Newspaper Page Text
iiY W ILLIAM S. JONES.
CHRONICLE & SENTINEL
■- >J r.-t. t-<;-2£J£-js3a
THE HEEKLf
la Polilialird e.ery H ednrsAay
if TWO BOLtiUS PER ANNEH
IN ADVANCE.
TO CLUBS or INDIVIDUALS landing o» Ten Dollar.,
HI X cor, a of the P..j,- r will lx: sent for one year, thru fur
nahing the Paper »* the rat* <>•
MX COPIES FOB TBS DOIAABU,
<r a free i opy to all who may procure at subacriben, and
or ward a* til* money.
CHRONICLE 80 SENTINEL
II WI.Y VNDTKI-WKKKI.Y,
Ar , •, p ibi: i.i'A at thl» office, and mailed to »üb»c:
at the foilowing rates, namely:
Dainr Pana.if eentbymall, |7 p« annum.
Tai-WEWtr Pa ran,— 4
IF.RNS op aTvebtisino.
U WtsKLY.—Berenty-flve cent* per Kjuare (10 linea or
r i) f,,r ’he first insertion, and fifty cent, for each aubee
nent In •rtion.
TO PLANTERS.
rp||K Hl BHdHIBKtt would re*j>ectftdly inform rIMM
' ‘ SMALL GRIST MILLS,
Hu to he atto hed to Om Geara, of different alia,
jiM"4 hi Jifferent patterns At the lowe«t price*.
\ have siveo tin: highest satisfaction, and can
be cwrii mred with any from the North.
~,eu- g‘ y e u. a caU before^M^RUMlß.
Burr Hill glone Manufcctnrer. AugMta, On. J* B j?
* REUBEN KICK'S PATENT CENTRE VENT WA
TER WlihKL.
f'\Ai i lOrt.-Havingl.ceninformedtha* J* r ‘
n:un i Kctn, is vending a Water Wheel ui>o*i
rl, tin r i.M Mducted by means of h.
l*oo i. u Rich’s ♦•Patent Centre Vent, we hereby noUfy
i id rauiion the public, that we will prosecute, in all in
.• . a, lit any evai.ou or infringement upon said patent,
ir'.i . the • .lki'.r and party using, and will be thankful for
toy liiforu-Atlon referring os to parties thus treß^.,^Bßlll^Q
Montgomery, Ate., June 11. IMP. Jetltf
THE MONTGOMERY MANUFACTURING COM
i*A.Ny‘d IRON WORKS.
MOyfOOMERY. ALABAMA.
M\%l FA« TtltK, In superior style, Horizontal and
i prighi M l AM KNGINES, of all *te* ; jttaara
JJOiLHiri ; LOCOMOTIVES ; Cast Iron WATER WHLhi^;
HugarMlLW; Knv aori (Irbt Mill IKONS, of every vane
ty, {including Iloxlc’scontinuous feet for Haw Mills;) En-
Kiric and Hand LAI UES; Iron and Brass CASTINGS, of all
kimiM, Ac., Ac.
All orders filled with despatch. „
M p 22 A CO.
IMPORTANT TO HILL OWRE3BLB AND MAITU
FACTCKKRB.
Unrivalled hnpn>nem*nt in Water Wheel*.
rpm, HI IIh( 111 111/lIH are sole agents for making an \
I vending the lx nt Water Wheel In the world, known as
Vandcwaters Water Wheel. We challenge the World to
produce Its equal. It has but recently been introduced to
the public, anil found to be far In advance of all other
wheels, both In powrr and economy in water, every drop be
ing '.tive, and none wasted. This Wheel is not in the
least iiTcied by back water. As we prefer them being
plac'd below tail water In every Instance, consequently we
get *>very inch of head; they being entirely of cast Iron,
simple of construction, are not liable to get out of order,
■ind are more durable than any wheel now in use. We
have recently nut one in operation for George Schley,
Ksq., at his Homlle cotton factory, to whom we would give
reference. Bee certificate annexed.
All orders for Wheels or Territorial Rights, will meet with
attention by addressing the subscribers.
JAGGER, TREADWELL k PERKY.
Albany, New York.
Or to Ihcir Agent, J. J. Kiubx, Augusta.
[CKHTirrCATB.]
A count a, Ga., March 24,1851.
Jaggor, Treadwell A Perry—Gentlemen:—I have the
gratltJ. atlon of itiforming you that your Yandewater Wheel
w«ih Miicc* ssfully put in operation at my factory last week,
and it worked to perfection. Its simplicity, durability, and
uniformity of speed, are recommendations alone ; but above
All, it* highest encomium is the small quantity of water it
takes a* compared with other wheels. 1 have been using
one of Reuben Rich’s Centre Vent Wheels, of three feet
an I a half diameter, and eleven Inch bucket, the discharge
openings measuring 4W inches, i displaced that and put
n one of yours of nix feet diameter, with discharge open
ngs mcji-iiri ig 270 inches, and your wheel run the same
amount of ro:o blnery that the Rich Wheel had driven, and
here wa* a difference In favor of yours of eight inches in
ho depth of water in the tail race. I feel no hesitation in
ecommending your wheel to all manufacturers and mill
wio i’ , believing It is the greatest wheel of the age. Wish
ng you success In the introducton of so valuable an iin
rovetnent, I main, very respectfully, yonrs, Ac.
GEORGE SCHLEY.
IMPORTANT TO MANUFACTURERS.
rjpill-; *1 IJHCltlfli .8 are prepared to supply all
inTl'iX AND WOOLEN MACHINERY,
of a uiperlor quality, SHAFTING and MILL GEARING,
with Improved Coupling and Pulleys, Self-Oiling Hangers
which require oiling only once in three months); LOOMS,
f a great variety of Patterns, for Fancy and Twilled Goods,
rom One to eighteen Shuttles; also,for Plain Goods,capa
ble of running from 150 to 170 picks per minute.
They a> ■■ maided, from their extensive improvements, to
produce YARNS and GOODS, with comparatively little
abor; and all Manufacturers, before purchasing their Ma
lt inury, will do well to visit Philadelphia and vicinity,
where they can see the Machinery with all the latest im
provements, in full and successful operation; or they can
be refun l to Fuctorir* In almost every State South and
West, by ;» hireling a line to the Subscribers.
ALFRED JENKS A SON,
Feb. 1 sr.2. felft-ly Brfdesburg, near Philadelphia.
N. It. Plans of Factories, with the location of Machinery,
lie slmpl* -t method of driving, and calculation of speed,
urnislied free of charge. wly
S2O REWARD.
1> \\ V\V\Y from the übscriber, on the 17th
Y f July last, my Negro Man JEFFERSON. He
i* ali<»ut 25 or 20 years of age, and about 5 feet, 8 or 'm.
U inch* • high, rather black, and has one of his upper
front tfth broken off. He is a smart, intelligent Negro,
an l writes a tolerable good hand; is quite handy with
tools, and 1 think will write himself a pass, and stop about
some city and goto work, lie will no doubt change his
.wu name and that of his owner. T will pay Twenty Dol
lars for his delivery to me, or to have him lodged in some
Jails i that I can get him. 8. BLACK.
Katonton, Putnam county, Ga. au27-wtf
TEN DOLLARS REWARD.
\.\ \\\ AY from the undersigned, a Negro m*
Iv l ll.w named HAußY,com,..onlycalled lIAR- }£>
RY UUUIIES, 5 feet 7 or i Inches high, black com
plcxioM, docs not usually answer very promptly
when sp.ikt-u to, Is easily made to laugh, which resembles
rather what i* called giggling. He has been gone about 4
months, and is known to have been about the plantation
of u. A. Allen and others, on the river swamp; has also
’> "i An .mi-u, iindou the Savannah
aud Louisville Roads leading thereto. The above rewsrd
will be paid for bis delivery at the residence of the under
signed, or in tin Jail at Augusta, with due notice of Ids up
rr t, i.slmi. A. C. WALKER,
off if Near Richmond Factory Post Office.
AUGUSTA FRENCH BURR MILL STONE MANU
factory.
rvAIIK subscriber, thankful for the kind patronage heretofore
I extended to the late firm of Soiuemkk A Wioand, would
respectfully inform his frit nds and the public, that he contin
u*‘s to evvate orders for his well known Warranted French
liuuu MILL STONES, of every desirable site, at the lowest
price an I shortest notice. He also furnishes
KSOPHS and COLOGNE STONES,
SMUT M \CIIINEB, of various patterns,
BOLTING CLOTHS, of the best brand,
CEMENT, for Mill use.
And every other artiele necessary In a Mill.
Also, for Planters, small GRIST MILLS to attach to Gla
Gear**.
All oialers promptly attended to.
WM. R. BCIIIRMBR,
JalS wtf Surviving partner of Schtrmer A Wlgapd.
SI,OOO REWARD.
OH. UL’IYTKH’B celebrated SPECIFIC, for the care
,»f Gonorrtuea, Strictures, Gleet and Analagous Com
plaints vt the Organ* of Generation.
- •of ail remedies yet discovered for the above com
plaint, this is the most certain.
; »▼“ it mak.M a speedy and permanent cure without re
rttrii lion to diet, drink, exposure, or change of application
to business
j*• **■ it Is perfectly harmless. Gallons of it might be
taken without injurttig the patient.
JW" It is put up in bottles, with full directions accom
panying it, so that peraous can cure tlu mselves without re
sorting to physicians or others for advice.
Ono i. til.-is enough to perform a certain cure. Price sl.
• yr- 1, approved and recommended l»y the Ri'yal
Colb :re of Physicians and Surgeons of London and has
their certificate enclosed.
>yr» it is sold by appointment In Augusta, Ga., by
1 PHILIP A. MOIBE,
Under the new Augusta Hotel, and by W. 11. A J. TURPIN.
Order* from the country promptly attended to. —£*_ I
W. H. & J. TURPIN.
SrCCK.-MIRS TO W. 11. TURPI!*,
/j OFFER TO PHYSICIANS, Planters, Mer- a
c i. Kpd the public at huge, a choice and ORj f
well -sorted at*vk of DRUGS AND MKDI- AX
12 CINE'S OILS, PAINTS, DYESTUFFS, Glass »
Putty, UriuhM of every description, Straw Brooms,
Hnirits Turpentine, Ac., Ac. ~
\V,. tiurch I»e our for cash, and are prepared to sell
on the most advantageous terms. Merchants will find it to
their interest to l.a>V at our prieea. All article, warranted
, 0 he What is represented. Uiteus a call and satisfy your-
, g
PHILIP A. MOISE.
taivKTwt aso naat a* ta n
ttnTilS and MKDICINES, TAINTS, 011. S, fli
TW Kvi STCPFA WINDOW BLABB, BRUSH* YW
I*. Si !« VKHJMKRY. PATENT MKDICINES, 2»
r ' ’ INSTRUMENTS, Ac., Ac.
V p.. NTreef. wulrr Me Autfttsia Ttotd.
~ t a very large Stock of the above articles,
„ , e ” - .sale at very low prices, and on accom
“tW-Coitnuv 'Merchants. Physicians and Planter, are
nvhkl w call andox un. ne, before purchasing elsewhere.
ja!6-w
jj. B- PLUBhB A CO.
„ ABKconstantly receiving P“ r * —fi
-cr2 Medtemea. Chemical*. Choice* Pwft.me'jr, mJ
TV T„i|,.t Articles Ac., at their establishment m
JSi t.. ~ r, r. 5* Hotel and Post Office corner.
-tlchei-ies earefttilv dispensed at all hour*, by c.Mlmgat Mr.
tier e eorner (Ireru and Molntonsh stret. n * s
ri*HK undcrsigtte.l would call the e-fe. .
1 attev.tioii of Merchants and •*’ ~ ,r^
Planters to the extensive slock of _ V—Ca
AORIOIU.TUU.VL implements,
~i..v ke. n in e. nneetion with HARDWARE and
Ci Tl I 'tv TV. ir . f PLOWS, HARROWS. CULTI
v , n»K< Cor-. SIIKI.I.KIIS. Straw CUTTERS, Grain CR A
DLI s Kan MILLS, K.ANNKKS, BOILERS, and all article*
i„ ,» u . \ 'r-.".:’.eultuntl ilr.u, i* not equalled in the state.
Th _ -> r it .Veriest notice the best
ke.'. of HORSE TOWERS. THRESHERS, Smut MA
CHINES or any articles in their line of business. They
re d«,c u-.-t- for the Boston Belting Oemiutny. and have
v ~„t India-Rubber Steam Packing HOSE and Ma
in l.nso. CARMICHAEL A BEAN.
~ oSI-wiy
FAIKBANK S PATENT-
Tjt.VTKOBAI AND COI.XTKR SI'AUBS, WAR*
I 1 ANTED '■eipte-lto every required oiieration of
X .._»*■ Rdißoa-1 Seales, for Trains or single Cars;
„ Scales. Dormant and Piwtable ; Heavy Portable
* ' 1 , v ’Kioittdrtes, Rollinir Mills, Ac. STORK
COUNTER SC ALES. Ae„ Be.,(orsal*
W* J NELSON, Agents. _mhl^
COPARTNERSHIP NOTICE.
rpil!■; undeta cned having THIS DAY formed a ON>art.
I m f «»rih4 name and style of ALLEGED A
W INtiV E D,T«r" e pu.ro* of transacting the OROCBRY
Bl’<l\Es< V.v:.Vd*rf c#£j»7, rcsiieclfully aohett the
patronage if their friend* and U-, h
>t e, i t asl’.e M.-sars. Phintey A kdAyten * Warehouse,
Broad arreet C». T . Wwtmux
T <e indebted to the r.n.ierslgned", either by note or *c
. will ,u..-e aaato pay met without
PARTNERSHIP.
THE IMIKRaItIAKD. who hav* long been con
licet, d With the CARRIAGE BUSINESS of the Ute
H. S II AILV, have this .lav formed a Partnership under
the style and firm of WYMAN A DAKROW’, for continu
ing the business at the same store.
G. N. WYMAS,
Augusta, Oct. Ist, 1552. J. DARROW.
We have on hand, and are receiving, an assortment of
CARRIAGES, RuCKAWAVa, BUGGIES, HARNESS and
TRUNKS.
Orders received for building various style* of vehicle*.
We respe-ctfutiy solicit a share cl patronage.
Oot. Ist, IsM. dMiwdtno* WYMAN A DARROW.
