, Marie, suppose some trencherous friend
should whisper in thy car ought against him, who
loves theo with more than human uffeclion, and
would persuade thee, that I loved another, would’st
thou not condemn me, and oust forever from thee,
one whom a false friend had wronged ?"
“No, Adolphe, I scarce would believe an angel
from heaven—thou surely could’st not wrong me,
oven in thought—but if 1 knew thee to bo fulso to
me and to thy vows, 1 would hate thee, even as I
love thee now. 1 would be revenged upon thee
even unto death, and on her to whom thou would’st
proffer a faithless heart.” She uttered these words
with a frenzied energy—a change came over her
beautiful face—for a moment a fiendish expression
' destroyed its exquisite beauty ; that moment suf
ficed to show the heart of a demon.
As the dark and malignant glance of her eye
met his, Adolphe’s heart sank within him—he
turned away,and saw not his look of surprise nnd
agony, as he heard her impious declaration. Her
countenance, now radiant with love and tender,
ness, beamed upon him. Adolphe fait that the
spell of hor beauty was o'er him. Couid he forget
the agony of tlie preceding moment? Alas, no?
he was changed, and forever! He had seen the
shrine of his purest love desecrated by unholy pas.
sions; jealousy and revenge profuued that tem
ple of loveliness ; he might admire its exceeding
and peerless beauty, he loved no more. ’Tis
strange, that our passions wilt so overwhelm the
soul and plunge it into a sea of vice. We should
guard against those wild bursts of feeling, which
destroy our finer sensibilities, weaken our virtues,
and spread desolation in their fearful coarse. Once
passion’s slave, yours of repentunce will not give
back to the heart its early and pristine beauty.
The demon once roused within us, imprints, in in
delible characters, his wild and stormy ravages.
Even in bright and beautiful faces, we cuii discover
that Ihe fell destroyer of all that is generous and
noble, has passed over Ihe spirit. Tho dark and
- lowering brow, the haughty and malignaint curl of
the lip, the momentary flash of the angry eye, are
eloquent, though painful attestations of passion’s
reign. Mysterious visilings of sin utul sorrow,
which leave not unscathed even the young- and love.
!y ! What a bright and happy hiding place would
this beautiful eurlh ho. were it freed from Ihe prime
val curse; were peace and love nnd joy to reign, und
still forever, iu thetrquiet calm, nil unholy passions.
Virtue, happiness, mid truth arc sacrificed to man’s
direst loo. Most truly and beaulifuliy does the po
et express its wi boring and blighting influence—
" Poor race of man, anid the pitying spirit,
“Dearly ye pay for your primal fall;
“Some floweret* of Eden ye Mill inherit
‘•Hut the trail of the serpent ia over them all.”
Is there an era iu our lives, thut is not marked iu
bitterness? If we trace our sorrows to their
source, ungovernable passions present themstslves
as the cause of ull our miseries. Either as the
aggressor or the pptient victim, wo still writhe un
der the primeval curse. In the Imppy moments of
childhood, in the days ofjoyous and expectant youth
in maturcr years, yea, even hoarv age, when death
points ua lo the gloomy mansions of Ilia realm, we
•till obey the remorseless tyrant, and warship him,
even though despair and biller anguish be our por.
liun. Has the blight passed over any, and harm
ed net? How much beautiful morality is there in
that exquisite appeal of Hamlet—
“Thai is not naasion's slave, a
“Iu uiv hem's core ; aye,in m
tuy heart of hearts.’'
CHATTER It.
It wrs a bright, mild evening, in sunny June;
the air was hnliny untl delicious—uli nature breath
ed joy nnd peace. The exquisite beauty nf the
evening tempted the young friends to enjoy n stroll
along the bank oftho Seine. As they proceeded
ill their walk, one appeared to he ahsotbed in deep
reverie ; the ether regarded her companion with u
look so earnest nnd penetrating, that (he former at
last abruptly inquired, “WeM, Viclor'ne, why do
you look, ns if you would read my inmost thoughts;
are you ‘endeavoring to divine why a maiden’s
brow should be clouded thus ?”
“No, Mnrie, (for it was she.) I know not why
you should lie sad ; you nre one nf fortune's favo.
jites , have you a wish ungrulified ? Is not weulth
rnnl; nnd beauty yours ? Do you not possess the
nffl'ctions of one, brave, noble nnd generous, the
distinguished fuvorite of our idolized Napoleon ?”
Marie’s face turned crimson, ns her friend ullu.
ded to her lover—Victorine felt her hand, which
was now clasped in hers, tremble as she replied.
“I will be frank with you, my friend, nnd breathe
to you, what no mortal else should hear from me :
I fear Adolphe dues not love me ns I would wish
to ho loved ; I fear he lias changed of late.”
“What reason, Marie, have you for indulging in
this foolish fancy ? I am sure ho is often with you,
and could havo given you no cause for believing
him untrue.”
