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BY BENJAMIN P. POOKE.
The Southern Whig,
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The undersigned having assumed the man-
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in compliance with tho usages of the country,
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The politics of the Whig will undergo no
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tucky Resolutions of 1779 and ’/9 contain a
correct exposition of the rights of the States,
m d of the relative powers of the General and
State Governments, he will adopt them as
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of; and the Constitution as the chart io direct
him if. his political course.
He will advocate the liberal system of In
ternal Improvements now in progress; Gen
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tance from others which he hopes to obtain, he
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efficient support to the. principles which it adt o
cates, and the general interests of the South.
1 Benjamin P- Poore.
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• the public, for tho liberal patronage
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CHES,
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Athens.
Jan. 12,—37-— 2t
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H. N. W.
FOUR months after date, application will be
made to the Honorable Inferior Court of
Oglethorpe county, while sitting as a Court of
Ordinary, for leave to sell the real Estate of
William'G. Jennings, deceased.
WILLIAM W. BUSH, Adin r.
• DeC’r. 8,—32—4m
FOUR months afterdate, application will be
made to the honorable the Inferior court of
Jackson county, when sitting for Ordinary pur
poses, for leave to sell the Tan 'Sard, and 10
acres more or less adjoining it, as part of the
real er tate of Mumford Bennet, deceased.
MIDDLETON WITT, ) AdnTr.
NANCY BENNET. {AHni'x.
November 10'—38 —4nu
;l ii > fi 'S ; b i S 11 I 'i si I *.l :■
Mtaceltaneous.
THE SABBATH BEL L .
BY MRS. CORNWALL BARON WILSON.
Pilgrim, that hast weekly borne
All the cold world’s bitter scorn.
Journeying through this vale of tears,
Till the promised land appears,
Where the pure in heart shall dwell—
Thou dost bless the Sabbath Bell!
Idler, following fashion's toys,
Seeking, ’mid its empty joys,
Pleasure that must end in pain ;
Sunshine that will turn to rain;
What does whispering conscience tell;
When thou hear’st the Sabbath Bell?
Poet, dreaming o’er thy lyic,
Wasting health and youthful fir®;
Wuoing still the phantom fame,
For, at best, a fleeting name;
Burst the chains of fancy’s spell—
Listen I—tis the Sabbath Bell!
Monarch, on thy regal throne ;
Ruler, whom the nations own;
Captive, at thy prison grate,
Sad in heart and desolate ;
Bid earth's minor cares farewell—
Hark I it is the Sabbath Bell!
Statesman, toiling in tho mart,
Where ambition plays his part;
Peasant, bronzing 'neath the sun,
Till thy six day’s work nre done ; a
Ev'ry thought of business quell,
When ye hear the Sabbath Bell!
Maiden, with thy brow so fair,
Blushing cheek and shining hair ;
Child with bright and laughing eye,
Chasing the wing’d butterfly ;
Hasten, when o’er vale and dell
Sounds the gathering Sabbath Sell!
Trav’ler, thou whom gain or taste
Speedeth through earth’s weary waste ;
Wand’rer from thy native land,
Rest thy steed and slack thy hand
When the seventh day's sun-beams tell:
There they Wilke the Sabbath Bell!
Soldier, who on battle plain,
Soon may’st mincle with the slain;
Sailor, on tho dark blue sea
As thy bark glides gallantly;
Prayer and praise become ye well;
Though ye hear no Sabbath Bell I
Mother, that with tearful eye
Stand’s! to watch thy first born die,
Bending o’er his eradle-bed;
Till the last pure breath has fled ;
What to thee of hope can tell
Like the solemn Sabbath Bell!
“ Mourner," thus it seems to say ;'
« Weeping o’er this fragile clay,
Lift from earth thy attempting eyes,
Seek thy treasure in the skies, ! ■
Where the strains of angels swell
One eternal Sabbath Bell
From the Augusta Mirror. |
Fili Ze! Tale.
THE BRITISH PARTIS.
A TALE OF THE TIMES OF OLD.
BY MISS MOISAGNB, OF SOUTH CAttOMN
CHAPTER VI.