OVERSEERS
VY Intelligent, industrious and temperate OVERSEER,
with good health, of middle age, uoeneumbered with
eh,Viren, experienced in the management of Negroes and
the ueiail* of Planting, will hear of a good tarnation by ap
plication, po-t paid, " Number One.”
Birdjville P. 0. Ga., 2Glh November, 1552. (ls-wßt
IkOLTINO CLOTHS, of warranted quality, furnished
> und put up in bolts to order.
Mill Srone Plaster, prepared for backing Mill Stones, cheap
and of the best quality, for sale by
WM. B. SCHIRMER,
ialßwt' Augusta. Ga
A MLLEJa WANTED
A GOOD and experienced MILLER wanted, te whom
te liberal salary will be given. For particular* apply
to n^7-rvel T. A. or H. BYNE, Waynsshoro’.
Weekly Chronicle & Sentinel.
1 1853. PROSPECTUS 1853.
or THE
SOUTHERN CULTIVATOR
VOLUMH XI, FOR 1853.
Dr. DANIEL LEeT )
AND >■ Editors.
D. BEPfIOTP, )
TERMS—ONE DOLLAEA TEAJRJN ADVANCE.
The Southern Cci-tivatob ia issued every month,
and is exclusively devoted te Agriculture, Horti
culture, Floriculture, Domeaticand Farm Economy,
Tillage and Husbandry, the Breeding and liaising
of Domestic Animals, Poultry and Bee», and the
generr' routine of Southern Planting and Farming.
T .. drat number of the new volume for 1858, will
oe issued on the first of January. It will be print
ed on a sheet 80 by 44 inches, each number form
ing 82 pages, or 384 pages per year, with NEW
TYPE, FINK PAPER, AND BEAUTIFUL IL
LUBTKATIONB. It will afford full and free dis
cussion to all topics of interest to the Agricultural
community, anti will lie in every respect the best
Agricultural Paper in the South I and equal to
any in the Union!
Friends of Southern Agrltnlture! t
Tite Cultivator was the First journal established
in the Cotton Growing States, exclusively devoted
to the interests of the Planter; and as it has ever
bqen an earnest arid consistent advocate of those
interests, we confidently trust that, having fostered
and sustained it thus tar, your cordial and generous
support will be continued and increased.
Planters, Farmers, Gardeners, Fruit Growers,
fvroex Kaisers, Nurserymen, und all connected in
any way with the cultivation of the soil, will find the
Kouthern Cultivator replete with new and valua
ble information; and richly worth ten times tho
rifling sum at which it is aflbmied.
TERMS OF THE CULTIVATOR 1
ONE copy, one year, ::::::: t LOO
SIX copies, :::::::::: 5.00
TWELVE copies, :::::::: 10.00
TWENTY-FIVE copies, :::::: $20.00
FIFTY copies, : : : 87.50
ONE HUNDRED copies, : : : : : : 75.00
ALWAYS IN ADVANCE.
X-TT Gentlemen who obtain subscriptions, will
please forward them as curly u» possible.
jg*rAll bills of specie paying Banks received at
par—and all money sent by nluil will be at our
ristt.
W. S. JONES, Publisher.
Augusta, Ga., Novcmb«r 17, 1852.
THE SOUTHERN ECLECTIC.
PROSPECTUS.
Oft' the flrut day of MARCH, 1858, the undersigned will
iMue the fir.«t number of a Monthly Magazine, under
the title of “THE SOUTHERN ECLECTIC,” to be com
l#«M*ed, mainly y of critical Helet'tionx from the current />-
riof/ical Literature of the United btat**, Or eat Britain ,
France and Germany.
With thiff object in view, measures will be adopted to
secure for our use, the leading Reviews, Magazines and
Journals, published in this country and in Europe. These
will be carefully examined, and such portions of their con
tents, as may be best adapted to afford profitable enter
tainment to our readers, will be transferred to the pages
of the Eclectic.
The Foreign Periodicals will be sent to us by mail, di
rectly from their rexpectivr office* of publication; so
that the articles we shall select from them will not only
he contributions from the most distinguished Authors of
Europe, but, reaching us without the delays incident to
other modes of transmission, will be almost as fe*h as if
written expressly for our work.
Extracts from the French and German publications will
be translated for the Eclectic by accomplished French and
German scholars.
It will be readily admitted, we presume, that the above
class of Literature, when properly winnowed, embodies,
on the greatest variety of subjects, the select productions
of the best writers of the age. From tiie ample resources
thus brought within our reach, we shall attempt to supply
a growing demand, on the part of a considerable portion of
the reading public, for a Periodical in which all subjects of
yeneral and permanent interests shall be embraced, and
in which these subjects shall be discussed in a style and
spirit suited, not only to the higher Jntellectmil ta*te*,
but also to the more Practical and Moral sentiment* of
the people.
In our selections, therefore, from the various depart
ments of learning, those productions will be preferred
w hich most happily combine Practical instruction and
LVdcal precept with the highestlAterary excellence.
In relation to general Politics and Religion , we will en
deavor to luy before our readers such facts and such dis
cussions a» will afford them just and liberal views, without
reference to any particular creeds, parties or sects.
As there is no Eclectic, at this time, in the whole South
< r ,W/V/ </f ami a* it is our object, in part to supply
this deficiency, the advancement of Southern Agriculture,
Southern Literary Works, Southern Institutions, and Sou
thern Interests generally, will be kept in view as a pri
mary consideration.
A Condensed Monthly Review of Current Topics—Lite
rary, Political, Religious and Miscellaneous—will be added,
which we hope will uomplete our Eclectic as an epitome of
general intelligence.
It will be perceived that our work is not intended, exclu
sively,for any particular class of readers, but more pro
perly for all reflecting readers of every class.
As Inconsistent with our main design of general utility ,
all dry abstractions, unfruitful speculations, professional
disquisitions, sickly sentimentalities, us well as all items of
merely transient or strictly local concern, will be excluded
from our columns.
Several persons of distinguished ability will aid us in our
efforts faithfully to carry out the views we have thus pre
sented ; anil which we now respectfully submit to tho con
sideration of the public.
As we desire to issue only so many copies as may be ne
cessary to meet the demand, we hope those who wish to
procure tho work from the beginning will subscribe with
out delay.
Specimen numbers will be sent gratuitously, when or
dered.
Postmasters, or any other responsible persons, who may
be disposed to act as Agents for the Eclectic, will please
let us hear from them. Liberal commission will be allowed.
The usual discount will be made to Booksellers.
Editors throughout the Southern and South-Western
States, who may approve the objects and plan of our work,
are respectfully solicited to aid us in placing it properly be
fore the public. Those who may choose to publish this
Prospectus, (calling attention to its more important fea
tures) and will send us copies of the papers containing it,
will be entitled to an exchange for one year.
The Eclectic will be issued at Augusta, Ga., the first of
every'month, each number to contain eighty large octavo
pages, in double columns, to be stitched, covered, and
printed on good paper and new type.
TERMS.—For one copy, $8; for six copies, sls. All or
ders must be uccompanied by the cash. Arrangements
have already been made which will render the publication
of the work certain.
All communications to be addressed, post paid , to
d 2 JOHN U. FITTEN, Editor, Augusta, Ga.
Kill VATIONAIT]
GREENSBORO’ FEMALE COLLEGE. ~
FACULTY:
Rev. ROBERT LOGAN, A. M., President.
Mr. J. BALDWIN LYMAN, A. M., Professor of Mathe
matics arid Natural WeOMB.
Miss CLARA C. HARRISON, Ist Instructress.
Mr. NATHAN BOW DITCH CLAPP, Instructor in Music.
Miss 11ahhisox comes with the highest testimonials from
Mrs. Willard, with whom she has been associated a» In -
structress in the “Troy Female Seminary.”
fpHK TItUSTKKg have changed the order of the
.L Sessions, requiring the first Session of the scholastic
year, to commence on the third MONDAY in August, and
end on the third Thursday in December; the second Ses
sion to commence on the second Monday in January, and
end on the fourth Thursday in June.
The next Session commencing on the second Monday in
January, 1858, will be regarded as the second Sessiou in
Course.
Terms for the Tuition, including contingent expenses.
First, or Actumn Session.
Primary Department $ 8 00
Academic ** 14 25
College “ 21 25
Music on Piano 21 50
Modern Languages, each 6 50
Drawing and Painting 8 50
SeouHD, or Spriso Sbbsiok.
Primary Department $lO 00
Academic 44 18 75
College 44 28 75
Music on Piano 28 50
Modern Languages, each 8 50
Drawing and Painting 11 50
Price for Board, sl2 per month. Several Young Ladier
can be accommodated in the family of the President.
Further information respecting the regulations of the In
stitution may be obtained by referring to the Catalogue
and Circular, or by letter to the President, or any one of
the Faculty, or tq Rev. F. Bowman, D. D., President of the
Board of Trustee*. dl4-w4
MH6ON ACADEMY, LEXINGTON, GA
r|*HK Exercises of this Academy, now temporarily sus
1. pended,will be resumed aguin on the first MONDAY
in JANUARY next. The Trustees take pleasure in an
nouncing to the people of Oglethorpe county, and to the
public geueratly, that they have been so fortunate as to
secure, for another year, the services of Mr. Thomas U.
Moss, in the Male, and of Miss E. E. Killian, in the Fe
male Department of the Academy. This fact alone, they
consider a guarantee of success, and predict that the
friends of the Academy will have the gratification of seeing
it in a more flourishing condition during next year than at
any past time. All who have attended the examinations and
exhibitions iu this Academy, the present year, will readily
testily that never were Pupils more proficient, or Teachers
more accomplished and deserving. The Trusteeshaving at
their disposal a large tnmue fund, are enabled not only to
command tite first order of talent in the respective de
partments of the Academy, but also to furnish every eon
veuiency that may render instruction a pleasing duty, and
learning a delightful task. They are confident that no
institution holds out greater inducements to those who
wislt to give their children a sound, practical education
without subjecting them to the temptations which so often
lead the young astray, than Meson Academy.
Students are prepared for any Class in College. Board
can be te obtained in families, or at the Hotel, as low or
lower than in any neighboring Village. There are two
Sessions, Spring and Fail, of six and four months duration
respectively. A vacation of two weeks is given at the
close of the former.
TERMS.
Fust Class—Spelling, Reading, Writing, and Mental
Arithmetic, per Quarter, 84 00
Saooxo Class —Arithmetic, Geography, English Gram
mar, Reading and Composition, per
Quarter, 85 00
Thi*D.Cl*ss— Algebra, Geometry, Mathematics, Na
tural Philosophy, Astronomy, Chemis
try, Rhetoric, Evda. Christianity, Men
tal and Moral Sciences, per Quarter,.. 86 00
Focafl Class—Languages, Ancient and Modern, per
Quarter, 86 00
FOr further particulars, address
GEORGE R. GILMER,
nfi-wSm Chairman Hoard Trustees, Lexington, Ga.
WARRENTON MALE AND FEMALE SCHOOLS
I*HK subscriber takes pleasure in informing the public
that the Trustees have secured the services of Miss
Aoqctta B. Corns, of Augusta, a* preceptress of the Fe
male School; and that the Term will commence on the Se
cond Monday in JANUARY. Miss C. comes recommend
ed by gentlemen of known character and capacity to judge,
from this and other States, as fully qualified in every re
spect for her charge. Mr. Gaoaa* L. Boshkk, of Colum
bia county, a Graduate of Columbian College, D. 0.,
who haa been engaged in teaching for several years,
has been employed to take charge of the Male Depart
ment. Mr. B. is well known as a gentleman of acquire
ments and good character, and no doubt is entertained but
that entire satisfaction will be giTen. No better or more
healthful location can be found in any part of the country.
These Schools are kept distinct, and situated in different
parts of the Town. We respectfully invite Parents and
Guardians to assist in making these bchoote respectable in
number, standing and influence. Board may be had in
jwivate families from |S to 810 per month.
ARDEN R. MERBHOX,
• Sec. Board of Trustees.
Warrenton, November S, 1>52. n5-U*ll
WRIGHTSBORO HIGH SCHOOLS.
THE Trustees of these Institutions take pleasure in an
nouncing that they have engaged Mr. C. C. Ricbakds,
A. ML, to take charge of the Male, and Miss M. Augusta
Walks* tiha Femle Department, the ensuing year. Os the
high quaiificatwu-' of Mr. Richards as a Teacher, his seven
years success is Qua Institution, and the present year at
Auburn, Alabama, give ample proof. For energy, disci
plint, aptness to teach, and literary m-qtiirements, he has
sow equals. Miss Walker has taught with groat success in
Alabama three years, and has given ample latfacscn to
Trustee* and Patrons, as the Principal of the School the
present year. The location if healthy, and tl.e inhabitant*
of the Tillage moral. Board can be obtained in good fam
ilie* at 816 per mouth. Those desiring to board with the
Male teacher ran do so at the same prices.
Terms of Tuition in Male Department, for Primary Eng-
IMt Studies $12.50 for Term of 0 months. Higher brandi
es of English and the Classaas, 840 per Term. In the Fe
male 810 per Term, for primary studies, and $lB for the
higher branches usually taught in such School*.
The first Term will commence 2d Modday in January,
1552 EDWARD W. JONES,
WrighUboro*, Oct-16. srtJall one of the Trustees.
GEORGIA MILITANT INSTITUTE.
THE next Term of this Institution will commence on
MONDAY, JANUARY 10,1653. Additional Buildings
having been erWted, there will be accommodation, for 180
Cadet*. A copy of the Regulations will be sent to any
person desiring further information, on application to the
unUereignedL’ A. V. BRUMBY, Superintendent.
Marietta, Oct. 18,1662.
WANTED.
A SITUATION, l* Teacheref the common English
brioche*, by a young Gentleman who can come well
recommended. Would like to commence the flrrt o i Jana
ary next. Address, post paid, X. Y. £., Benelia, Colum
bia county, Ga pjll-Wtf
WEEKLY
CHRONICLE & SiTHL
From the Southern LadheC Book.
LOVE’S MARTYRDOM.
BT Mias L. VIRGINIA SMITH.
[conclude#.]
CHAPTER VII.
- In the cold moist earth we laid her
When the forest cast the leaf.
And we wept that one bo lovely
Should have a life to brief.
Yet not unmeet it was that one,
Like that young friend of ours,
£• gentle and eo beautiful,
Should perish with the flower*."