“Is there the slightest change, the quick eye of
love cannot discover? Ho hus given mo no cause
that you, my friend, would deem a justifiable one
for entertaining what you call u foolish fancy, and
you would say I was weak, wore I to tell you what
trifling causes, have given me hours of bittorness
and surroiv—His eyes look not the lovo they were
wont to express ; he is over resiles* 'and uneasy
wiMqj »viih min -a shade of melancholy oft flits over
his brow, that tells af a heart ill at .ease ; and,” she
continued, with bitterness—"this is tho happy be-
t rolhed of the admired Marie, the chosen oito of the
pqerless beauty, tho fortunate aspirant to the rich
lieiress.”
There was a wildness in her look nnd manner
that startled her companion. She endeavored to
soothe and comfort her. “ No, no. Victorine, ‘I
havo set my life upon the cast, und with determined
devotion, will abide tho hazard of tho die.’ If
Adolphe loves me not, and scorns my love, then
furewell pence and happiness—welcome disgrace
and death !"
Victorine gazed on hor with astonishment. She
could dream of no cause, that could justify such a
burst of uncontrollable anguish and despair. She
could not trace the dark feelings in tho heart of
the unhappy girl, who had never been taught to go
vern even her most sinful emotions. She had been
brought up under the guidance of a parent who nb.
horred religion and its beautiful precepts—who had
taught her to scorn a belief in the divine truths of
revelation, as weak and ridiculous.
Ho was a follower of the impious Voltaire, and
instilled his dangerous principles into a mind but
too susceptible of the errors of atheism. Had her
feelings been properly directed, she had been hap.
py—but she had never curbed her slightest wish,
nor governed her naturally impetuous disposition.
Deprived, when young, of a mother’s watchful
care, she had lived, unrestrained, under a father’s
idolizing devotion—Ho died suddenly, and left her
the uncontrolled mistress of an immense fortune;
her brother having early deserted his parental roof
to follow the fortunes of the illustrious Napoleon,
whose glory had won his youthful and enthusiastic
soul. Time rolled on, bringing no plensing dissi.
pations to the gloomy forebodings of Marie’s jea.
lous mind. Tired at length with solitude and tho
biller tltougffis that intruded themselves, she went
forth to seek tho society'of Iter friends—-which,if it
did not soothe, at least diverted her from tho Bad.
ness which had taken possession of her impassioned
nature.
As she enterod the doorof the saloon, sho heard
voices in a contiguous apartment: her attention
was arrested by the following words—“ No, Vic.
torino, it is impossible for me to show what I do
not feel. I have ceased to love Murio, and can-
not ast tho hypocrito.”
“ But, Adolphe, Mario loves you with more than
a woman’s tenderness ; sho idolizes you ; cannot
you appreciate her affection? Your professions
of attachment to me—will they not prove as faith,
less as to her?"
“ My love for Marie was not based on firm and
virtuous principles f I was won by her exceeding
beauty. I dreamed not that so fair a form held
aught hut what was bright and heavenly.”
“ Even could I accept your love, are you not
betrothed to hen? Could I bo untrue to my
friend ?"
“ Victorine, you mistake my feolings—1 have
over worshipped your virtues. I was won by you,
before 1 was bound by the spells of a Circe. Do
you think, I could unite tnyself to one whom I could
not respect? I would rather drink of the poisoned
cup, than wed her whom I do not love. I would
not allow her to be the scorn of the world by de
serting her ; but she must discard from her heart,
one who has ceased to lovelier. Three days from
this, she must know that my feelings have clmng.
ged.”
Marie heard no more; she retreated hastily
through the door of the saloon. By a violent ef
fort, she commanded her feelings sufficiently to
proceed by another and remote entrance to the
room, in which were her friend and lover. Though
calm and collected, her determination had been in-
stantly made; and, deadly as was the nature of
her contemplated revenge, no trace was on that
face ; now radiant with apparent joy and affection
—Such was the cotnmnnd Kite assumed over her
own violent nature. With a gayety that ill suited
the anguisli of her heart, she accosted her friends.
After a playful conversation of a few minutes,
she told Vietorino thut her birth.day was approach
ing, and that she came to request the pleasure of
hersocietyon that day—Turning with a bright
look to Adolphe, she requested hint to como also.
“ 1 shall indeed enjoy a day of uninterrupted Imp.
piness.”
On returning home, Marie flew to her apartment,
and there gave vent to the agony of her spirit.
Site wept long and bitterly, hut hatred had taken
possession of hor liourt. No mercy was there ;
she had invited her friends, the day on which
Adolphe hud intended to have declared hi* altered
feelings.
chapter m.