CONTINUED,
“ Let laurela, drenched in pure Fernhssian de'
Reward his mem’ry dear to ev’ry inuse,
Who with a courage of unshaken root,
In honor's field advancing his firm foot,
Plants it upon the line that justice draws,
And will prevail or perish in her cause.”
“ They sin who tell us love can die !”
Months rolled on, and nothing was heard of
Ralph Cornet. He had ceased to be classed
among the living; but his memory hud not
passed away with all. I n one heart, the altar
of hts worship was still fed with the daily sa.
crifice ofprayers and tears, and as its fire burnt
on in secret, the fair priestess seemed to be
come less affd less earthly. Her mind; like
that dove which hovered over the wide waste
of waters, fOufld no green leaf for a resting
place on earth ; and it dwelt among the invisi
ble shadows of the past.
Yet Annette Bruyesant refused to believe in
the death of her lover She hud not seen him
die; and in the slow, torturing fire of unlimited
suspense, her once rosy cheek paled, and her
rounded form became every day more and more
attenuated and sylph-like.
The spring was far advanced, —that dread
ful spring of 1781. Thetories who had es
caped from the latal rencontre of King’s Moun
tain, had returned into tho neighborhood, and
literally ravaged it with fire and sword. The
whigs were led on by desperation to return
the aggression, and murders were committed
and revenged, until many of the families of the
whigs,—who were far in the minority,—were
left without protectors, and without food—the
crops of the last year having been destroyed—
and despair seemed to have benumbed tlie en
ergies of the wretched survivors.
At this crisis, an individual came to the re
lief of the suffering inhabitants, and with a
generous assiduity, a self-sacrificing Zeal, to
which history has not, mid never can do justice,
he succored the destitute women and children.
Many a “ verdant ofT’ring to bis memory” has
been perpetuated in tho children of those who
felt his protecting benevolence. This man
was Gen Pickens.
Ou lhe bank of the river, a little apart from
Vienna, tnay bo yet seen the remains of a fort ,
which was built for the defence of the early
settlers ngainst tho Indians. Its walls were
built of stone, and formed ten feet high, with
port holes, and other appliances of a stout re
sistance.—Here Gen. Pickens supported his
dependents, and old age, and infai'cy flocked
daily to his protecting care. But thanks to the
cowardice of lhe tories, and their successive
defeats in open combat, this weak garrison
ivas in no danger of attack. It was more like
the residence of a pleasant family, than a war
like station, and during his occasional visits,
the Good General, as he was affectionately
ciille.l. added to it lhe charm of an universal
cheerfulness ; for he was not more eminent for
the soldier-hkv qualities which gained him the
distinctioD of an officer, than for the gracious
aflabiliiy by which he won all hearts.
'i’hu victory of the Cowpens had given a
brcu.tl*nig space t.® the militiin of lhe GenesaVs
“WHERE powers are assumed which have not been delegated, a nullification of the act is the rightful remedy.” Jeffcrboii.
brigade. Most of them had returned on pa
role to their families, and the General took oc
casion at this time to visit Fort Charlotte—
which wt s the name given to the fortress by
the loval subjects of his majesty, George the
Third.
The concentration efthe British on the oth
er side of the district, lulled the inhabitants into
an easy security, and the fort was consequent
ly under but few of the restraints which martial
discipline imposes. Gen. Pickens was walk
ing one night alone and meditatively, on the
outer s'de of the wall, when he perceived the
figure di'a man I‘etming against it; in the deep
shadow which the dailt trees opposed to the
moonlight. Having hailed him several limes,
and received no answer, the General took a
pistol from his pocket, and walked up to the
spot to assure himself that he had not been
deceived.
“ Speak, or you are my prisoner,” said he,
as he approached the stranger.
The man made no show of resistance ; but
as the General was about to lay his hand on
his shoulder, he retreated a few paces, and
folding his arms on his breast, answered dog
godly ;
“Shoot if you will.—l will be no man’s
prisoner.”
As he stepped back, the moonlight stream
ed clear upon a majestic form, ami showed the
bold outline cf a countenance which looked
pale and melancholy in that pensive light.