Nearly six months had passed away, and it was
auiuinn, the late pleasant autumn of the South.—
I had written repeatedly to Serena Austin, but
with the exception of ona letter eent to me, direct
ly after her arrival in Galveston, 1 had received no
reply. One evening on hit return from the city,
George handed me a tiny note bearing her post
mark, and I opened it eagerly, in anticipation of
some pleasant intelligence from my friend. Ima
gine my disappointment,—its character was strange
to me, and it Briefly stuted that my friend, Mrs.
Berena Austin, at present, residing in Galveston,
was extremely ill, and anxious that I should oome
to her immediately, if possible. My noble-hearted
George, sympathizing Bincerely with my anxiety,
prepared nastily, to accompany me, and accord
ingly on the following day meailed for Galveston.
Unfortunately however, we were delayed by en
countering a “north’er,’’ in crossing tho Gulf, and
nearly a fortnight had elapsed, ere wo reached
our point of destination. On our arrival we in
quired immediately for the residence of Mr. Fred
erick Austin, but were informed that the gentle
man had left the city some two months previous.—
‘‘Did his lady accompany him?” inquired my
husband. Our informant knew nothing except
that such a gentleman and lady had lived some
two or throe months at this Hotel, and that they
hud left. I was so confused by this sudden and
unexpected turn of affairs, that I know not what
to do, or what to advise. “I must see if Serena is
in the city,” said George calmly; “the date of
your note, my Lu, is subsequent to the reported
departure of her husband. Remain here, Louise,
until my return, if our friend is in the place I can
fiud her.”
So eager and intense was his search, and his
consequent excitement, that I did not sec him at
Ute dining hour, —and lato in the evening he oatne
in, almost exhausted and very sad.
He had found her, however, and instantly I pre
pared to accompany him to her abede. As we
drove along he informed me that he had been the
whole duy engaged in visiting the different hotels
and public places of resort, for the purpose of tra
cing the footsteps of my friend ana her hmsband.
r.e had at length found the former in one of the
poorest boarding-houses of the place, ill, iu want,
dying, perhaps. Her husband was, —she knew not
where. I wept bitterly, and now my husband did
not chide uty grief; his strong and manly heart
was oppressed also. The carriage stopped in front
of a low habitation, of ncglectad and mean appear
ance, in one of the moat rotired streets. On enter
ing the house into which wo were ushered by an
old decripit negress, I remarked, “We wish to
see Mrs. Austin.” “ Oh!” exclaimed thepoor old
creuture, “is you the lady from Alabamar f Bless
God, you is, honey,—tho poor baby is so longin to
see you, ma’am," and Bhe hobbled forward to
show us tho way to Serena’s chamber. It was a
low, close, dingy room, with one window only,
small and opening to the west, —a faded rag of car
peting but partially covered tits floor, and a sow
urticles of soiled and common furniture luy scat
tered about in great contusion. On a low hospital
bed in one corner lay the once beautiftil Serena
Vernon. Oh! my God, how changed,—how faded
—how fallen ! a wreck, yet lovely even in its ruin,
like the crushed jewel which, though shattered
and debased, still betrays in iu shining dust the
magnificence of the original diamond.
I staggered toward tho couch and fell, almost
fainting, by her side. “ God bless you, my best
i-ouise!” she said, as she smilod joyfully through
tho tears that chased each other rapidly down her
white and wasted cheek. I felt suffocating, and
tearing oil' my hut and veil, pressed her in my arms,
more agitated than the dying girl before me.—
“ Sit down here, Louise,” Bhe said, layinghor hand
on the side of her miserable pallet, “ sit down
close, my love, and let mo look at you a long
time.” I did so, and weptufresh. “Youwillstay
with me, dear Lulu,” she said, inquiringly, as she
gazed earnestly upon my face, with an expression
ol affection and inetfablo joy. “ Certainly, Rena,”
1 replied. “It will not bo for long you no,” she
addod, apologetically. “No, not long, here, I
hope,”said I, “for I am going to carry you home
with mo, Serena." “To Bellevue l” she exclaim
ed joyfully, “to dear Bellevue !” and then with a
gentle sign, she added “Yes, Louise, please carry,me
back with yon, and lay me to sleep beside poor
little Willy.” “Serena, love,” I replied, “you
are not going to , I mean you will soon get
well now, my dear: what has your physician done
for you? “Oh! I navo no physician, except old
nurse Sabra,” she answered quiotly. “ Holy Mo
ther ! no physician! why, ’Rena, are you mad J"
i exclaimed. “ A doctor could do me no pood, for
1 don’t foci sick, Louise; I’m only dying, you
know,” Bho replied. I was confounded. Know
ing, howevor, that this state of affairs would not
do, I busied myself in putting the room into some
thing like ordor, while George went out himself to
seek medical assistance. It was late when he re
turned with a physician.
He was a man in whom we thought confidence
inipht be placed, and after his examination, I in
quired ltis candid opinion. “It is too late, my
(tear madam,” ho replied t« my anxious question ;
“Ute young lady cannot live. Hers has been a
mental malady, if I mistake not, and by it
tite physical system has suffered too great a
prostration to "be again revived I will leave
a soothing draught to bo given her during the
night, ana will call again in the morning. But
slto cannot live more than two days longer.” It
was no more than I had feared. I watched with
Serena all night—she never once dosed her eyes
to sleep, appearing still and quiet, but, as she Buid
horsclt, “so very wide awake. About ono o’clock,
she complained of a sharp pain in her left side,
which in a few moments completely suspended
respiration, and she fainted away. When we had
restored her, Bhe seomed better than before, and
told mo it was so every night about that hour, and
sho believod that cach’paroxyism was more severe
titan tho preceding. I was astonished that she
had not mentioned this before, and wished to
send again lor the physician. “It would be of no
use, Louise, you know it oould be of no use,” she
roplied. “Sabra always took caro of me until
to night, and I grew hotter alter it, as I do now.
Oome close to me Lulu, I want to talk to you a
long time. What is the hour ?” “Half-past two,” I
ropliod, looking at my watch: “had you not better
try to sleep a little, my lovo V “I cannot sleep; I
am so very wide awuko that I do not feci as though
1 should over sloep again,” Bhe answered and a mo
mont afterward inquired abruptly, “Do you ever
hear from Corinne now Louise?” “O yea very often,
und Bho always inquires for you too, dear ’Rena ;
she says sho has frequently written to you, but
you did not reply to her letters.” “She has writ
ten to me, ana I have done her cruel injustice.—
Do you know anything of my cousin, Montaldon?”
“I do not, my‘dear!’’ “Nor I,” she replied,
“1 treatod hint harshly, too—l wronged them
both. I loved my cousin—you knew that Lou
ise. I oanuot say that he ever made an effort
to win my heart, but he was so kind, so tender
that I imagined he loved. He did, too, but I mis
took tho objeot of his affeetion, —It was not L My
spirit is wandering back along the dusty bed of
its vanished streams and sighs to find the jewels at
the bottom but pebbles, when no bright wave
flushes over them with its delusive lustre. But if
I sigh over this now, it is not to blame him, —it
was not his fault that 1 mistook the warm and
tender friendship, which he gave so freely, for a
lovo like that which 1 was so week as to bestow un
sought. I only hoped, and then believed my hope
as tite sea-tossed mariner discovers gem-islands in
the bosom of tho deep, which are but wreaths of
shining mist suspended by the breeze and paintod
by the sunbeam. The Past to me is a wild and
troubled ocean and its murmur comes up to my
soul like a perpetual voice ; it holds far down in its
unfathomable bosom the buried loves of myriads,
and my heart-jewels have gone down to swell its
mighty nud mysterious treasure. Louise I was mad
dt-ned by thatletter ofMontaldon’s—hislast I mean
his proposal seemed to me so humiliating that much
and wildly as I loved him, I felt as though I oould
have torn the heart out of his bosom, and tram
pled it into dust beneath my feet! In such a
spirit I roplied to that letter, and oh! how many
thousand thousand times Bince would I have given
my life that it might have been recalled! Toe
late, alas! and to its scorching, withering, most
unworthy tone my noble cousin made no reply.
Soon after this, dear Willy died, you know, and
I foit alone in the world. 1 have had many sor
rows, and not the least among them is that tortu
ring fear that I killed my poor little brother, God
knows how unconsciously. Too proud *> ac
knowledge even to my own heart that I still loved
Montaldon, and thinking the surest way te pre
vent hit believing so was to wed another, I con
sented to become the wife of Frederick Austin.—
He lovsd me then,—if he does not now, it is my
own fault. You may remember, Louise, the night
previous to my wedding, when w* sat alone to
gether till deep in the midnight, and talked about
the old times at L . I was dying then to open
my heart to you, to say ‘sweet Corinne’ once more,
and weep at the sound of her gentle name, —to
ask you if I was doing wrong, wedding another,
so loving Montaldon still, —to inquire of you ail
that I so much needed to know of the character of
Austin. But pride choked nack the half-formed
resolution, and I forced my neart to be still, by press
ing back upon it that cold weight of its own dread
agony. After you left me, I think I sat all night
bv tiie window, but do not remember anything
certainly until I saw you walking down in the
lawn, and the day was dawning. It seemed that
you had but that moment left my side. I dressed
myself as quickly as I could, and oh! when I heard
the rush of wheels, and knew that he was oome,
and come/#r me. I thought I was dying, and I
felt glad to think so. I even prayed that God
would strike me as I stood, I was so very wicked
Louise. If my cousin Montaldon had been there
at that moment I would have thrown myself at his
feet and besought him to kill me,—to destroy at
once the creature he oould not love, —or I would
have promised to be his wife, —his slave, —any-
thing for Aim, oh! pitying Heaven! anything rath
er than the bride of Austin.” The poor girl
paused a moment, and pressed her hands as forci
bly as her feeble stale would permit upon her heart,
while a slight spasm passed over her, leaving tha
delicate and wasted features, if possible, more
ghastly than before. She resumed, —“God did
not pitv me, Louise, or rather I did not pity my
self. 1 was married, and though I was aware that
I did not love my husband. I swear to you, dear
Louise, that I intended and imagined I oould be to
him all that a wife should be. Alas! I was again
guilty of a fearful wrong,—as if a woman can, in
truth, be the wife of one, yet wear the image of
another in her heart. On! Louise, I was already
a lost, ruined,perjured bride! At first I strug
gled to falflll afl those duties to which my mar
riage vow hid bound me, —but all that to you, who
are a true wife, is *ach a sweet labor of love, was
to me a yoke of burning tree. Frederick was so
kind and tender to me that I would imagine at
times that! was succeeding in my endeavors to
become all that I should be, vet there were mo
ments when J could not control my thoughts and
feelings. 1 have tutted to find myself half-dream
ing of Montaldon, when my hnspand’a footsteps
routed me from a reverie, and then wtustt J had
even teamed to banish the thought and amile
on him, I knew that I was a deceiver, and oh!
Louise, 1 felt so crushed—so degraded! My whole
waking life was ene deep, daily he, and the con
sciousness that it was ao distressed ms until that
life became almost intolerable. Yon know it vat
always a habit with Die when troubled to sleep a
great deal,—there are soma natures over which
sorrow exerts a atupifying, atony influence,—
mine is one of those and I slept much then.—
My husband encouraged me to do so, frequently
saying that I appeared weak and weary, and it
would do me good. We war* boarding then at
the best hotel in the city, for I knew nothing
about houae-keeping, and Frederick aaid he dis-
AUGUSTA, GA., WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 22, 1852.
liked it of all things. I saw but little society, and
in the evening generally retired very early; my
husband usually remained out until after mid
night, but I never biamed, or even asked him
why. One evening, the pain in my side, which
appeared to grow worse daily, attacked me at the
supper table with such violence that I was obliged
to leave it. Apologising with assumed gayety te
my husband on leaving nim, I went up to my cham
ber, and throwing myself on the bed, the pain
subsided in a great degree and I fell into a fevered
slumber. I know not how long I slept,—when I
opened my eyes the night lamp was burning and
my husband stood by my side, his arms folded,
his brow knit, and bis whole face convulsed and
dark with passion. 1 was wide awake in a mo
ment, and hurriedly inquired what had pappened.
Oh! Louise, then came my terrible punishment!
He had came in late, —he bcut down to caress me
as I slept, and I had,—God forgive me that in
sleep I could not command my thoughts,—l had
murmured a name, —that name was not bis own !
He questioned me, and unconsciously I answered,
and, just heaven! answered the truth, —oh! 1
know not all I said Louise. A deep execration of
rage and shame awoke me, —he reproached me,
and 1 could not defend myself,—he branded me
with deception, and I could not refute the bitter
truth, —in his outraged feelings ho cursed me,
Louise, and I was such a stone that I did not even
wisep. But if his wrongs were deep and deadly,
not jess so was his revenge. Bending down, he
hisseJ into my shrinking car a horrible story, from
which l could only comprehend that 1 was deceiv
ed as wel' as a deceiver, —I was the wife of a gam
bler, an outcast, and a homicide! Even then he
was hunted by the law, obliged to flee his native
land, —the veiW name I bore was not his own. I
heard no more, the pain in my heart Beemed tear
ing my bosom to pieces, and the swoon carno to
my relief. He dep.vted that night during my in
sensibility, and since I have heard nothing of him.
He left with old Sabra (to whom I had formerly
shown kindness on account of her infirmities,) a
note containing a sufficient sum of money to carry
me back to Mobile, but 1 wav too proud to write,
or return to you, until I became also too ill to un
dertake the journey; God will bless you, Louise,
you came like an aiigcl. Poor old Sabra has done
all that she could for me, —she begged her master,
a young under-clerk in one of the merchandising
establishments here, to write you for me, —she
brought me here, too, and when all the money was
gone, she sold my best clothes, and wo have lived,
—indeed, I really don’t know, dear Louise, how
we have lived. Is it late Lulu J” “It is early, ra
ther,” I replied, “ about half-an-hour till daybreak
my love.” And still she slept not. Shortly after
ward George came in to know if I would not lie
down, but I felt no inclination to Bleep, and wo
sat down together by the bedside. The cold wind
of the autumnal morning sighed around the un
curtained casement, and the old moon, hanging
over the dark woods to tho west, threw her pale
gleaming over the far horizon. I looked at the in
valid, —her olear, open eyes were fixed earnestly
upon the waning planet, and their blue orbs
■none with a brilliant and steady lustre.
Just as the silver bough touched the first bough
of the shadowy forest tops, slie said in a low, dis
tinct tone, —“Louise! ” I Sjirang to her side, —mv
husband came also, —“Wliat is it dearest ’Rena ?”