All was eastern magnificence in the boudoir of
the fair Marie: curtains of the richest and cost,
liest damask shaded tile windows, and threw a rosy
light around the apartment, having Ihe exquisite
effect oftlto glowing but softened light of the set-
ting sun. Otlumuns nod finite mis of delicious soft-
ness invited to repose. A harp, placed in the re
cess of tho window, was gently breathed upon by
the passing wind, and gnve forth low sounds of
melody tlmt seemed almost oelestiul—Marble
stands were tastefully placed through the saloon,
it, widely wero arranged flowers of the richest fra.
granco and beauty—A soft delicious perfume was
exhaled from an urn of beautiful workmanship—
the gift of Adolphe. Books were thrown careless
ly about, as if the impatient fair one had in vain
sought to direct her mind to their perusal. And
where was she, the beauteous and bright ono? Re
clining on a divan, het face shaded with her hand,
Marie was struggling to subdue every trace of
emotion ; a dark cloud would ever and anon flit
across her brow and mar its exquisite and childlike
beauty. Since the fatal day of Iter visit to Vic-
toriae, she had nut enjoyed ono moment,s tranquil*
ity. Site hud fully realized those words of the
poet—
“ llctwecn the Acting of n itreailiul thing,
And tin- first motion* nil Ills enterimis
l.iko u phantusutii, or a hideous dream."
“Theycome ! they come!" she exclaimed, as
•hu heard footsteps in the adjoining apartment.
" Oh, God ! that it were over.”
Marie was soon in the embraces of her friend.
Why did not the icy und tremulous pressure of
those treacherous lips, warn Victorine of hor dan
MILLEPGEVlLLE, TUESDAY, MARCH 28, 1843.
ger ? They wore soon joined by Adolphe. Mario
led the conversation with a wild and reckless gnyo-
ty. Tho day passed" off joyously. As evening ap
proached, Marie bccaono even more gay and bril
liant—of late, sho had been sad and dejected. So
different was she now .that Adolphe feared her mad
dening mirth was but the effect of temporory excite
ment, as ho knew opium wqs used to a fearful ex-
tom by many of tho gay; and fashionable.* A wild,"
strange light gleamed in- her eye. Adolphe’s heart
thrilled with indefinable emotions, as he involunta.
rily recurred to the fatal declaration sho, had once
made him.
The evening banquet watf prepared i4sGrecian
portico. Wreaths of roses and jossatnilw embrac.
oct its slender pillars, nnd breathed ndelcious per*
fume; it lamp of Carra re marble, suspnded from
the ceiling, threw a moonlit and softeneo radiance
o’er tho luiry scene. -At the close of tbo repast,
Marie gaily requested^ r friends to driolj a cup of
wine to her honor. The chased and golden goblets
were filled ; neither Victorine nor Aihthi'e noted
the savage look of triumph which liglu-Jlheoonn. ,
tonnneo of Marie, ns they qilatled tin*' rich sod I
sjwirkling-ltq'iild. ‘ - .
my god. Oh ! fearfully and well havo I kept my
vow. I have worn men’s uppnrel while perpetra
ting murddrs of which I am " evjpn now proud. 1
escaped the vigilance of my pursuers, by again as.
euming tho dress of my sex ; I am discovered. It
is thus I die.” She plunged a dagger in hor
bosom ere her brother could arrest the fatal
blow.
Thus died the idolized, the beautiful Marie!
Had she been sustained by religion in tho first
moments of trial and temptation, her fate had not
been thus dark and horriblo. She followed the
promptings of her own ovil und revengeful nature
—sho had ever obeyed its dictates—she had ever
been a slave to her passions—she had forsal.on
Iter God, and ho forsook his erring and ungrateful
creature.
E. M. D. C.
Occoquan, Virginia.
[FROM THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.]
THE MUFFLED, I’RI EST.
A SCENE IN ROME.
The aisles of the chapel, lately thronged with
inrkling liquid. An hour hud scarcely elapsed, r.niany worshippers, .were silent. The sounds of
hen Victorine complained! of excessivo drowsi- Sprayer which had echoed through tho groined roof,
ness. Her eyes, which a s hort time before, beam. ...
ed bright, with joy and happiness, wero lustreless
and sunken—her lovely faiio was hunched with
tho hues of death : in a few moments, the struggle
was over; the dolicato cords of life wore broken,
and Marie beheld tho corpse- ofher fiiend stretch-
ed at her feet, beautiful eve a in dentil. Adolphe
looked on with horror and aimazeimnt; he had at-
tempted to reach tho dying girl, lint ho full his
strength fust deserting him. As Victorine breath,
ed her last, ltd turned to Marie nnd saw a demo
niac triumph depicted in hor countorance—" Un,
happy girl,” ho exclaimed, 11 what hast thou
done ?”
“You would sooner drink of tho poisoned cun
than marry hor whom you do not love. You would
sooner drink of the poisoned cup than ho sopnru,
ted from her you do love,—go, join your beioveq
in tjiat paradise where I havo sent her. 1 had tool
much regard for your happiness to separate you
even in denth.”
As tho last words rnng in his ear, he endeavor
ed to speak ; a ghastly chango came over his no
hie face, und dcuth claimed another victim. Maria
rushed to him, impressed a long and passionate
kiss on his cuid, and livid lips, and fled from the
portico.
VOll^XXiy-NQ. 26,
i,” conlinsed Armenins : “Thoproud
to mak'ik'" '
chapter tv.