Gen. Pickens looked at him a few moments
in silence. The subdued and sad expression
of his features and altitude, seemed to have
awakened in Ins heart some feeling of com
misscration for the youthful, and apparently
unhappy stranger. ;
“ Young man,” —said he in a softened tone, ;
—“Whoever you are, or whatever may be
your business here, it is my duty to have you
arrested ; but it would be more congenial to
my feelings, if you would spare me that, trouble;
by telling me frankly, your name and inten
tions.”
“ My name can interest no one ;” —said the
man in the same tone in which he had first
spoken—“ And I have no business, except to
seek one who has been long lost th me.”
“You s[ oak haughtily, sir,” —replied the
General,—»“ have you then no interest in ma.
king friends? Know you not that you are at
this moment in tny power?”
“ Friends!”—repeated the other, with sad
emphasis—“l care not for friends,since I can
not call back the lost :—I am alone in this
world—-us to the rest, I defy eVen the power
of Gen. Pickens!”
“Ila !” —said the General,— ‘You know me
then?” and for a moment he cast his eyes in
deep thought to the grotind. When he looked
up. the mysterious stranger was gone. This
little incident dwelt on the mind of the Ameri
can Genera'. His feelings had been strangely
interested by the appearance and language of
the unknown ; but lie imagined that he must
have some evil design in lurking round the fort.
Why else should he be so mysterious? Per
haps he was a spy, sent by some foraging
party of British who supposed that the stores
of the fort
this last thought,General Ptckens determiagd
to placu a stnqter g|jiafd.ari4, unm*duitely sent
out a -;body of men te sebur the neighborhood;
but ffaly'returned with the Intelligence,lhat nor
a single person had beem found stirring within
a mile of Ale fori.
It tens a custom With Genetai Pickens te
make a circuit of tho fortress every morning,
to look into Its welfare, and attend to its little
waats and necessities j nt snch rimes he had a
smile and passing word for every one.
“How goes it, Andrew, this fine morning?”
inquired of au old man, whoso silver locks
still curled up from the broad, fair forehead,
which a serene temper and healthful exercise
had kept smooth and tmwrinkled.
“Vera weet, yer honor”—said he—“Gaid
be praised for ’a His mercies, and thanks to
yer honor besides! Yer kind heart has been a
biessen to this country, an .. ..”
“ Well, Andrew”—interrupted the General,
smiling at the grateful garrulity of the old
Scotchman —“no flatteries between friends—
it is the cause—the cause—the meanest soldier
that fights for liberty deserves the same
praise.”
“Na;na! yer honor”—said the oldman—
“its na that ye fight for liberty sae weel; but
that ye pity tho puir!”
“ Every man should do the same ;” said the
General; “it is bad enough fighting; but it
must be worse starving. And now that I think
of it, Andrew?” “1 would advise a stricter
watch kept over this place. I must go hence
to-morrow; my presence is required before
Nmety.six ; and 1 can leave but a small garri
son. You have only to keep close, and be on
the alert; there may be no harm meant, but I
saw a very suspicious looking man prying
1 found these walls last night, who answered
me very haughtily, and refused to tell his bu
siness.”
“Lord bless yer honor, what hind o’ a mon
was he V* asked Andrew Morrison.
“ He was tall, and good looking, as far as I
could judge;” stud the General; “but his
manner w as proud and melancholy, and he dis
appeared very suddenly ? I sent out men im
mediately on pursuit of him, but. . . .”
“Heaven defend us!”—exclaimed the old
man, in a low and rapid enunciation ; “ be
like it was Ralph Cornet, or aiblins his ghaist.”
The General was not superstitious, but he
seemcdstruck with a thought. “Cornet’”—
said he.—“ What, that Captain Cornet who
rendered himself so famous among the Brit
ish ? I thought he was killed or drowned in
this neighborhood some time ago.’
“It was believed sae, yer honor”—said
Andrew —“but 1 caima think sae. Why, he
was like a wild duke in the water; because,
yer honor, if he gaid never sae mony times to
the bottom, he aye come up alive ai.d weel.
But if the puir boy be dead, 1 ken weel his
ohaist wod be haunting this place, for.. ..”