I inquired. Sho made no reply, but I felt tho tiny
transparent hand growing cold as clay within my
own. With a beautiful serenity upon her brow,
a smilo upon her pale lips, and her open but gia
ziug cyoß fixed still upon the fading planet,—Sere
na died. I turned to look for tho moon-shadow;
it had disappeared beyond the horizon, and in the
first faint gray of tiie dawning. Like it had passed
away from earth that young and sorely tried spir
it ; its night had merged into the dawniug glow of
Heaven’s bright morning. So pure her life, so
peaceful her departure, it was difficult to tell when
the temporal ended, and the spiritual began. As
I closed the blue eyes of the unconscious sleeper
I could not but think it strungo that man, and more
especially woman, should forget how beautiful is
Death. The world trembles at that presence,
dreading as a “King of terrors” coming to destroy
the kina and loving Angel, who does but rouse
our spirits from a troubled dream into a glorious
awakening. Oh! bright emanation from the
Light Ineffable, —ohila of tho far Infinite, -fear not
thou to dio ’.—dread not tho destiny of clay for the
soul of immortality ! Look not upon the realm
of Death as some lone and dreary shore upon
whioli the waves of a tempestuous life will wreck
thy barque, but as the desired and oternal haven
of the soul. And should life be yet beautiful to
thee, (as to what young spirit is it not ?) and yet
thou bo called to leave its happy shores and go
forth alone upon the unknown sea of the After
ward, let it be with the samo strong faith which
blest tho high heart of the world-finder in tho
days of yore,—with tho same believing trußt that
elevates the soul or the star-seeker as he searches
for now spheres through tho mystio deeps of a far
and wild rafiaitude!
CHAPTER VIII.
“ Th# pearl tint of the early dawn
Flushed into day-spring’s rosy hue,
The meek, moss-folded bud of moru
Flung open to the light and dew;
Twae written in her very air,
That Love had passed and entered there.”
We carried the earthly remains of sweet Serena
Vernon, the wronged and nameless bride, away
from the place of her death-suffering, and “laid
her to sleep by the sido of Willy, at dear Bellevue."
Ono monument, a simple pedestal surmounted
by a broken shaft, and wreathed with a drooping
vino, marks the hallowed spot where slumber side
by side tho gentle and the beautiful. Far away
from all their kindred graves, yet not less peace
ful, is their dreamless slumber, for “they were
lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their
death they are not divided.” I always fancy that
the sunshine, as it creeps over the resting place
softens down like a young heart which has known
just enough of sorrow to bo calm in joy, and that
tiie merry mocking bird, when lie sways upon tho
drooping willow-spray, hushes his blytiie carol,
and warbles a low, mellow monody abovo the
“strangers grave.”
Early in the ensuing spring I left Bellevue on a
visit to the North ; my husband was obliged to
spend the principal part of the summer in New
York and Boston, and I of course, accompanied
him. And as wo contemplated returning home
about the time my friend Corinne would “finish
school,” I was commissioned by M. and Madame
De Lordilliere to bring hor homo with me, the bu
siness arrangements of hor father, being such as
to prevent him at that particular time, from going
after her himself. We intended to sail forCliarles
ton, and from thence to Baltimore, as I wished to
vißit sweet Corinne, at L , before journeying
to the far North. After a fuvorable and pleasant
voyage, we arrived in Baltimore.
I was aware that this was Montaldon’s place of
residence, and immediately communicated to
George my desire to see him. As his name oven
there was well known my husband had no diffi
culty in finding him, and he called upon me soon
after learning of my arrival. I was almost star
tled upon his entrance by the magnificent charac
ter of liis manly beauty. Ho was somewhat chang
ed, —his finely developed person was, perhaps,
more slender than before, and could not but re
mark the excessive pallor and almost transparent
whiteness ofhis cheek and brow. Yet, his tormer
exquisite trace of manner was more insinuating,—
his, at times, almost intolerably brilliant eyes were
more soul-lit, —and in his slightest action or ad
dress, there was an earnestness, a fascination, and
a command, which enchanted, while it subdued me.
George’s admiration of this new friend was bound
less, and he cordially invited him to accompany
us to L Montaldon, without a moment’s he
sitation, accepted the invitation,—though, indeed,
his presence there was necessary, because of his
connection with the management of Mr. Morton’s
affaire, which were now ‘a be finally settled by
my husband and himself.
It was late in the evening when we entered tho
pretty village of L , and being much fatigued
with the journey, I remained at the hotel while
my husband weut down to the old Seminary to
bring Corinne. Sho soon came, —and as I clasped
her in my arms, and half smothered her with kiss
es, acknowledged to myself that I had never before
looked upon such perfected loveliness. Not from
any direct, or even implied confession in her late let
lettere, and yet I had already inferred that a bright
change had passed upon “ the spirit of her dream.”
1 knew it now, —it slept in the deep darkness of
her oriental eye, it shone in every smile, it rang
in every intonation of her dove-like voice. Some
old writer has said, “ Happiness is the best cos
metic,” and truly love is a great beautifier. It
must, then, necessarily be true that a woman nev
er appears so beautiful as when she loves, and
loves happily. As was the statue of Pygmalion,
fresh from the master-chisel, and as it was when
tho crimson life-tide flushed along its marble arte
ries, is woman before and after the great change
passes upon her being. Bright, beautiful Corin
ne I —she seemed conscious that the first dawning
of an immortal life was hers, and the heart, tho
soul illumined her till she became like a delicate
and transparent vase, with a glory-light within.
In her dark eye there was so soft, so wild a rap
ture,—on her usually tintless cheek a bloom so va
rying and etheriai,—and in hie lofty presence an
air so proud and yet so timid. So exquisitely was
this passion of the woman blended with the gen
tle modesty of the girl, and the innocent pnrity of
the child, that no one oould look upon her beam
ing countenance, and translating thence tiie one
emotion of her soul, doubt the doctrine of a Great
Triune! She loved Montaldon, —and Montaldon
was come; oh! young and loving heart, ask thy
self what heaven thou then desirest, and the rapt
spirit will reply, “ It is already Paradise!”
We remaine'd some weeks in L ;it was al
most impossible for me to tear myself away from
my fascinating friend. She was allowed to visit
me nearly every day, and frequently to spend the
whole evening with us, my husband attending tier
home. Montaldon was ever near her, if possible,
yet we forbore to make any comment upon their
feelings, lest this delightful intercourse snould be
brought to a terminauon more promt than pleas
ant, by a fiat of the school-law. We had long ere
this advised Corinne of all the particulars con
eeming her friends, Willy and Serena Vernon,
and now when we talked of them it was with .veil
ed Toices and tearful eyes. Serena’s had been a
dark and painful illustration of woman’s common
destiny,—to live, —to love, —to die. There was
such a sanctity in the sufferings of one over whom
the world’s bitter blast had swept so rudely, that
even to us who knew and loved her well, there
was something of a profanation in drawing aside
ever so reverentially, the veil which had fallen
over her with life’s final my stery.
Shortly after my arrival, Corinne had confided
tome all of interest that had taken place in her
life during my absence. As the gradual deepen
ing of the morning's blnsh, had been the dawn of
love in that young unwritten heart, so softly, so
dreamily did its slambaring feelings kindle’ and
throb into the bloom of being. Here was a strong,
eiivated nature, and with all the resolution of
deathless trust she had flung her youth, her hope,
her beauty, and her genius, upon the shrine, —
abe acknowledged to me, and her slight graceful
form seemed to grow loftier as she made the sweet
confession, that she “ did most deeplv love Mon
taldon, and she was proud to love nim!” One
evening as she lay nestled to my bosom, weeping
over the sad fate of “Willy ana my ’Rena,” she
drew a letter from her bosom, and placing it in
my hand, said, “ I want you to read this, Louise,
—it is one of Montaldon’a, —I first heard of my
’Rena’s death through this, and , but read it
Lulu, mine, and then tell me if I do wrong
to idolize its aathor thus.” She sank down softly
upon the carpet, by my side, and laid her head
half hidden in its cloud of curls upon my lap. I
opened the missive; there was neither date nor
address,—l read:
“My soul is dark, to night, Corinne ? The sha
dow of which we have so often spoken, deepens
areund my spirit till it seems oppressed with mid
night gK :m, and’mid the darkness, shines one
never Belling star—’tis thine own aoul, Corinne—
but, like thee now, it is ao nu away! Oh! sweet
radiance to this life of shadows, why an toon still
to me only the distant burning star ? Not forever
will it be, for there is a life which hath no shade,
and thou wil] be its light ineffable, —end there I
shall not need, as now, to say * I love thee,’ for
thou wilt know how Infinite, la that adoration.—
Startle not, Corinne,—if I have never said to thee
in words 4 1 love,’ my soul has whispered it eaoh
hoar #f aba? aoe, and in thy presence my lip
breathed not a tone, that did not tell it thee. I
dared not give it voice in words, while friendship
veiled thy vision, and thou thought I loved an
other. True, I loved, bat not as thy young heart
believed, —my word of honor to a dying guardian
was pledged for the protection of one whose pure
affection I had unconacionily won, and I would
have redeemed it with my more than life,—by tha
sacrificing of my sweet hope of thee ! I acknowl
edged to her that I had dared to cherish such a
hope,—it was the truth, and I could say no less.
True it is that I anticipated her rejection of so poor
an offering, as I could bestow, yet I could not
foresee the harshness of her reply. She married,
and yet I made no use of tiie freedom which she
gave so scornfully, and ratified by her nuptial vow
bestowed upon another, —I dared not breatho mv
hope to thee, for I had resolved to live onlv as her
protector, should such service ever be required.
But she is dead, she has passed away from all
earthly loves; she claims no more the protection
of a mortal arm ; she asks no longer the poor af
fection of a child of clay. To my heart she seemed
a simple wayfarer, and it is only now, when she
has passed away into her native heaven that I re
alized that we have entertainedan angel unawares.
She loved,—she dreamed she was beloved, like the
beautiful sunbeam piercing the bosom of the
stream which its reflection alone makes bright,
she sought for the rich jewel at the bottom, and
I gave, alas! that it was all I had to give,—a peb
ble, a paltry stone ? I cannot bnt feel that she
died or the ills of a wonnded spirit, and though no
shade of remorse is resting on my heart, it is ‘more
than melancholy sad.” Ah ! Corinne no solitude
is so lonely, as that which the wind sighs through,
and no bosom is so desolate as that whichis haunt
ed by a moaning memory! Como to me in dreams
Corinne; let the music of thine unsullied soul,
exercise this darkly wailing spirit. I love true,
and thereare hearts which like the aloe, bloom but
once ere they die, —such is mine. As the genius
of tho sculptor fashions from tho purest Adamant
a farm ofangel loveliness,—as his execution leaves
upon ittlie impressofthe divinity enshrined within
his Boul, so !t is with this heart of mine. Adaman
tine it may be, but the impression once made, can
never be effaced—essentially different from those
traced witli ease upon the waxen hearts of many.
The heart which bears such impress may bo bro
ken ; the image, though shattered, cannot be de
stroyed; it lives in the fragments, and when in
Heaven these are re-united it shall glow again
brighter, purer, and lovelier than before. This
love for thee comes to me like a strange, sweet
blending of tiie material and the spiritual, the
earth and heaven of oar being—it springe from
Time, and yet I see it like a chain of flame ex
tending through afar Eternity! Iu thy presence,
oh! sweet soul of the Beautiful, there is a spell
to light the gloom of this world-fevered spirit, and
now it speeds to thee as somo swift-shooting star,
—bid it not return alone. Love me, Corinne, and
love me ever, for in taking aw ay from me thine af
fection, thou dost steal the very key of Heaven,
and I stand without.the gate upon this lonely earth
waste without an aim, a hope, ora desire, —lost,
lost evomiore. Love me, —savo me, —and oh !
God, Corinne, if not here, say, at least, ‘ln Heaven
I am thine r
Montaldon.”
Under cover of a friend this letter had been for
warded to Corinne, —it was briefly answered, and
one or two others passed, but it was not well to
hazard a continuous communication, and oven had
it been possible, the young girl was too honorable
and candid to desire it. The time would soon
como when she would be free to act for herself;
she was willing to await its advent, and so she in
timated to her lover. His strong Belf-command
and habits of self-denial compelled his naturally
impetuous spirit to submit to her decision. Yet
now ho was come, —they had met once more, and
I fear mo that young love taught them how to smile
away the scruples of a colder prudence.
CHAPTER IX.
“As o’er her drooping form he softly bent,
The pressure ofhis lip was on her brow,
While to her cheek the warm blush came and went,
Varying each moment with her rich thought's flow.
For closely round that young and happy pair,
Passion had woven softest, sweetest ties, —
While, like two spirits fresh from Heaven, there,
There they sat beneath the azure evening skies.”
The summer moon rose broad and full over the
far eastern hills, and the twilight grew mellow
andgoldenin her radiance. On the high balcony
of tho Hotel, shaded from the street by its
slender pillars and close lattices, sat Norman and
Corrinne. I was sitting at the open window of my
own apartment ata little distance, yet within sight
and licuring, and I did not move fromrny position,
for I was well aware that Corinne, would not ob
ject, if it had been possible that I could have read
every passing feeling of her heart. Hers was one
of those strong pure minds, which, conscious of
its own integrity and truth, fears no examination,
and shrinks from no scrutiny. Tome at least she
knew no concealment, and! have often heard her
say “I very frequently do wrong, for that I am sorry,
but the saints are witness that I never in my life,
did anything of which I was aehamed." And I
can readily believe that she never did; the moun
tain snow-drift is not more pure than that unsul
lied soul. The moonlight streamed softly over t)i£
upturned faces of the young lovers, anil the ex
pression they threw Dack was as beautifully ra
diant. As might have been anticipated, their
converse was of love, and yet when I now remem
ber it, and know that it was a type of all their
communion, I am surprised to note that there was
expressed in it so little of the passions which be
long to fragile clay. I could not but notice, even,
then, how much more Montaldon seemed to love
Corinne with reference to the hereafter, than the
present; and it came over me like the strange fore
shadowing of a prophecy.