It was in ono of those mngnificont rooms in tho
fushionublo hotel of the Rue de L’Universite, that
four young men sat playing ccarte. They wero
evidently taking no interest in the game, and play
ed to divert timo, and chase away ennui—The;)
wero a gay und dashing set. Ono of them wa
strikingly hnndsomo ; his youthful and slende
form'was exquisitely moulded; his glossy darl
hair fell in rich profusion over a forehead of daz
zling whiteness—his eyo was dark, but somowhai
restless and fiery ; a bitter and scornful smile of
ten destroyed the fair and almost feminino beauty
of his fucu. Ho was known in Paris as the young
Count M . They had played until past mid
night. The young cavalier became restless and
uneasy; wine wus called for ; bis countenance
brightened. Unobserved, ho throw a powder inlo
each glass as his companions filled it with tho jri6h
and glowing vintage. An hour more elapsed,
and tho young cuvalicr had left the apart- 1 ,
moot.
A strange cry of horror arousod tho inmates of
tho note!" from their morning slumbers. They
rushed to the spot whence the sounds proceeded—I j
a domestic had opened tho room, and found the
bodies of three young men. No mark of violence
wus discovered; tho healthy look of the bodies
precluded the idea of poison—The only ono who
could have thrown a light on thn subject had sud
denly left tho hotel, the young Count M ; guilt
was attached to him—a search was made, but no
trace of him could be discovered.
Mysterious murders were daily perpetrated—the j
same singular circumstances attended them; no |
marks of violence wero visible. In all She ac
counts of the murders, the young Count M
was ever found to be present; but ho disappeared,
as if by magic, and defied the most vigilant search.
Bonaparte, alarmed at the penco.of the city being
so disturbed by those horrible and freqent inurileiw,
ordered the minister of police to leave no menus
untried to discover tho diabolical porpetrator.
Tho viligant Fnuclie soon discovered, by fre
quent po9t-n>ortcm examinations, that death wars
inflicted by a blow on the temple, dexterously givem
by some small und effective instrument. He wk<«
never failed iu bringing to light the darkest ann't
most htddon transact inns, resolved that justice shoukil
ovortakethe wretch who could so wuntonly deprise;
his fellow-beings of life. There appeared to bat
no design of robbery, revenge or defence, to ac
count for conduct so horrible and sunguinary.—
Fouche had spent several months in his praise-
worthy, though fruitless search, when a gny young
party was assembled at the hotel of the Marquis dw-
B. There was a stranger present, whose pene
trating eye frequently rested on a young and hand
some rnan, who appeared to bo the gayest of
that gny party. The evening passod awuy iu
mirth and revelry. Tho stranger still watched
every movement of tho young cavalier, with an
earnest and undivided attention; and yot so guard
ed was every look, that the young man himself was.
not aware of the in terest ho elicited. The exhila
rating wine circulated freely ; the wild jest nod Ihe
gay laugh resounded through the apartments—all
restraint wus thrown aside. The stranger obssttv-
ed tho young cavulier take advantage of this mt-
ment of reckloss gayety. He walked rapidly round
the table uigi threw a dark powder into each gkiee.
It was a powerful narcotic, lie imagined, as he six-
served, in a few moments, the merry party wero
overcome with drowsinoss, and soon fell into a
deep nnd dreamless slumber. The stranger p»r-
look not of the ^ine—burying his face in his hands,
he feigned sleep. He heard a laugh of exultation*
and a few low words caught his oar—"Revenpe
indeed is sweet ; eleven, and all mine own.”—We>
watched the speaker take cautiously from kta
brenst an instrument resembling a hammer, and
removing the dark and glossy curls of the Mar-
quis de B , ho aimed a well-directed blow at
his temple ; ere his hand descended, it was forcibly
arrested ; the Granger seized his arm. The
young man gHve a look of horror anil amazement ;
he struggled in vain to free himself from the pow
erful and sinewy grasp of his adversary. Tho
stranger gave a loud command ; in a moment, the
apartment was filled with agents of the police ; he
was a minister of I-’oucho, and had sworn to disco,
ver the mysterious murderer.:
“Unhand me, I am a woman.”
“Thou art a fiend, and shall net escape jus.
tice.”
Fora moment tho eye oflho prisoner rested on
the crowd which had assembled around ; a look of
surprise nnd agony lollowed that glance—“My
brother, Oh! my brother, do not now forsake
me.”
There wns a stir ; the mob respectfully gnv» j
way. A young lieutcnnntnf tho consular army
approached—“Marie, my beloved sister, ia it thus
1 behold you ?”
She leaned on him for support; some low
words pasted between them, of which onl}^
were audible. “Yes, my brother, I Itavo
ped revenge, since that filial day 1 swore it
tome low
mlj^few
or*wpi
w
were hushed. The assembly which had knelt iu
solemn, but erroneous devotion, hud disappeared ;
and the stone image—the senseless nbjscl of their
adoration—smiled grimly in the gloomy loneliness,
nnd his chiscfted feature displayed themselves in
[tile temple, erected by superstitious wealth, to his
service.
But nno individual remained, a long robe of som
bre huo conecnling his person, who leaned, as if
in deep thought, against the pedestal, on which
stood the deity. Ho was the deity.