“ You say this Cornet is a comely person ?'’
said the Geneiul, interrupting this speech,
with an irrepressible smile al lhe old man’s
simplicity.
“A hraw hansomo lad, as yer honor ever
saw;” replied the Scotchman, who was de
lighted at this opportunity of speaking the
praise of one for whom Ins heart overflowed
with love and pity —“yist, like a young pop
lar, fu sax feet high, and portly ; there was na’
the lad in a’the cum try sae strang, sae bonrie’
or sae kind,- as theymmg Ralph. Wae’s the
day when the British blinded his young e’en
wi’ a sword and plume, — he has been soor
and maurnfu’ like iver since; for he had plight
ed his troth wt’a sonsie young leddy here, an
her failher wha. has bin sinking to the grund
iver since the tories —foil fa th' tn; brak his
arm; winne hear o’ tile match.
“Who! the old Frenchman’s daughter ; ah!
| I sue it ill now !”—said the General, nui-
ATHENS, GEORGIA, SATFRDAI', JAMARY 36, 8 830.
“What is’t ver honor secs?”—inquired
Andrew, res pcct fu I ly.
“ Why, Andrew, the man that I saw last
nigh' must have been this same Cornet, from
your description. 1 took him lor a spy t but
it is likely that his ghost, as you will have it,
was seeking an interview with this joung
I lady.”
i “ Like enough ; like enough”—said the
old man, eagerly—lhe puir boy, dead or
alive, wad rin a’risks lb batch a ghnt o’ her
bonnie e’en.”
“ 1 must look to it;” —said the General, as
he walked on, “Ansae maun I"’—said lhe
Scotchman to himself “if lhe puir boy hae
i escaped ance mair, it mamma be tauld that
■ the b iirn o’ my old friend has mi line friend in
j a’ this land.”
; As the general passed on, he next entered a
! tent in which was sitting a laity, yet in the
! bloom ol life, whose vivacity of manner beto
j kened a Spirit which an misfortunes could con
! qtter. She was caressing a little boy of five
; or six vears, whose brown, curling head lay
on her lap, whilst at her feet a h’lle cherub
girl was lying asleep. As lhe happy mother
looked tip smiling from her linhies, her radiant
face afforded a sti jking contrast to the thin,
pale features of a young girl who sat not far
I off. with her head leaning on her hand.
“Good morning, Madam”—said the Gene
ral, pleasantly, addressing himself to the elder
i ludv ; “ your countenance is truly agreeable
in these gloomy times ; it is always sunshine.”
“ Why, Genet al”—said she, with perfect
case and good breeding; “ thanks to your cure,
and that of the lories, I’ve nothing left to cry
for. My husband; God bless him! —is
fighting in the true cause; and if 1 bad a dozen
husbands, 1 should wish them al! so employed.”
“But, suppose tbej were all killed /”—said
-lhe General, with a wondering smile.
“Then I should teach my Ittlle Willie here,
his duty to the British ;”--said she, twining
her fingers in the long silkthi cutis of tho pret
ty boy.
“ VVell,” replied the Getinral; “with many
such mothers as you, AmeHctt tvould become
another Sparta. Bttt can't you inspire my
little friend here with some of your heroism.”
“ Bless you, no!” said the lady, with pri
vileged sauciuess ; “ she is as mopish as an
old owl in a hollow tree. There she has been
sitting for the last half hour, poring over a lock
of hair, which she found by lhe wall, very cu
riously wound ; into a love knot, I suppose;
heaven knotvs how it came there. But, Gen.
eral, I have been planning an excursion to
amuse these sentimental young ladies.”
“I should rather you would not go out;”
said the General. “ There was a strange man
prowling about here last night, and . . ..”