“Dost tliou lovo me!” asked the young enthu
siast, and his soft clear tone seemed to fall away
from tho arches oftlie sky, as though some shin
ing angel of the cloud' would woo an earthly
bride. Corinne made no reply, except to lay her
delicate little hand upon his heart, as though she
would have said, “ask this?”—and bowed her
ringleted brow in its own loved pillow, his broad
and manly bosom. The lover smiled, and drew
iter closely to his proudly throbbing heart, —
“Could’st tliou believe Corinne, that I could see
thee, yet love another?” he inquired earnestly.—
“I did so believe,” she answered, and oh ! Mon
taldon, my’Rena was worthy of affection, —even of
thine. That she was purer and holier than the one
thou hast preferred, is now made manifest, for
God has taken her earlier to be a blossom in His
Paradise.” “Serena is an angel now,” replied the
young man, reverentially, “and yet when upon the
eartlijshe did not speak to my soul. She was to me a
radiant prism, but thou art the glorious rainbow;
hersoul was the pure stream in which wore mir
rored the stars ot that world to which sho lias as
cended—thine, my Corinne, is the deep blue,
boundless heaven itself, witli all its singing worlds
its heights of lioiinoss, and its depths of mys
tery I”
It is most beautiful to trace the influence of one
great and true spirit upon another, —it adds to the
dignity of both. “ Itis easy,” says amodern wri
ter, “ when in the world to live after the world’s
opinion, it is easy when in solitude to live after
our own, but the truly great soul is that whioh in
the crowd preserves the independence of solitude.”
Such a soul was Montaldon’s, and yet even in that
solitude of superiority; he thirsted for tho Btreams
and bowers of Roseland. He who valued the
opinion of tho world as a passing day-dream, felt
oppressed with anxiety lest ho were not worthy
the timid heart which throbbed so softly against his
own, —he who accustomed himself to look upon
cartli only as a stepping stone to heaven, bowod
his lofty spirit in fear of its own deficiencies be
fore this gentle daughter of its frailest clay!—
“ Ah! would I were worthier thee, my beautiful,”
ho murmured, “what Bliall I do to merit this
sweet love of thine, Corinne ? what great work
perform? what lofty destiny achieve?” And Co
rinne, witli her woman’s ambition for another, and
a dearer self, replied, “Thon art even now all the
world to me. Yet oh! Montaldon, if my heart
blest thee it would say, let thy life be, worship ;
and in tho fulfillment of such glorious destiny,
may’st thou never forget the strong and beautiful
sentiment of a strong and beautiful heart, ‘Labor
est orareP Let thy fife, beloved one, boa worship
of the Good, the Beautiful, and tho True, —not a
mere dream of adoration, Norman, but tho strong
waking idolatry of action and endurance /” “ Life,
and my own soul have already taught me that, Co
rinne j but can it be that the God of the Good and
Beautiful, whom wo adore, designed that we should
render him no song of priase) but such as are
wrung forth by life’s endurances? My soul ele
vates itself to Him in the pealing anthem, but it
would also sing in the chorus of joy; lam ambi
tious, sweet spirit, but 1 would also be loved and
loving. The rock is dark without the sunbeam.”
Corinne pressed her little hand upon the arm that
encircled her, and looking up in his face with an
expression, not of joy alone, But of rapt eostacy,
replied, “ And hast thou forgotten that to the tru
ly great soul is given a blending of tenderness and
power, which can twine in one bright coronal,
the laurel and the myrtle-bough? Has sweet na
ture never taught thee how the ivy clings around
the oak, and dost thou not know that the loving
sunbeam which slumbers on the mountain’s brow,
is far more fair and pure than that which wantons
over the beauties of the valley ? Hast thou look
ed upon the mighty cataract, as it thunders down
some roiky steep, strong, deep, and irrisistable,
and noted not the iris-tinted spray-wreath, sport
ing so caressingly upon its bosom, and stealing a
glory from the beams of heaven to deck the object
of its adoration? Oh! my Norman, be thou the
towering oak, the mountain summit, or tho tor
rent in its pride, and love will caress thee like the
vine, bless thee like the sunshine, be all thine
own, —a very part of thee, as the waving rainbow
to the waterfall! In the union of Love and Ambi
tion, there is life, —ail else is mere existence!”—
The young lover smiled proudly, —it was his own
soul speaking from the lips of "a dearer self, the
high and holy emanating from the beantifal.
His brow of pnde was bowed to meet the upturn
ed countenance of the rapt enthusiast, as he said
gently, “ You are a poetess, my Corinne, or rather
you, yourself, are poetry, for that, like Christiani
ty, is something to make ns better and wiser, by
revealing to us those portraitures of beauty and
truth which God has imprinted upon the human
soul. I fear you will become an enthusiast, Bweet
child, —you have both genius and ambition,” and
he passed his band fondly over the young girl’s
clond of curls. “Isl am ambitious, it is for thee
alone,” she replied, meekly. “ Nay, I did not
mean it as a chiding, my beautiful,” returned the
lover, quickly and earnestly; “ Ambition is, when
rightly directed, one of the noblest passions of the
soni, and because of its purer direction, it is usu
ally a holier principle with woman than with man.
Thy .ambition, sweet Corinne, but renders thee more
beautiful and dear to me, and when I, a man, seek
thy love, which purifies my aspiration’s dream, I
would wish also to elevate thy woman’s affections,
by visions high and holy os the never-varying
stars. I would not have thee, oh! bright spirit!
the rose that sleeps in balmy and luxurious forget
fulness, for down some shady valley, with a dew
drop on its bosom, and the song-bird caroling to
its dreamy love-strain, if I might behold thee the
snow-wreath upon some mountain summit, round
which the lightning holds high reveltr,—whose
frown is the shadow of the atorm-God’s wing,—
whose blush is the rich reflection of the day-king’s
smile, —and whose only confession of earthly
Assimilation is the rock on which it rests.”—
The young girl had raised her head gradually
as her lover spoke,—her large eyes were now turn
ed full upon his with an e ger, asking gaze. He
bent, and pressing his lip lightly, and tor a single
moment, upon that upturned brow resumed, —
“You wonder, best, and loveliest, and you are
now saying to yourown tool, surely this is not the
true destinv of woman, her mission is to soothe,
to love, to cherish and to bless,—true sweet child
and which best performs such mission, the rose
which for an hour is the fragrant cradle of the
dew gem, or the high-hearted snow-drift, giving
awav from herswelling bosom to the sun, the great
cloud which is to revive and fertilize all the vallev
below T’ “But the enow wreath gives away her
own being, and then she perishes”’ sighed Corin
ne 1" “True, mine own love, and yet she lives
again, perhaps, on some loftier summit, brighter,
fairer, and lovelier than before. Dost thou not un
derstand, Corinne T’ “Yes.” she replied, “you
mean, Norman, that we should be willing to ‘spend
and be spent in the service of right,—that such
enter into a glorious rest, and their works do fol
low them." “You are right my sweet love,” re
plied Montaldon tenderiy, “and it is to such an end
as this that I would wish you to bboome a mode lof
woman's best and holiest ambition. If ourepirits
* of the earth, earthy,’ looked no farther thanpife’s
narrow bound,—seeing a ‘path of thorns,’—
“Crown* when the k>*lu they cover, have grown gray.
Fame, when the heart it would rejoice i* clay,"
well might they exclaim, ‘ail is vanity.’ But the
‘ end on earth’’is not the ‘ tie plot ultra • there is
‘something more beyond.’ I would have you
ambitious, my soul’s bride, possibly not for earth,
assuredly so for Heaven. Are there not there
grades of moral worth, nay, of intellectual attain
ment, and shall its lowest seat be offered thee t are
there not among its glorious denizens ‘ angels and
high-arched angels” and ‘ twice ten mousand
gods,’ and shall 7be counted the ‘ least among ten
thousand ?’ ” Corinne rose from his half-embrace,
and wreathing her white arms aronnd his neck as
if to bind him to herself forever, exclaimed in a
voice rich and dewy with emotion, “ Oh! Montal
don, let me die with you,—when we die let it be
together!” The proud young lover pressed back
the long ringlets from her brow, and gazing down
into hereyea withan intensity of tenderness, in
quired earnestly, “ Could’st thou die with me, Co
rinne ?” “ Oh! so willingly!” “ God bless thee,
mine own,” returned Montaldon, fervently ; “bnt
I would ask thee another and a harder question:
could’st thou live for me, my beautiful ?” Corin
ne laughed, her own low, musical, murmuring
laugh, as she replied, “ Ah! surely that were an
easy and a pleasant taskand very joyful was the
spirit of tenderness that looked out of her radiant
eyes. “We shall see hereafter, angel-soulod Co
mma,” said the lover with a gentle sigh, and ri
sing they left the balcony. In a few minutes 1
heard the tones of the piano in the parlor beneath,
and then Corinne’s voice swept upward, revelling
amid the wild cadences of some old Andalusian
melody. I could tell from the rich tones of that
voice that the little heart of the song-bird wus op
pressed with its own sweet happiness; that the
winning words of the lover had gone wafting down
upon it like a snow of blossoms from an over-laden
orange-bough, till the bird-like voice whioh stole
out from beneath the fragrant burden, was rich
and dewy with its weight of untold tenderness.
We spent three delightful weeks at L .
Tho presence of my husband was necessary to the
arrangement of the property left by Willy and Se
rena Vernon, which was to be made over to a dis
tant relation, a stranger to both, and Montaldon,
who had as old Mr. Morton’s lawyer, superintended
their affairs, remained, ostensibly for the same
purpose. In three weeks however, it was all ar
ranged, and “sweet old Woodbourne,” as Corinne
was wont to call it, passed into the hands of stran
gers. We left L—— on the same morning;—
George and myself for the far North, Montaldon,
returning to his city home, and the duties and tri
umphs of his professional career. We were to re
turn for Corinne at the close of the summer; in
the meantime she wrote mo very frequently, and
next to tho charm of her society. I enjoyed those
charming letters. Whether drooping, or dan
cing, bathed in,a dewy reverie, and writing as if
in a meiancholy dream, or sparkling with wild and
frolic h umor she always surprised and delighted me.
They were poems, those letters, in all but tho
rhyming cadence, and Corinne, although sho did
not seem to know it, was, as Montaldon had pre
dicted, an enthusiast. It could scarcely have been
otherwise; the world was now so glorious to hor,
so full of the Beautiftil which was her worship,
and, as poor little Willy Vernon so frequently ex
pressed it, she was “ living eo much new." And
from this overflowing cxisteneo she drew the life
which was poured into ail her beautiful creations.
CHAPTER X.
“Oh! why ahould the hearts of the purest be shaken
When calmly reposing ’neath love’s Bunny beam f
If they slumber se sweetly, why should they awaken,
To muse on the past, and to weep o’er a dream.”
It was when the azure skies were veiled beneath
the mellow, golden haze of Autumn, that we again
returned to L . Amid tiie whirl of fashionable
excitement at Newport and Saratoga, I had re
membered its quaint old Hotel and quiet streets
with many a longing sigh, and George exulted
greatly over my brightning eyes, and blooming
cheek, when he made known to me that he was
ready to “turn our faces homeward.” Wc went to
L direct from Philadelphia, my husband at
the latter place, dispatching a note to Norman
Montaldon, requesting him to join us at his earli
est convenience. He did so, a few days after our
arrival, and for a week, he and Corinne wore as
happy as before. She was, however, much en
gaged with her studies, and about a fortnight pre
vious to her “finishing" school, he loft ns. It was
arranged on his departure, that we should all spend
a few weeks in Baltimore, previous to sailing
for the South, and he left us with that understand
ing. Only two days, however previous to our de
parture from L——, my husband received ad
vices from his agent in Mobile, and forwarded
from New York, stating that it was necessary, he
should visit St. Louis also, before returning. As
it was in connection with his business, and ad
mitted of no unavoidable delay, we considered it
bettor to change the plan of our route, and pro
ceed homeward, byway of Pittsburgh, St. Louis,
and New Orleans. Though visibly disappointed,
on account, sho said, of losing the soa-voyage, but
more, I suspected, from not being able again to
meet Montaldon, Corinne made no oppoeition to
the plan. I tried every possible excuse to take
Baltimore, in our way, but time was pressing, and
we could no longer delay. If Corinne had made
the request, or even hinted that snoh was her
wish, George would not have hesitated a moment
to gratify her at the exponse of his own engage
ments and convenience, but she did not even hint
in words of her desire. On the morning previous
to our departure, she dispatched a brier letter to
Montaldon, bidding him adieu, and explaining
why she would not be able to see him. She might
have hoped that if he receivod the missive in time,
he would overtake us in some of the western cities,
yet she made no such request of him, —her confi
dence in hjs affection, his honor, and his energet
ic action, was so unbounded that she felt it
to be wholly unnecessary, if not humiliating,
for her ta make, and for him to receive. “If lie
should come,” she thought to herself, “it will be
right,—if not he lias a reason for absenoe, and, —
that perhaps, will be right also.” Pure, simple,
and trusting Nature! yet how much readier wert
thou thus to justify his coming, than his remain
ing!
We set out upon our homeward journey, pass
ing through Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, and Louis
ville, —we even rcachod St. Louis, and no tidings
of Montaldon. It was the evening of tiie fourth
day of our sojourn in the last mentioned city, and
we were to leave that night, or rather the next
morning, for the steamer, being detained, oould
not leave until four o’clock.
We returned from a fashionable public “aeeem
hlee" at a late hour, —the night was stormy and
the rain falling in torrents, when we drove up to
our hotel. George sprang out of tho vehicle, (like
a true traveller, umbrella in hand,) saying, “ Come
now, Corinne,” when a tall figure enveloped in a
cloak, who had addressed a few words to him the
moment he touched the sidewalk, hurriedly threw
his mantle over tho young girl as she descended
the steps, raised her lightly in his arms and bore
iter into the ontranco-hall. She laughed merrily
under hor muffler, behoving hor very gallant es
cort to be my husband, (for in the storm and dark
ness she had not noticed the exchange,) but when
under tho hall lamp it was removed, she gave one
long, burning glance iuto tho face of the tall youth
by ner side, and sighing softly, “ Norman, is it
you ?”—sank down upon the floor at his feet.—
“It is only Montaldon, little wife,” laughed my
husband, as we entered, and I uttered an exclama
tion of astonishment at beholding a young strang
er carrying Mile. De Lordilliere slowly up the wind
ng stairway to tho ladies’ drawing-room. The
first wild whirl of that ecstatic joy, had caused her
heart to throb thickly, and her brain to reel for a
moment, but she had not fainted, and when we
entered the apartment immediately after them,
she was sitting on tho sofa, and her lover bending
over her.