A long shadow was cast on the floor, and instant
ly afterward, a tall guant figure appeared at tho
door; a mantle of spotless white overhung his
shoulders, scarcely concealing his broad and ample
chest. The erectness of his carriage, the dignity
of his attitude, the fire of his eye, the boldness of
his step, nud tho proud curl upon his lip, proclaim-
-ed him to be a man of rank and ambition.
A contemptuous sneer played upon his counten
ance—As he cast his eyes about the sanctunry, he
glanced towards the stern deity itself, as its de
formed features seemed to assume an expression
of indignation at the audacity of the intruder. The
stranger then turned toward tho aileron which, in
a golden vase, richly studded with jewels, burned
an offering of frankincense, emitting a pale blue
smoke, which rose and festooned from pillar to pil
lar, dissominatinp its porfumo through the adjacent
space. None of these, however, seemed to pro-
,duce either awe or respect in the mind of the llo.
man ; for, striding pust the shrine, he cried :
“Priest! dost sleep ?”
The individual whom he addressed slowly turn
ed his head, muttered, “ ’tis he !” then drawing his
robe more closely about him, answered :
“ No, I sleep not. ' The Priest of the deity is not
us other men, he needs no sleep.”
“Cddse this folly,” cried the senator impatiently ;
*' well I know nil tricks and jugglers of thy craft;
• save thy precious trnslt to doso tho vulgar—re
serve thy lectures for the fools who kneel to this
thing of stone !”
“ Beware ! rrtkh man.” returned the priest, "how
in the sanctuary of this house, you brave his ven
geance ; what thou thinkusl stone, may possess
power to strlta terror to even thy stubborn heart!"
i “ Forbsar this idle-talk,” exuiaimed tho other.”
“ Idle talk !” repeated the Priest, with deep so.
lomnily of manner, “obdurate ns thou art, this dei
ty, through me, can disclose that, which would
mnko thee tremble I”
“I would fain witness tho skill of which thou
vauntest,” said the senator, in u more serious man
ner: for, lie wns unconcioitslv*imbibing a portion
of the nwe which pervaded tho place.
“Thou shall be gratified,” returned the Priest.
"What I now toll, thou thinkest buried in thine own
bosom, unknown by others ; if I disclose itto iheei
doubt not that he who presides here, can rend the
hearts of nil who approach him, whether to wor
ship or to scoff.”
“Proceed, proceed,” cried the olhor.
“Twenty years since, Armenius, thou wert a
general, the commander of a legion——”
"Well done for the ommiscience of thy god,’
cried the Roman, joermgly ; “my many triumph!
have chronicled the truth of thy remark in tho ar-
chievcs of the republic. Is this thy wonder ?”
“Interrupt mo not,” answered the Priest, calnt
ly ; “when I finish, speak what words tltou’st mind
—till then, listen. Twenty years since, whet
thou wert u general, thou Itaii’st a friend—ha I
stnrt’st thou now ! Twenty years sinco, I too had a
friend, hut I do not tremble. Thy friend "loved
lltee, served thee, nml shared his all with thee
Through his high influence, when accused before
senate, thou saved thy name, thy honor und thy life,
Although thy junior, thou soughlest him for advice
and using it did’st bind thy brow with laurels of
victory. When surrounded by barbarians, nnd the
pilum taken from ono of thine own band, was hurl
ed at thee, his buckler warded off" the well-direct
cdblow—but,’’and his manner became more im
pressive, his voice more melodious, “ that friend,
alas ! loved an Italian girl, soft, pure, nnd lovely ai
the sky which arches over her native land—See,
thou start’s! again ; did 1 not tell thee I would make
thee tremble ? Yes, he loved the girl, not with tho
vile feeling which templed thee to gaze upon her
charms, and admire her for them alone. His fond,
ness was for hersolf, her rich angelic mind, more
than even her dazzling beauty. Treacherously
thou slrovest to suppinin him in her affections, by
j he splendor of military rank, knowing, us he had
l onfided to thee, that their vows Imd been exchnng-
1 d. Thou fouud'st tlty arts useless and did’st chtfttge
ty love to hatred. The girl became thy friegd’s
/ifo, when thou, falsely accusing him of crime,
id'st use thy power to tear hint from her arms—
eli him inlo bondage—confiscate his properly,and
trike his name from the list of citizens. His wife
urvived her cnisorios, but a year, whilo thou did’st
eturn to the capital loaded with the spoils of the co
rny. Yet with tho red hot bund of guilt, grasping
ty conscience, and even now, proud nnd ostentu
inus. before the world tho god tells tno in thy Clmm
er, thou’rt a cow ard—starting, in alarm, if the
iast noise breaks on the midnight.”
“Who art thou r.hat dost know all this ?” cried
he Roman, in evident alarm.
“I am the Priest,” answered tho other, “of the
deity, who can unnerve even the Roman senator!"
A paleness overspread the face of Armenian, ns
he looked first on tho graven image, nnd then
his oracle ; but, by u violent exatlion, resuming
his wonted carelessness of demeanor, he said :
“Well if it is so, let it rest—though ’lis all false
as thou hast said, yet here is a purse ; I present
itto thy got I, or thee; I suppose it’s the same
thing—I will to-morrow add another. He may be
ull lliou’st represented him, hut 1 believe neither in
•stocks nor in stone—however, I have an object
but first, Priest, can’s! thou keep a secret ?’’