As the General commenced speaking, he
had fixed his eyes with an expression of curi
osity upon Annette Bruyesant, who sat seem
ingly regardless of what was passing; but he
stopt short, ularmcil at the deep emotions his
words bad excited in her. The blood Seethed
to have forsaken her fair fate, and every blue
rem was plainly marked in her closed eyelids
as shb Sank back in her seat, with her amis
clasped lightly together. Her whitejlips mov
eji jwcongcioushjand the words—“ It is he -
is he though murmured passionately,
were rrther read than heard by the General,
who was abserving faer with a keen convic
tlon of the truth of the matter. A frown
gassed over his countenance, but it wSis quick
ly succeeded by an expression of pity ; and.
turning to the elder lady, he observed“ I
shall be obliged to leave the fort to morrow,
and I would advise you. ladies, to keep as close
as possible during my absence.” The lady
he addressed would have demurred at this, but
lhe General asked to be admitted to the pre
sence of old Mr. Bruyesant, who was confin
ed to an inner apartment es the tent. What
passed between them was never known. Gen
eral Pickens departed next morning, leaving
orders with the small garrison, which remain
ed for its protection, that t;o one should leave
the fort except on business, and that no stran
ger should be admitted. But who, by arbitra
ry measures, ever forced a woman into a sense
of her duty? Ere three days had elapsed, the
gay Mrs. Cornet ht.d rebelled against the or.
ders of the General.
“ Come, girls ;” said she, one fine evening ;
“ let us play them a tricii ! I’m sick to death
of this dull place; and despite the old General
and his ghost story; what say you to a little
fun ? Eh, ’Lina, what say to a sail on the
river now ? Come, I toust give you a little
fresh air, or a certain some one that shall be
nameless, will not know you when he returns
from the war.”
“ But how shall we escape ?” asked Selinti |
Anderson, looking up listlessly from her sew.
ing work.
“ Oh, ho ! leave that to me;” said the live
ly creature, with a significant nod,as she trip,
ped off towards the gale, ■ivhere tl Soldier stood;
true to the orders he had received.
Annette and Selina were well acquainted
with the mischievous trick® of this lady ; but
whilst they stood now Wondering tv hat she
wotild demise to amine the vigilance of the
gate-keeper, she had walked up, and was j
screaming in the ears of the man. with the
tone of well affected surprise ; “ Mr.- Dobson,
afe you detf'/” .
“Madam!” —said the little man, staring at
her in amazement.
“ I say, are Y u deaf, that you standi faerc so !
unconcerned, when your wife has been calling
you for the last half hour? Run, for pity's ;
sakS ;” continued she, with the deepest con. I
cern ; “ 1 would not for the world be in your '
place ; you know Mrs. Dobson.”
“ I did n’t hear it, Ma’am !”—said poor Mr. J
Dobson, w ho first ftgeted u little uneasily; and I
then frtn with alt bis Speftd to a tent on the
opposite side of the enclosure ; besides the to
ries, there was nothing on earth the poor little
man had so good reason to four as his wife.
Tlie gate had been opened to adtnii a pro
vision cart, which note b'ftlf.filled the entrance.
“ Quick, quick girls ; follow me ?” said the
lady, who was almost dying with laughter at
the success of her scheme. In a moment
more thev had all glided through the opening
tmperceived ; and the girls ran on following
their gay guid 1 . until she ihrt whi rself on the
grassy bank sf the river, in it perfect helpless
ness ofmirth.
“ E’ic, Mrs. Cornet said Selina Anderson,
gravely; “how could you lie so wicked?”
“ Ile.rtens ! w hat a little fool you are ’Lina ;
you will never do Rrr a warrior’s wife !” she
replied.
Selina blushed, and turned away her head.
“ Bless your heart, chikl, don’t you know
“ all tricks are fair in loVe a d in war ?” But,
then, “poor Mr. Dobson!” she continued-—.
“ how he will fret mid Come when he finds out
that he has been quizzed. But no matter ; if
tho little man is hen-pecked, sure its not my
[ fault! And Willie, you are here too ; my little
General ?” said she, on perceiving that the
child had followed them, “if you don’t mind,
we will give you a ducking, my boy ”
“ You can’t do it 1” said the child, saucily.
“ Pa learnt me how to swim, and uncle Ralph
used to throw me in the water sometimes.”
“ Hush, child ;” said his mother, in a low
voice, aside to him ; “did n’t 1 tell you not to
talk of your uncle Ralph ?”