Before, or since, I liavo never seen a tableau so
graceful, so touching, so beautiful
us that which, at that moment, presented itself.—
Corinne, no longer a sohool-girl was in full dress,
—the ruddy fire-light and mellow radiance ol' the
chandelier flashed ovor her superbly rounded fig
ure in its robe of snowy satin and costly lace, and
glowed upon the rich pearl-ornaments which gra
ced her fairer neck and arms, and nestled amid
the heavy, floating ringlets of her hair. As usual,
simply and most elegantly attired, his mantle
thrown carelessly back from ono shoulder, and
his travelling cap in his hand, Norman was leaning
by her sid*. He held close prisoner the tiny white
gloved hand which rested on the high pillows of the
sofa, —there was a wild worship in his deep glsnce,
an adoration in his touch,—idolatry rapturous,
entrancing and divine in the eloquence of those
bewildering and perilous eyes!
An hour later on that stormy midnight, and the
loverß sat there alone. Upon her angel face there
was the same radiant andtranscendantlightof joy
which illuminated it when first she recognized
her lover—the smile that cornea but once or twice
in a life-time to earth’s children, was wreathing
her rosebud lips, but her eyes were downcast, and
the long curving lashes threw their shadow till it
almost met the peach bloom on her velvet cheek.
The young lover appeared feverish, and agitated
and under the influence of some Btrong excite
ment. His face was very pale except a brilliant
crimson stain which glowed upon the centre of
of one transparent cheek; he frequently with an
impatient vesture, pressed back the magnificent
fall of hair from hia brow, as though it oppressed
him, and when he took the maiden’s ungloved
hand within his own, she started, for it felt like a
scorching flame. She looked up in his face sud
denly and earnestly,—“You are not well, Montal
don, ’ she murmered. He made no reply, but press
ed her little fingers, white and cool as the snow
flake, npon his burning cheek. His strange mys
terious eyes glowed with an intense and unnatu
ral brilliancy, and her whole soul seemed to thrill
beneath tliei r penetrating and electric flame, ne sat
down by the young girl and drawing her towards
him, said abruptly, “you leave the city to-night—at
what hour ?” “At four in the morning,” she replied.
He looked at his watch, —“Only three hours more,”
he mm mured, almost inaudibly, and there was a
convulsive contraction of the muscles ofhis face,
and a slight shudder passed over his slender frame.
He said, aloud, “I can see you no longer than to
night, Corinne; I have followed you far, but it is
beyond my power to accompany you farther ; we
must part to night, and perhaps, oh! God, be
merciful,” he exclaimed as theneart-spasm, strong
er than before, shook his frame like a young as
pen tree. As the maiden gazed upon him with a
wiered and wondering tenderness it psased away
and folding her to ins bosom, he asked with a
startling earnestness, “Do you love me, sweet Co
rinne ?” and the maiden replied as she had done
some months before. “It Is well,” said he, with a
deep sigh, “for 14m about to put that affection to
a powerful trial. Do you know whom you love
sweet child ?” “ Yes,” she answered, softly, “I love
you.” “And what am I ? do you know that ?”
“You are ail that I desire.” “And is it ao ? did’st
thou never doubt me, oh! my beautiful,” exclaim
ed the young man with a gush of passionate ten
derness. “Did I ever express any such a feeling f”
she asked quietly, in reply. “Never, beloved Co
rinne,—and you trust me now, fully,—freely—in
finitely?” “I do not know how to doubt you, Nor
man.” So low, so sweet, so full of gentle tears
was her tons, that the young man seemed to feel it
in a soft reproach—he lifted her up into a stand
ing posture, and knelt before her. “Forgive me,
beautiful spirit” he murmered without raising his
eyes. “Even the sweet Mother of Mercy cannot
forgive where there is nought to be forgiven,” re
plied the maiden. “Alas 1 that there should be so
great a cause for pardon,” said the youth still
bowed before her, —“there is a cloud npon my life
Corinne, and it may never pass away,—dost thon
love me now, unsullied soal ?” “As ever,” “The
cloud is dark and deep, it may even overshadow
thy pure existence.” “W ith thee Montaldon, Co
rinne can dwell under it” “And thy father, thy
mother, Corinne.” “Will love me more, and thee
no less.” “In absenoe, thou may’st hear ill-ti
dings ofthy lover, —wilt thou believer’ “Notun
til I have seen.” “Would’st thou see—would’st
thou know Corinne, what is this shadow of my
life ?” inquired the youth as he turned away his
face, and again the shivering spasm shook his slen
der form.
The young girl laid her little hand on his avert
ed cheek and turned his faoe to here, then passing
her jeweled fingers over his brow, and threading
the luxuriant hair as though she would have sooth
ed away from that bright head some fearful pain
which oppressed it, she asked, oh! so tenderly, so
caressingly. “ Could not Corinna dispel that sba
ow,beloved?” “God alone has that power.”—
“ Corinne could brighten it at least F’ “Cori ne
is an angel, yet that dark cloud would only sujiy
her stainless plumes.” “CouJd it even brighten
thy gioom, Montaldon, to share it with mo?”
“ Alas, it could not!” “ Then tell me not, be
loved one; forget it like a dream.” There wu s
slight pause st length he said in a low tone,
“ One thing I cannot forget, Corinne, we part to
night—-it may be for years—it may be forevar.”
The young girl folded her hands aoftly over her
swelling bosom, and looking up to Heaven, as some
beantifui saint, in her ecstasy of prayer, exclaim
ed, “ Oh, bright unbeliever! and know’at.thou not
that on this earth there is no such thing as a for
ever t Time itaalf will dio to ua ora long, and, in
the beautifal/orwttr ts Oed, then is no such thing
as parting!” Montaldon gazed upon hor with that
entranced and impassioned adoration which tho
love of earth might kneel to offer a descended so
raph. “ I thank thee, oh, my,God!” ho exclaimod
with fervor, “ I bless thee, for this hour. Alia!
pure spirit, that I should havo wronged thee by
one shade of doubt! But so it is—this blinding
passion—this idolatrous adoration—(for the sweet
name of love seems but a cold and lifeless offering
to be laid upon thy shrine) this is a very madness
which appals me, and for the first time in my life
I realize what is fear; fear ! and for what! to lose
thee, my soul’s bride, and not in this transi
tory ana melancholy life, but iu the glorious im
mortality of the fair ijeyond!” And thou, os if
speaking of that fear had renewed its power, he
looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, and ex
claimed with a passionate enegy, “ Say, Corimio;
say that whatever may happen you will alwnys
love me!” “I will say so, Norman.” “Promise
me, niy beautiftil ’’ “I da promise.” “ Nay,
Corinne, be not angry,” be pleaded softly, taking
both her hands and pressing them to liis lips,
“ will you swear to me?” “Before God and tiie
the Holy Virgin, I wiil even swear it,” replied tiie
maiden unhesitatingly. Montaldon was intensely
agitated, he buried ins face a moment in his burn
uig hands, and murmured almost inaudibly, “Oh
Godithatrl should so lovo this child of clay!”
then suddenly raising his head, as he still knelt
at her feet, his arm half encircled her graccftil
waist, he gazed up into hor lovely and soul-lit
countenance, and oh ! what a world, nay, what,
very heaven of earnest tenderness and snbdni*
influence beamed forth from the star-lit darkness
of those mysterious eyes! “Corinne,” said he,
and his voice grew languid with a dewey and pen
etrating tenderness, ‘‘my Coronne, wo must be
wedded!” The maiden smilod, and tho roso-bud
on her cheek paled and deepened rapidly as flits
the light and shadow. “ Trno,” site whispered,
“ und sometime when ” “Sometime?” inter
posed the lover, “ to-night, my beautiful!” Slio
was troubled; she looked upon liis burning check
and eye with a pang of agony. “ Are you mad, •
Montaldon?” sho nskod slowly and seriously—
“ No, my beloved one, I speak only a rational
truth, wc must be wedded, and to-night: ournnp
tial vow and our sad farewell must both bo said
within this hour.” “Do not, in mercy, urgo this
insane project, Norman, I cannot.” “At last you
doubt me Corinne !” and there was a sliado of
bitterness in his tono. “Never!” alio replied
proudly, “ I know no soar, but my father, —my
mother, think of them.” “They will lovo you
more and me no less,” he answered, repeating her
own words. “But best and doarest, this is mad
ness,—the place,—tho hour, oh! Montaldon think
of theso things.” “Ithink of nothing, soar nothing
but this horror of losing you,—ono word, my Cori
ne,” said ho, tendorly, but dcoidedly, “will you, or
wiil you not?” “Icannot, Norman." “Thon
farewell, Corinne, oh! my soul’s swott angel, that
I should say farewell forever, —for in thy ‘ beauti
ful for of God,’ wo shall not moot as now 1” Ho
turned to go. Life and death seemed curdling
into that dread moment, and it lmd not passed
when Corinne, her form moro lofty, and her air
more proud, and her largo oyes dilating, passed
before him, and placing her hand in his, said dis
tinctly,—“ It is thine, Montaldon I” The words
were scarcely uttered ere sho was folded wildly to
his heart. “My own, noble-liearted love, I livo
once more,” he exclaimed. “ Within this hour
wo shall be united by a tio which death shall not
sever, which eternity alone can ratify. Wait for
mo here, but one half hour, and a priest,”
“You forgot Norman, that you are a Protestant,”
said Corinne, interrupting him, “ and that such a
marriage as tliis will do but void.” “Would you
be wedded in the church, my love, or hero ?” in
quired tho young man, ns though ho had not
heard her. “ I would prefer tho church, but at
this hour,” “That matters not,” ho replied,
“in the church it shall be. In ono half hour I
will return for you, with a priest of your own per
suasion, it is your heart that 1 would bind, belov
ed Corinne, mine needs no other chain than that
which now it is so proud to wear,” and touching
lightly the veined marble of her orbed brow, he
was gone.
CHAPTER XI.
" And there were partings, such as press the life
From out young hearts.”
Corinne was left alone, sho know not for how
long. She had knelt down by the sofa, and pray
ed fervently. Recollecting herself at length, she
murmured, “ I will go for Louise,” and rising
from her kneeling position, sho advanced toward
the door. It appeared to open of itself, as her
hand touched the lock, —and Montaldon stood be
fore her. He had just returned, and with him eamc
a venerable old mun, whom ho presented as Father
Etienne. Montaldon evidently supposed that Co
rinne had been aware of his approach, and advan
ced to the door to meet him, for as he tenderly
folded her silken mantle ovor her white, gleaming
shoulders, ho whispered, “ Too kind angel, did!
try your patienoe too severely ?—believe me, I ad
mitted of no unavoidable delay,—let us go now, —
and so saying, lie half led, half bore hor down Btairs,
and lifted her into a carriage which was in waiting.
The streets, as they passed along were gloomy and
deserted, for dissipation had sunk to her feverish
repose, and labor had not yet aroused him from the
deep sleep of the weary. The storm had ceased,
but neavy clouds hung like a funeral pull over tho
sky, and not a star was to be seen. The young girl
within saw nor heeded the dreary gloom which
hung over hor bridal-hour, —sho sat close foldod in
the mantle of hor lover, and their hearts, those
warm, trusting hearts, beat in unison. Opposite
the lovers sat the holy father, marvelling in his
heart, worthy soul, at tho strango sceno in whioli
lie was oalled to boar so important a part. Montal
don, impetuous in resolve, and prompt in action,
had arranged evoryting with him, and now no ono
spoke—whon the carriage stopped they silently lift
ed from it the young trembler, and boro her into
tiie church. They avoided entering through the
vestibule, but the old monk, opening the small
arched door of the vestry-room, the trio passed
through it into tho Cathedral. Tho magnificent al
tar, with its profusion of ornament and decoration,
was lighted up as if witli a smile of wolcomo,
while the body of the church, with its high vaulted
roof, its immense columns, and long, ochoingaislcs,
slept in deepest gloom. They stood before the
nuptial altar in that holy place, at that solemn hour,
silent and subdued, yet strong in the purity of
their beautiful love, and stainless faith, so lovely
were they, too, yet with so deep and strange a lovo
liness! The maiden, whiter than the marble upon
which she rested, pure as tho holy shrine before
which she knelt, with the light falling softly from
the tall waxen tapers, ovor hor rich dress and cloud
like tresses, —tho lovor, elevated Ibsin tiie things
of earth, by the wild and passionate enthusiam
which possessed his soul, —liis dark costumoand
sable mantle so finely suited to display liis graceful
form, so well contrasting with his transparent com
plexion, his burning cheok, and deep flushing oyes.
Tho priest busied iiimsolf for a few moments in
preparations,—and the young bride, almost over
come by her contending feelings, knelt upon tho
marble steps of the altar, to pour forth again her
heart-prayer to “sweet Mary Mother.” Montaldon
raised ner, and the ceremony, beautiful and touch
ing in its holy solemnity, proceeded. Corinne
made the responses with a low, unfaltering accent,
—and in the deep, full tones of hor lover, thore
breathed a blending of melancholy prido and ado
ring tenderness, which went to the soul. Tliogood
old priest paused twice in tho performance of his
office, his aged hand shook, his voice trembled,
and when they knelt together to rcceivo liis bene
diction, the large drops rolled silently down his
checks, as he strove to bless them, despite his
I ushing tears. The holy ritual was ended, and
ilontaidon pressed his pale and drooping bride to
his heart in silence. At that moment tho Cathe
dral clock struck three, said by many to be a mys
tical and fatal number. Tiie young bridegroom
shivered as the heavy chimo revorberuted round
the loft arches of tho building—in that mournful
peal he seemed to hear tho gates of Paradise shut
upon him with a sullen clang, and the lonely echo
passed into his shuddering soul. Again, ho sud
denly folded his arms around tiie drooping form
beside him, as though with that caress he would
shield her from some bitter blast,—then looking
down into her dark, humid eyes, murmured, oh!
so mournful, — bo despairingly,—
“Howoftl wish that I were dead,
And thou beside me calmly sleeping.”