Why ask ? have I not formerly done so for
thee?”
“Tis true! hut this is nf more importance.”
“So shall my lips ho surer guarded.”
"Thy gifts to mo have proved it.”
"I ant beautiful!”
“Yonder jewelled vase attests it."
“Well, then. I will trust thee ; serve nto well, nnd
I will erect a sanctuary to thy deity, Ihe proudest in
Romo.”
“My oars are open, and my heart prepared to
meet lliy words,” said the Priest
“’Tis this,
Augustus, oil* now co isor, is-about to mnkt. J Jti m
self prince of tho sena 3, andTwould thwart him. 1
havo no line of noble t acestors, on whom to base
tny claims ; it is sopt stitiou that tiiust aid me ;
that thou ettn’st comtr ltd. Thy temple is the re
sort of the rich nnd t o poor of the city—of l^e
high nnd tho low ; by hy aid, and that of yonder
stone, my desires may bo accomplished ; }f thou
wilt, and I succeed in t y designs, 1 swear to keep
toy promiso,”
Tho Priest consentol.; when the two, having
consulted mensures f r tbq furtherance of their
scheme, the aspiring s nntor withdrew ; while the
Priest, drawing aside nl veil, entered an inner apart
ment, and ihe shades o: night enveloped the capital |
of tho world.
The multitudinous n Ses of the gay metropolis
hud subsided ; tntslwt ghl had pussed away, and
the moon shone brightl ia tho cloudless firmument
—'twas midnight.
Each pillar reared itK'gti'cefiii capital distinct in
the silvery Hood which illumined the earth, with
nearly the brilliancy ofstihshine, save whereits rays
worn caught nnd reflected back by the pule rnurblo
which rose in tasteful iutercolumniation, around the
princely mansion of Armenius.
Ono object only gave animation to the scene, and
even he appeared scarcely living, for iu tho dark,
ness of a deep shadow, he stood, ns if transfixed,
and amde no motion, savo now and then the hand,
which wus laid upon his breast, would contract, as
if with nervons action.
Another figure is added to the scene—sho glides
on tip.toe, and rapidly flies to meet the youth ; she
throws herself into his arms—his lips, meet hers—
tho sudden transport of delight—the impassioned
embrace, declares them to be lovers.
Stealing noiselessly into the deeper shade of an
adjacent wall, they are concealed from every eye,
save that of Him, who cannot look upon such love,
so pure, so fervid and so disinterested, but with pity
on the sad fate which separated them.
“Agricola, love.” whispered the maid, “ have I
lingered too long from thee ? Thou wilt forgive me;
it was to avoid detection that I tarried.”
The youth seized her tapering fingers in his own,
and pressed them to itis bosom.
"No, love,” he cried, pressing hor hand to his
lips, and bathing them in tho sea of agony, which
was rushing from his eyes. “No, alas ! thou had’st
tot lingered long enough ; would that thou hadst
never come!’’
Say not so, Agricola. Wherefore dost thou
weep thus ?’’ she inquired soothingly.
Because,” he replied, “this is the last time that
wo meet, Maria, and may I not consecrate it by a
tear, as one of loud remembrance ?”
I'lie last, Agricola !” sobbed the tender girl—
(3h, name it not, we never will part again.”
Alas ! what would’st thou ?’’
Live with thee ; die with thee ; Maria would
be thy wife.”
No, no !” exclaimed the youth, as a pang of
grief darted through his soul; “no, Maria, it may
not be!"
Then,” said she reprovingly, “ thou dost not
love me, or thou would’st not cast mo off.”
Love you !” cried he, “ it is that I lovo well,
too—”
"Then, why not listen in my prayer ?”
“Alas I it is I love too deeply.’?
“No,"cried the girl,-‘no. Agricola ; did’st thou
love like me, like me, adore! thou would’st cast
aside those fears.”
Fears !”repeated the youth, dropping his hand,
and flashing a fire from his eye, which illuminated
tho space about them ; “fears, Maria ! thou dost
not know me; to me, fear is a stranger, "l'is not
that which influences me ; but recollect girl—Ag.
ricola is n slave !”
Tho momentary sternness which he had assum.
ed, did not, however, damp the ardor oftho girl!
It seemed to render him still dearer to her. She
placed hor fragile arm around his manly neck, and
in a tone of gentle reproach : "Rebuke me not, my
love,”she said,“thou knowest Agrieola is a slave;
Cynthia, would share his bondage with him. Her
love should make his slavery sweeter far than free,
doni.”
Desist, I pray thee,” responded tho youth, en
circling her waist witldhis arm, with respectful ten-
derness, and softening his tono ; "remember jour
father is tt Roman I”
1 know it well," sho answered, eagerly," yet
still I love tltce.”
I know it Maria ; alas, too well; but were I to
wed thee, it would draw his indignation on us both.