“ God bless thee, my soul’s bride 1” and then with
one long, breathless pressure upon her velvet lips,
growing icy cold beneath his burning kiss, and an
embrace almost tierce in its intensity, he placed
her in the armß of the holy man, saying, “ Take
her away, now, good father, as I before directed
thee 1” The bride uttered no word, spoke no fare
well, —she was borne away from the nuptial altar
senseless, —lifeless. The bridegroom stood gazing
after them, with suspended breath and dilating
eye, until they passed the low arched door-way,—
then there was a low moan of ugony, a heavy full,
and all was silent as the sepulchre. The fainting
girl was conveyed back to the hotel by the good
old father, and by his efforts restored again to con
sciousness, alas! that it should have been a resto
ration to despairing sorrow 1 When, a few minutes
before the hour of leaving the city, I entered the
chamber of my friend, I found her ready for the
journey. She was very pale, and I thoughtlessly
remarked it. “01 it is only thishlaok travelling
dress.'my dear!” she replied, hurriedly. Her
mantle lay upon the bed, which had not been press
ed, and as I took it up to throw it round her shoult
ders, in the hurry of departure, I glanced at her
inquiringly. A deep crimson flush passed over
her pale cheek and brow for an instant, but she
said nothing; 1 took her arm, and we descended
to the hall where my husband awaited us. As we
drove down to the wharf, George inquired for Mon
taldon. “He has returned home,” she answered,
quietly; “ his engagements were such that he ceuld
be absent no longer.” It was yet dark, but as the
lights of the carriage lamps hashed over her, I
thought that she weeping.
During the journey, Corinne, though more sub
dued than usual, was both sweet and cheerful. 1
I forebore to question her concerning what I
thought the very abrupt departure of her lover,
knowing that she trusted me, and, if she deemed
it proper, would give me her confidence, without
my seeking it. I then knew nothing of the man-,
ner in which she had passed that eventful night,
and was much astonished when, about two months
subsequent to our arrival at home, I received a let
ter from the good father Ktienne, inquiring, with
an affectionate interest, concerning the beautiful
stranger,—Mentaldon’s maiden bride. From him
I learned the story of their strange and melancho
ly bridal. I had, ere this, however, been called to
sympathize with my friend in a new and bitter tri
al. The cholera had done its work in our native
city, and when we arrived, instead of the joyous
reception so long and so ardently anticipated, Co
rinne was oonducted to an almost desolated home.
Her idolized father, and both her sisters, had fal
len victims to the breath of pestilence. The moth
er alone remained, but so changed, so bowed with
grief, so different altogether from the parent to
whom, three years previous, she had bid adieu,
that the daughter could scarcely recognize her.
A year passed on. Corinne, devoted to her mo
ther, who seemed to live but in her presence, min
gled but little in the society she was so well calcu
lated to adorn, I was grieved that one whom I
thought should become the leading-star of our cir
cle, should seem to avoid, rather than court, its at
tentiong. “You know, Lulu, that rna chere mere”
was always the commencement of her reply to
my remonstrances on this subject. Her mother,
her music, and her books, appeared to be her only
pleasure, and her only care. I never, during all
that time, heard her mention the name of Montal
don, —ahe, however, had realized the prophetic
praises of her lover-husband, and become, as he
had sa’.d, a creating and cherishing spirit of the
Good, the Beautiful, and the Pure. Many were
the drooping hearts which she bad sustained, ma
ny the erring natures which she had reclaimed,
and many were they who knew and loved her as
some fair spirit of mercy and consolation, to whom
her form and features were but strangers.
Turn we to another scene. It was the feint gray
of the dawning, and the first feeble rays of the sun
light were stealing up the east, when the good old
father Etienne returned to celebrate mass in the
Cathedral. On entering, he was somewhat sur
prised to find the small outer door of the vestry
unfastened, and that, leading from thence into the
church, ajar. “ Poor young map,” be muttered to
himself, “he was too muoh distressed to think of
those things: how sadly the world tries her chil
dren 1” and ne moved slowly on towards the altar.
The tall tapers burned dimly in the gray dawning,
(for he had forgotten to extinguish them before
leaving with Corinne,) and flnngtheirpaie, waver
ing light over the chancel. The oldman passed
suddenly, and started back a few paces, for pros
trate upon the steps of the altar, still and apparent
ly lifeless, lay the young bridegroom of the night
preoeding. His profuse, waving hair wue tossed I
VOL. LXVI.--NEW SERIES VOL.XVI.-NO. 51.
over tho white brow and frozon .features, and a
bright crimson oirole had formed around his livid
lips,—it was tho blood welling up from his heart, for
a fe w ruddy drops lay upon tho pure marble upon
which his head had fallen. Tho old monk raised
the lifeless youth in his arms, and, with that proud
young head upon the faded breast of age, strove in
vain to effect a restoration. It was a touching pic
ture thus to see youth aud prido, and lofty beauty,
so helplessly dependent, evou for life, upon tho ex
ertions of feebleness and ago. The father brought
somo water from the font and began to lavo the
white temples, aud to wipe away the crimson stains
from the locked aud rigid lips. But tho blossod
eloinont which seals tho soul of childhood into
heavenly life, failed to eall back the vital spirit of
this frail existence to the still pulses of the uncon
scious stronger. Somo poor penitents coming thus
oarly into tho confessional, roused tho old man
from his vain efforts, and, witli their assistance,
Montaldon, was carried to tlio residence of tho
priest, which stood at a short distanco in the rear
of the Cathedral. The breeze of morning, froah
and vivifying, performed for tho poor youth what
tho kind core or tho old man had failed to effect,
and ere they reacood tho door of tho little parson
age, Montaldon had awakened. With returning
life, however, the crimson tide oamo gushing from
his lips and nostrils, —for an hour oven after the
arrival of a physician, life poured away, in that still,
steady stream, and when, at length, the hemor
rhage wus chocked, the young man lay exhausted
and holpleAs as a child. A fortnight passed away
ere he was able to leave his chamber, and more
than a month had elapsed before his arrival in his
natlvo oity. Then commenced that struggle of the
material and tlio spiritual, which must speedily
terminate in the destruction oftlie formor,—the con
flict of a strong montal nature with tho weakness
ot its house of clay. Tlio shadow on Montaldon’s
soul grew darker than before, and thore soemod
hidden in its gloom, a sorrow that preat upon his
spirit, nud sapped tho very foundations of oxis
tqree. None know of that doop infernal struggle,
tit thore wore many wiio looked upon tho young
Jrator as liis eye lit up with an unnatural brilliunoy,
and liis voico deepened in debate liko tho gather
ing thunders of uu organ-swoll, and then turned
aside from tlio admiration ho bud won, to pity tlio
beautiful and prematura decay which spoko so fa
tally in tiie burning oheek, and slondor, willowy
form. It is said that the intellect novor can be tru
ly great or truly strong, savo iu a pupilago to tho
heart, and tlio secret oi liis rapid and brilliant ca
reer, perhaps, lay in tlio fact that lie drew his ricli
aud fervid eloquonce from tho hidden flro-fouu
taina of uu undying but most unfortunate passion.
Life witli him was like tlio boucon-flamo on some
far mountain summit, —viewed from tlio valley, bo
low, it saemed to stream up, still brilliant and
majestic, a steady and magnificent column of flro,
yet ho, when lio looked into liis own soul, suw with
scorn wliat he felt with agony,—that ho was tost
and agitated by ovory breozo which swept liis elo
vatod station. With tlio gaiotios and plonauros
which win, and often ruin, tho young of his sex,
and advautagos, ho had nothing to do; tho men
tion of their lnscinatious was to him a very weari
ness. If compellod at any time, by tho common
courtesies of life, to enter its gay society, his lioart
gave back no ocho to its enjoymonts, but looking
afar to past pleasures, whose history was a sigh, lie
was fain to turn from all tho present brought, “ to
all it could not bring.” Ho know, and fearful was
that knowledge, that on tho earth lio should moot
no moro tlio angel of liis soul, that to their swcot
re-union there was but ono path, “ and that lay
through tho scpulolire.” Ho know that tlioy had
parted, for thislifo, at least, —and that bright morn
ing, when he awoke from his death-like swoon,
when tho sunshine luughod, and tho Autumn
breeze Bwept by with its singing melody, he felt
that the sunbeam of thoir future had shrunk away
into its death-cloud, and that the -musio of their
young lives should bo heard on earth no more.—
liis only real pleasure was iu retracing those vi
sions of a beautiful I’ast, ore all his liopos wore
turnod to mourning memories, for in doing tliis,
his soul unconsciously passed the intervening
phase of tlio dark I‘rcsont, to bathe its plumago in
a radianco whore tho flush of tho stars grow dim,
aud palo bolore tho kindling glories of tlio Ineffa
ble ! Ho loved Corinno, and ho had made her his
own; not for Time, but for Eternity.
CHAPTER XII.
“ Peace to him,
Who wrestled nobly with tho weariness
And trials of our being, smiling on
And wearing a culm brow, while on his heart
Anguish was resting like a hand of fire,
Until at lust that agony of thought
Grew insupportable.
Oh! if the ear
Os the freed spirit heedeth aught on earth
It must be Joyful to the parted one
To know that one remembered him in love!’’
Afewmonths moro than tho year had passed sinco
our return to tho South, and it was the depth of the
Northern winter. A heavy fall of snow shrouded tho
bosom of the earth in its chilly mantle; tho dark and
leafless trees hung liko masses of dull oloud upon
the hill-tops, ana the groat city sont up her columns
of black smoke through the keen, still atmosphere.
In a soft and luxriously furnished apartment in
ono of her modern publio places, several young
members of tho I. O. O. F. were assembled to watch
around tho dead. It was past midnight, und no
sound broke upon tho deep stillness of the cham
ber, save now and then a sparkling, rustling
blazo from tho flro which glowed brightly iu
the Bhing grate, or tho clear silver tinkling of tho
sleigh-bells, ns Bomo gay party of returning revel
lers dashed along the broad thoroughfare. Tho
coffin, draped with its pall of sable volvot, ooeupied
the centre of tho apartment, and a numbor ot tall,
waxen tapors, in their gorgoous cundolabrus of
chased silver, burned on either side. A young
man, who had but recently entered the chamber,
rose from his scat neur tho firo-place, and, advanc
ing to tho coffin, laid back the pall and gently turn
ed down the snowy linen whioh covered tho pulo
faoo of the unconscious sloopcr. “Poor Moutul
don 1” ho ejaculated softly, “ thino was a noblo
and generous heart;” and as he looked down upon
the still bountiful countenance, ono pearly dew
drop fell glittering upon tiie white and wasted
cheok of the dead. It could not break that deep
and dreamicsß slumber, and tho ruddy, glancing
fire-light, and tho tall, brilliant tapers brought no
light, no glow, to that fixed and frozon countenance.
No shroud, no winding-shoot, no “ghastly cere
ments of tno gravo” wrappod liis slender form,
but attired with tho samo gracoful and elegant sim
plicity with which he always appeared in fife, bo he
was laid to sleep in death. His magnificent and
luxurious hair, which even doatli could not dim,
lay in soft, bright waves over tho “ white wondor”
of his brow, and beneath the clear, dark arches of
that brow, the broad lids and swoeping lashes rest
ed gently on thoso eyes from which the soul of life
had fled forever. A smile of placid sweetness
seemed about to tremble into bloom upon his lips,
and the noble, though wasted lcuturos, gleamed up
from the white, velvet pillow, moro proud, more
scrcno and more seraphio than oven in life. “When
did lio die, Allison, said tho young man in a
whisper, to another who was seated at tho head of
the coffin. “ Last ovening, just as tho city clock
struck three,” replied the friend. Tho formorfold
ed down tlio pall rovircntially as ho ugain inqui
red, “ You wore with him, Alfred; did lio ask for
no one—send for no friend?” “ I havo watched him
dying daily for tho last fortnight,” returned the
youth, with a low sigh, “ but ho inquired for no
one excepting tlio brothers of our Ordor. I havo
soon liowovor, witli him, an old monk of tho order
of Saint Dominique, who always left when any of
the ‘Brothers’ entered, as hastily as if they breath
ed tho postilenco. Norman gave me, a few days
ago, a small packet addressed to a lady in Mobile,
which immediately after his decease, I was to for
ward. 1 havo fulfilled that request; ho made no
other.” “We havo lost a noble friend and broth
er,” sighed tho questioner. “ True,” said the other,
“ but liis wob a tfrm and lofty spirit, and tho last
great change found him prepared to meet it. Ho
did not, like too many of us, defy Death, for a
doubt of his spirit’s monarchy over it never, for a
moment, shaded the serenity of his soul, Though
awed perhaps,—for who can look out upon tiie un
known realm of a hereafter, and feel, within, the
stiring of no solemn thought ?-yet he met it with the
high courage of a man and an immortal. Onco,
only, I thought liis mind was wandering; it was
when ho was dying: his eye grew unoartTiiy in its
lustre, (you must remember how beautiful and
powerful his eyes were at all times) and his smile
was such as I liavo often dreamed tho angels wear;
but liis words wore strango and wandoring. Just
as liis eyes were closing, lio pressed my hand and
said very softly, “Oh, Corinne! life had but ono
honied cup, thy lovo; death has but one bitter
drop, to leave thee thus! Tho bright forever is
opening; come, sweet Corinne!” I am certain
that he never loved a lady, for lie was always so
coldly courteous to the whole s«x; but I know
nothing of his family, and lie might havo had a
sister, you know.”
Corinne ! thine should have been tho 0001, soft
hand to press upon that throbbing brow —thine the
gentle voice to whisper in that hour of the “peaeo
thatearth can neither give nor take away 1” And
oh, pure bride of tho departed! if thou had’st
stood besido him then, could not thy loving glan -
ces have pierced hia falling vision and looked
back tho life which was fast fading ? Or when he
breathed his latest sigh npon that sweet death
pillow, thy true and tender bosom, would not the
strong affection of thine own heart have been able
to rend from it tlio veil of clay and bid tiioo stand,
with thino earthly, in tlio presenoe of thy heaven
ly love ? Would not then have been oonsumma- I
ted tho beautiful union of your pure spirits and
that which we call dissolution have been to you a
glorious “bridal of the earth and sky?”
They buried him in tho beautiful eemotery of
Greenmount. His, also, was the stranger’s grave,
more lonely even than that of the unfortunate
children of the North, who rest beneath the arch
es ofa Southern sky. They sleep side by side amid
the “graves of tho household,” but ho alone in
that crowded city of the dead, where tho tumul
tuous waves of life are ever surging around tho
sepulchre.