For myself, 1 cure not ; hut for thee—the gods
know, sootier would 1 give lily head to the execu
tioner, than those bright eyes should lower before
tho frown of an angry father. Maria, it must not
be and clasping his hands in agony, ho added,
let me remain a klavc, though I lovo the worthy
daughter of a Roman.”
“Cruel us thou art, I still will love thee,” she
hispered through his ears ; “ none but thee I live
or cure for. My father’s wrath 1 heed not, so that
I possess theo : 1 care—"
Hist,” said her lover, as he carefully leaned to-
ward the spot they had just quitted; “when last
we met, I heard a noise, like limt which just struck
upon mine ear—Maria, away!”
Never,” cried the girl, filled with love’s desper
ation, and clinging more closely to him ; “never,
till thou’st promised. 1 will die with thee, Agrico-
In, but will not lose thee !”
A faint noise resembling n foot-fall, broke on
the silence, as Agricola strove to disengage him
self from the virgin, who twined her arms wildly
about his neck.
“Begone, Maria, I beseech !”
" Till you promise, nevor !” sho articulated,
nearly choked with emotion.
Again, tho noise wus heard—If the wore discov
ered, ruin would befall the idnl of his heart, and he
be degraded by the lash. A moment more; it
would be too late ; he put his lips to her ear—
“ I promise.”
In the next instant, the light form of tho maid
was. lost among the columns, nnd her lover, look-
tig nastily about, saw the shadow, evidently that of
a man,cast on the pavement near him, but so in
stantaneous was the disappearance, that it had van
ished ere he was full aware of the reality. He
kneeled and placed on the stones, but all wns si
lent, save the short beatings of his heurt.
‘Silence,* said the senator, sternly laying his
clenched hand upon the altar; 'the now made laws
have deprived u* ot our innate right to punish our
slaves .vilh death—but I ha»e A slave must die I’
An involuntary shudder passed over the heathen
Priest, but he pulled hts robe more closoly about
him, and the start paased unobserved. Armenius
continued:
‘I have a niece, my brother’ll daughter. Sho
lives with me, my adopted child. The slave has
dared to love her. I could let that pass, but she,
the daughter of a freeborn son of Rome, forgetting
her birth, returns his passion. I heard her swear
it to him at last midnight. Thnt seals his doom,
and the slave sltaJldie.! Were it not that suspi
cion resting on me might blight my brilliant hopes,
this hand had done the deed ; but I am unused to
tricks, I leave it to" thee; thy trade is craftiness, and
thou canst lull suspicion. That’s but my fee,’ he
said, casting a bag of gold upon the altar; ‘my re.
ward shall make thee rich.’
■ ’Tis well,’ muttered the Priest, ‘how callest thou
tho slave ?’
‘Agrieola,’ said the other.
Tho sudden start and half word which* escaped
the Priest, caught the other’s*atleiition..
‘Why starlest lltou?’ hs demanded.
‘I started !’ answered the Priest, recovering him
self, nnd stretching fortii an arm, much withered
and shrunken, ‘because the hand wa9 never dipped
in blood.’
•A wisa Priest,’said tha senator, scornfully,'I
aec thy object; well*be it so,’ and he threw ano
ther purse upon the altar.
‘Thy words must he my lRW.’.saiiAhd Priest in
a low tone—‘but away ! the people) come to wor
ship.’
The senator caat a searching glanco on the intif.
fled face oftho Priest; he drew his robe about him,
and casting a disdainful look on ’he throng which
now commenced kneeling about the image, left the
chapel.
When the worahippers had concluded their de
votions, they retired and soon the Priest was left
alone with one person who still knelt at tho altar.
The Priest havingicarefully fastened tho doors, the
devotee rose, nnd. easting aside tho gray mantle
which disguised him, exhibited the fine form of
Agrieola the slnvo.
•Father,’said he,‘I crave thy blessings. Thou
hast been ever kind to Agrieola; but lie is poor,
and all that he can return, he now presents to theo,
tho love that springs from his heart.’
•’Tis all I ask,’cried the Priest, oastir.g aside
hts mantle and embracing him ; ‘ the love of the
good in the greatest treasure. But, my son, thou
hast failed in confidence to me. and dangers beset
thy path, ranged thiekerthan the pikes-of the Mac
edonian.'
Agrieola blushed, nnd sank his head upon his
breast.
•It is true,’ he replied, ‘that I have not told theo
all—but now—’
‘Mind it not now—I know all;’ the youth glane.
ed incredulously into his face, whon the Priest tak
ing his hand, continued ; ‘yes, all—thou Invest thy
master’s daughter, and she returns thy lovo. Is it
not so ?’
‘Alas, alas ! too rightly hast thou said,’ answered
the young man despondingly.
‘Say not alas !’ cried the Priest, bis- evos bright-
ning with delight, ‘she shall be thy wife !’
‘Mywife?’ repeated Agrieola, retiring a few
paces, regntding the other with astonishment, ‘and
1 a slave !’
‘Fear not! if thou wouid’st be happy, obey me.
At midnight, tty hither with thy bride, and I' wiH
unite lltee.’