Thus had passed away three of earth’s young
and lovely, bright sacrifices on the alter of that
Passion which is truly said to form cither the
bliss or bane of our existence. The soul of the boy
was a delicate wind-harp, but all the mighty mu
sic [of a Universe crowded through its s’lcnder
wires, and the fairy instrument lay shattered with
the very excess ofits own quivering melody. To
the unsullied heart of his gentle sister, affection
was but another name for life,—like the beautiful
“silver tree," of the Chemist Love with its onco
supporting wire, and all her bright feelings, hopes
and impulses, hqd crystaliscd in loveliest purity
around it. Woe for that young spirit when its
only support was taken away, and the shining star
crystals crumbled back to their original dust! And
then came tiie strong, high heart, the lefty soul,
the daring intellect of man! The cloud which lay
upon his life, and which be bad struggled to gild
with tiie beams'of Ambition and of Dove, had orept
down darkly upon bis shuddering soul, and his
night oarne on, ere it was yet mid-day. He offer
ed upon Ruin’s burning shrine the tribute of a
crushed and broken heart,—a worn aud wasted
life. Peace to thy dreamless slumber, tliou tem
pest-tost and weary!—till thy “soul’s bride” join
thee, rest thou in the “beautifulforever of Godi ”
Some one has said, “Itis an easy martyrdom to
die for those we love so passionately—it is 4 har
der and a nobler martyrdom to livefor others."
Yetsucli a martyrdom is thine, high-hearted and
beautiful Corinne ! Dark and wild, almost maniao
in its flerocnesH, was tiie spirit of Despair which
glared npon me from those large, deep eyes, when
half-starting from her couch, she wrung my hand,
and uttered the jearful words, “Montaldcetisdead!
—dead Louise? Whatijdead? he to die! ao young,
so proud so bcauiful! —oh! hoiylMother of God I ho
could not die/” and, she struck her burning fore
head with her clenched hands, and with their white
and writhing fingers buried hor face deep in the
wild midnight of her disheveled hair. Hers was
an agony for which words, however soothing, can
'field no balmy blessing ; like the cold links as an
ron fetter pressed into the galling wound, they
can but increase and aggrivate ita torture. Oh !
the mocking coldness ot this world 1 * comfort, and
the deep bitterness of listening to its reason, as if
it were not sufficient agony to know all it can say,
yet find no consolation in it—nay, rather a living
gnawing, yet nnconsuming fire! I know tho
mcKikery ofsaoh consolation, and felt that to offer
to itagrief like hers, was but to add insult to sor
row. Hers, was a strange, sad destiny, and she
felt it to be such ; like the lovely snd most unfor
tunate Lucy Ashton, Corinne, was now a “wedded
bride, sud widowed maid.” The past, the happy
past, when aho had loved, she knew not wherefore
and worshipped, she knew not what, —wben life
was) a bliss, and earth a Heaven,—was to her a
past forever. Souls like yours, who know nothing
of grief except its name, and canno. even realize the
existence of one bo deep as hern, would pity her
and say,—
f “Cametheir none
To roll away the stone from that sepu'chral heart,
And sit in it—an angel.”
And as tho beautiful mourner, gazing fur awaj in
to tho mysteries of that better world on higj.
Bought, amid its glorious denizens, the ketpti <f
hsrheart, her spirit would reply—
“ The blue-glnlled stars and the sott balmy air,
Diyide thy bright spirit and mine.
Yet 1 look in my heart and the ancuu. is tours
That links it forever to thine.”
Timo is the great consoler, and in his rapid flight
lie has stolen away tho fierceness of despair and
left upon tho heart of Corinue only the shadow of n
soft and tender melancholy. When first sho real
ized Montaldon’s death, her soul Bhuddorod at tlio
dreary distance, the days of separation, porluipa
tho long and woary night of yearn which lay be
tween their union on the earth and re-union in
heaven: in tho despairing gloom of her spirit sho
lost sight of the strong indissoluble chain with
winch they wore “darkly bound;” it was hidden,
lor a time, in tho cloud which had gathered so
heavily over their young lives. Yet when sho re
membered how often ho hud said, “Could’st thou
live for mo!” sho felt the drawing of that golden
ohain, stretohiug away from tho transient througli
the farotornal. And sho threw over its bright linaa
garlands of Memory’s purest aud palost flowers,
blossoms which onoo wore glowing in their blooin
as hoy flourished along their united pathway, and
which oven yet weave their wan and doliouto leaves
over tho ruined shrine and brokon altar-stono of
eurly adorution, as though they fain would hido its
dust and ashes with the semblance of u hope uml
brighten tho darknoss of its desolation with tho
aliadow of a smile 1 She has watched her sun-liko
hopes sink one by one behind tho dim horizon of
tho tomb, but through the dim twilight which fol
lowed, thoro came a voice which fell upon her
heart like his who has gone to join tho anthoms
of the Seraphim. Sho remonibors how he taught
her young soul to grow strong in the oxoroise of
good, and worship of tho truo, and sho goos forlh
upon lior mission of life in that strength, leaning
upon tho nrm of the “ mighty to siwo.'’
Corinuo is perhaps loss strikingly, or ratlior loss
dazzingly bouutiful than when sno sat with her
young lover on the moonlit balcony at L—; but
sho is, if possiblo, moro lovely—muoh raoro dour to
me. W c miss tho glittering smiles and low gush
ing laughtor which wo were wont to hear when
she sat with Willy and Serena under tho old olm’s
shadow, weaving for them her legonds of fun n
and fiiiry, whilo they wovo for her a coronal of
blossoms and blcndod their ringing merriment
with tho melody of bird and boo. We miss, too,
that expression of rapt ecstusy whioh irradiated
her wholo boing, wlion the goldon gatos of Love’s
Eden woro uuolosed beforo her, aud, likoasocond
Peri, alio passod singing into tho I’uradiso of an
other’s lioart. But thoro is stealingfrom her strango,
dark eye a soft, wild miserere that sinks into your
vory soul, —thoro is smilo upon her lip whioh whis
pers of u “ pence that passeth understanding,”
und there is a light upon her brow whioh rovoiils
tho presence of a soul whoso dourost life is alrondy
in tho skies. She lovos the memory of her lovor
hushaml as sho loved himsolf. 1 have soon her
when that memory oomos, waked by a strangor’a
tone, or smilo like his, sit as in some ploasunt
drouin, and gazo, unconscious of her earnestness,
until the rudiunoo passed,—and thou, as if roeol
looting herself, suddenly turn away, lost her ex
pression might betrsy her buried love, as lamps
and flowers do tho gruvos of tho dear depnrtod.
Alluctiou for tho dead is suroly one of the soft
est, swootost, aud holiost omotions of tho human
honrt, and oh ! how pnrilying, how elevating in its
hallowed influouco 1 It is the bow of beauty which
tpuolied oartli, and ronohea heaven, and how beau
tiful and glorious aro the ungols ascending and de
scending upon it I Thoro aro bright spirits in this
world of ours, who seem to go down into our souls
and revel thoro as “ tho boo in the flower’s deop
heart,” thoy rojoioe in our joy, and in our sorrow
they sigh, beo-iiko, singing ull tlio while a low,
sympathetic lullaby. Thoy teach us to love them,
they bless us in onr hours of gladuons, and when
tin} shadows lio darkly upon ourspirits. thoy call
us out from under tho cold, damp foldings, to
rovol on tho breozo, or in tho sunbeam, sailing
away on tho glowing cloudlot, or winging up ana
upward, far to tho glorious and loving stars I And
then thoy puss awuy from earth, leaving us with
aching lioarts irtul straihing gaze, which ever
socks, and over vainly too, to pioroo tho doptlis of
heaven’s blue mystery, und follow their shining
air-path far away to tho laud of tho “moro be
yond.” Cheer thee, beautiful, yet lonoly heart!
bo strong in thy loving trust, swoot wannoror on
tho Bhoros of Time I—for “we shall go to them, Imi
they shall not return to us /”
[Thus closed tho MSS. of Mrs. Elmsford. Tim
painful foolings experienced by Graoo upon learn
ing that hor beloved friend was un unacknowledg
ed uud nameless bride, and yet not comprehend
ing exactly why it was so, her sister was not able
to dissipate by an explanation, because she know
nothing of Montaldon’s family, or early life, —sho
had only known him in his connection with Uo
rinno.
Two years nnssed away; and a few months ago
we met the wnole family party of the Elmsforda
in Now Orleans; Graeey, a gentle and happy
bride. Louise talked frequently of hor best friend,
Milo, do Lordilliero. Mudamo, the “ chert mamaii,"
slopt besido hor lovod onos beneath the yow-treo’s
shadow, and hor beautiful daughter, the lost of tlio
Do Lordillioros in this land, had roturnod to the
country of hor ancestors. Upon tho death of hor
mother, sho found, in a collodion of private pa
pers, a paekot, addressed to Madamo Marie Do
Lordilliero, of startling interest and doop grief to
hor; for it disclosed to her tho source of that dark
shadow whioh had dqsolatod too warm hearts.—
’Tie a molancholy history, yot Mrs. Elmsford (to
whom Mile. De Lordilliore confided it,) has prom
ised to givoit to us in a readable form; andsnould
we ascertain that our readers feel any interest upon
tho wo may, at some future day, present
them with it through tho “ Ladies’ Book.”]
Memphis, Novombor, 1852.
THE BRIDEGROOM.
The moon yet strives with dawn,
Which shall throw a shadow
Through mists that lie all lightly on the lawn
Heavily on the wide and watery meadow.
Not long; the golden morning
Gains every moment ground;
The dying night star scorning—
Hark how the birds ring out for Joy around.
Creation casts its burthen
On such a holy day;
Shall I not to her then
My full heart’s adoration meetly pay ?
She who has consented
To be to-day my bride,
And has not repented
For any ills that might meantime betide.
Dearer than all creatures
Os sight, or thought, or dream
Gilds mo to-day her features
With the mild lustre of love’s languid beem.
While upon the Evangels
I pledge to her ray faith,
Give ear, all good angels,
To tho true words my passionate spirit salth.
May I ever shield her
From all shades of ill,
Comfort her, and yield her
Love to her love, Indulgence to her will.
May no remembered sorrow
Her pure soul annoy,
Bl L t .m' n ? or ? w ’ and ‘“-morrow,
ill. 0 1161 wann<:r ho P«, contentment, peace and
[Blackwood for October.
From the St. Louie Republican, M inet..
First Locomotive West of the Mississippi.
The iron horse has been harnessod on the west
side of tho Mississippi, and yestorday morning at
seven o’clock his first loud and shrill whistle was
hoard. It was a cheering sound to those who, for
years, have desired to see a commencement in in
teral improvements in Missouri. Long and eager
ly have thoy lookod for this period, aud at lust it
has come. Probably we entertain a more lively feel
ing in regprd to tho event than others; but to
every well-wisher of our country—to every one who
desires to see the wealth of our State developed,
and our city rise to the importance and eminence
which it is destined to ocoupy—thia occasion will
be one of rejoicing and gratification. It is true that
it is only a commcemont, but it is tho “ beginning
of an end” which wo cannot Ibrseoor foretell.
Tho Pacific Railroad has been commenced, and
has so far progress*! that the locomotivo, with
burden and froight trains, aro running upon it.
True, only a sow miles aro yet in use, but who can
predict how long or short the noriod when tho lo
comotive will start from tho Mississippi and termi
nate its flight on the shores of tho Pacific ? Yester
day morning a beautiful, and we trust a favorablo
omen was presented at the storting of the train.
The locomotive, with the tender, had boon backed
down nearly to Fourteenth street, and alter three
hoavily ladon cars of iron and ties had been attach -
ed—just ns the shrill whistle announced an on
ward movemont—the sun, previously invisible
from the mist that hung over tho horizon, sadden •
iy burst forth, showing his full round disc through
a smoky atmosphere. At the moment a fecetious
friond remarked, “ Old Sol is disposed to givo ns
a race for the I’aeiflo—wo can’t beat him to-day, for
our track is not in order; hut wo will give him a
tight show for it in a short time.”
Religion* H«di In France.
'flio Paris correspondent of tho New York Jour
nal of Commerce writes as follows, touching tho
state of religion in France:
Monsieur Vivien, the highest authority under
tho late monarchy, on the administrative and ec
clesiastical institutions in France, has inserted in
reoont numbers of the Item dee deux Montlee,
elaborate and authentic papers on the several de
nominations of Christians and their forms of wor
ship. He oommonoed, of oourse, with the Catho
lic Church as that of immenso majority. I shall
defora report of some of his details, and mention
now only part of his statistics of Protestant de
nominations. He enumerates Calvinists; tho pro
fessors of the Confession of Augsburg—Lutherans;
and others to be noticed. The Calvinists have 511
ministers in 52 departments of the 86 into which
the country is divided; their temples are about
600; the Lutherans are mainly inAlsae; Stras
bourg ia their capital—where they number 80,000;
in Paris they number 15,000. The total of tho
Protestants, ox members of the Reformed Churches,
is estimated at a million and a half; they have six
Bible Societies, some Evangclioal Missions, and
two institutions of Viacontstet or Sisters of Charity.
In tho treasury budget of 1858, the appropriation
for Christian worship other than Catholic, is 1,807,-
800 francs.
There aro various dissenting communions ijj thn
interior, without authorized templeor synod.; Homo
churches, Presbyterian 'or Congrcgationalists, are
found in sixteen of the departments. The sect of
Darbists i» noticed here and there. In the depart
ment of the Gard, a community of Quakers flourish
undisturbed, and aro often vjsitod by the British
friends. They are nut so strict as the latter or the
American, but ar* distinguished by simplicity in
all the forms and acta of social and domestic Use
by industry and peaoeful demeanor. There aro
five thousand Anabaptists scattered through ten
departments. The lilemnonitcs—near the Qua
kers in worship and doctrine, hold meetings in
several departments: and since 1840 frequent a
special placo of worship in Paris. Thoy emigrate,
from time to time to tho United States. The
French Methodists manifest untiring zeal; they
have founded a uhapcl in Paris: they claim 8000
communicants and some ten thousand auditors.
Protestants have two faculties of Theology ami
somo clerical seminaries. The English make no
proselytes.
M. Viven reckons the Israelite population in
Franoe at 87.000; eight or ten thousand in the me
tropolis. They oan boast of large foundations of
charity hospitals, and schools for both sexes to
which tho Rothschilds have munificently contriLn
ted; societies bavo been formed for the protection
and placing of all their youth. The society of Tal
mudists, or Free School of Theological studies
thrives. All professions and all public functions
arc open to the Jews. They have officially and
formally protested against the invidious charge of
being ‘‘a nation within a nation;” they claim to bo
i ranch, identified civilly and politically with tho
other natives—tho same in heart and allegiance.
In a house on McDonough street, Portsmouth,
ri. H., last week, smoke was discovered proceeding
from the family bible lying on a table near a win
no*- On examination it was found that the eihnj
or the bible was in the exact focal distance from a
glass globe containing gold fish, and that the ami
ttimttUf was playing the incendiary.