But, remember,’ said the youth, tortured with
mnny conflicting emotions ; ‘the populace will slay
thee, if thou dost unite a slave to a freeborn girl
. ‘Leave that to me. Obey my instructions. Now
away ! return M miduingh'..’
At the same hour as on the previous mo/nin"'
Armenius repealed his visit, but the Priest met him-
nt the altar; und us he was about to speak, said in
n holder tone thnu he had hitherto used :
•The deity hus ngaitt spoken of thee !’
‘Hast thou punished the slave ?’ demanded' Arme-
nius, eagerly;
‘First, must L relate tho words of the god f aerve ;
then to tlty question.’
‘Be speedy with thy fooleries,’ said Armenius,
haughtily; ‘1 have weighty business to-day, and a
few moments to spare-’
‘Lust night,’ said the Priest, ‘the god spoke to his
ervuiit, and said, the friend Alticus, whom Ar-
iienius exiled, yet lives, and in disguise has return
ed to Rome, found proof of thy baseness, nnd re.
ceived honors from Augustus. He ha* learned,
too, that before her death, his wife was delivered of
a child—that thou didst seize the infant, and didst
bring him up as thy slave that thou mightest feast
thy hellish hate in seeing the son of thy rival out
with thy bondsmen.’'
‘Hast thou ended !’ asked the auditor.
‘I have,’answered the Priest.
•Then know, thv god or thou speakest false, for
of a surely I know that Atlicus is long since dead.
Now answer me, hast-tltou slain the slave V
•To satisfy thyself.how faithfully 1 have exccu-
ted my commission,’, said the Priest ; ‘raise yonder
veil and behold liis-body.’ '
The senator strode in the direction pointed out;
and, drawing aside the curtain, beheld Agrieola
with Maria in his arms. He recoiled at first, but
itl an instant exclaiming.
•Wretch, thou.hnst deceived me !’ unsheathed a
wcl-glitiered diigger from beneath hie robe, nnd
vas bounding forward, when the Priest caught his
rm :
‘Hold, murderer,’ he cried, ‘nor dare to* shod a
freeman’s blood !*"
•He is not free. Ho is my slave,’ cried thesen-
ator, striving to free himself front tho Priest, who
held him with an iron grasp, while ha exclaimed,
‘ ’lis litlse’—he is my son’—thou casting aside his
robe, lie disoveicd his person decked in full sennto
rial costume, while he added, ‘and I am Atlicus, a
Roman senator;’ then wresting* the dagger from
his hand, he threw him from him with gigantic
strength, crying, ‘thy treason has*reached the ears
of Augustus. Guards, seize the traitor !’
As if by migie, the chapel filled with legionatiea
who, tearing his robes trom the crest-fallen Armo-
nius, conducted him to a nighboring prison ; whilo
the new senator,.restored to all his power and es.
tates with Agrieola and his lovely bride, were es
corted triumphantly to the palace of Augustus.
Arrow.
The immovable features of the pagan idol were
dimly visible in tho breaking day, that stole through
the portico of his temple, while equally inflexible,
the Priest sal at ils feet, his face hid in the ample
folds of his mantle, presenting only the undefined
outlines of a mutt.
As the gray haze of morning yielded to the
strengthening dawn, the senator, with a deep frown
settled on his brow, wulked in and saluted tho Priest
who rose to receive him.
• Why here, anil so early V demanded the latter,
‘I could effect nothing in tho short period since wo
parted yesterday.’
‘ ’Tis not for that I sought theo,’ answered the
visitor.
‘Then why this visit ?’replied the Priest.
‘For vengeance ?’
•Thou shult havo it,’ replied the Priest, gather
ing his robe about him.
'Thou knowest not what 1 mean, foolish Priest.’
•Still thou shall have vengeance;’ and a dry
cough, like a death rntllo, souudod in the throat of
the Priest—it might have been a laugh.
* An Italian remarked—“In every Week of mar.
bio there is a beautiful statue ; tho only difficulty
is ill getting it out.” So in every human body
there is n mind; but education must chisel out its.
intelligent beuutics before it can receive the ad
miration of the world.
Eloquenc*.—Tho following sublime peroration
wus recently delivered in the interior of
“ Your honor sets high upon tho adorable sent of
justice, like the American eagle perched upon the
Asiatic rock of Gibralter, while the eternal stream
of justice, like the cadaverous clods.of tho valley
flow nteniidering at your feet.”
Love is the shadow of the morning, which de
creases as the day advances. Friendship is the-
shadow of tho ovening, which strengthens with tho-
setting sun of life.
Ridicule has ever been the most powerful enemy
of enlhuainin, und prdkably is the only antagonist,
that can be opposed to it with success.
A Indy applied Iu the philanthropist, Riahanl'
Reynolds, of Bristol, on behalf of a little orphan
boy. After be bad given liberally, ska said,
“when hu is old enough, I wilt teach him to come
and thunk his benefactor.” “Stop,” said the good
man, “thou art mistaken, wo dou’l thank any but
Him who gives the clouds and tha rain.”