“I don’t care;” replied the boy. with a
grieved expression of countenance; “Annie
Bruyesant says I may talk ofhim !’’
Annette turned deprecatingly, mid took the
lovely child in her arms, as if to hush him ;
but in spite of her efforts, the silent tears trick
led down on his young head, to which her
cheek was pressed.
With ail her vivacity, Mrs. Cornet had too
much real feeling not to understand and appre
ciate that emotion ; btlt it was her nature to
banish care: and now springing tip from the
bank, on which she had been seated, she or
dered the girls into a canoe that was lying
there, and springin* in herself after them,
pushed it off into the stream.
A wild and frolic creature was that Mrs.
Cornet. She cared not at what expense she
followed (lie bent of her fancy ; and all diffi
culties were buttrifles before the vigorous im
pulses of her lively and independent spirit.
z\s she sat in the stern of that little vessel, and
propelled its light motion by a scarcely visib'e
effort, with those two beautiful maidens at her
feet, and the little cherub boy leaning over the
vessel’s side, she might have passed for Am
phitrite in her ocean shell. On, on they flew,
and her clear, musical laugh rang over lhe wai
ters like the touch of sotfie fine instrument, re*
doubled and reflected in mocking silvery tones
from those fancied water nymphs—the invisi
ble eChoes. At length, the light bark moored
itself on the point of a rock tn the middle of
the stream. In a moment more the delighted
Mrs. Comet had gained the flat summit of the
rock, and gaily invited her less ardent com
panions to follow.
It was indeed a beautiful position, and well
worthy of an evening’s frolic. For many 1
miles above, the broad bosom of the river I
swelled on the eye, until it swept down, and
divided its chrystal waters against the rocky
base of the island. Not a speck or stain mar
red the bright reflection of the pure, spring
time sky. The blessed sun only was there,
“careering in its fields of light,” and throw
digits myriads of diamond sparkles on tile
rippling water.
The blue rocks which covered nearly one
half the extent of the island, and dotted the
stream on each side, were strewed with mos
ses, and the lovely flowers of a thousand lit
tle twining, fibrous roots; whilst behind them
rosea thicket of all that is stteet and fair in
the American forest. There were the lovely
jessamines, and woodbines in clustering gar
lands over every tree and bush. The queenly
flowers of the rose laurel sitting so proudly
on their emefald stems, the beautiful white
acacia, and the long feathery pendants of the
giay ash, with the sweet wild houey-suckle in
its delicious freshness were there, forming a
wilderness stifcli as Eden must have been in
its first creation.
Mrs. Cornet felt all the w ild delight ol a na
tive child of the forest newly enfranchised ;
and even her young companions forgot the sub
ject of their grief for n time. That heart
must be indeed cold and callous, in w hich lhe
freshness and beauty of nature cannot awaken
a corresponding tone of gladness. With
smiles half of pleasure, and half of wonder,
Annette and Selina w atched the motions of
their sportive guide, ns she leaped like a cha
mois over the rocks, now bending from a high
point over the glassy stream, and again leaning
most perilously from a bough to gather fl >wers.
After a time, she stole away tmperceived; and
when they locked, on hearing her gay Voice,
they beheld her apparently clinging to a rich (
garland of jessamine, which hung from the 1
branches of a large oak. fur in the midst cf
the island The girls screamed involuntarily j
with surprise. How had she got there, unless j
she had the wings of a fairy ?
The island was to all appearance perfectly t
unfrequented. Not a pathway not a broken j
bush, not even a footstep marked the place ;
where any living thing had penetrated. '1 he I
luxuriant cane filled up the interstices of the i
giant trees and flowering shrub's, rendering it j
all dark and inaccessible. But there she stood, ■
with the flowers clustering around her face,
which flushed with exercise, and brilliant j
with excitement, looked the fairest flower ■
there. j
The mystery was soon explained. The
trunk of a Yery large tree had fallen across an
other, supporting its farthest end on the edge
of the rock, and thus forming a kind of nntu
ral bridge over the tangled maze below. The
young ladies proceeded along it, to where
Mrs. Cornet stood at its extremity ; but scarce
ly had Annette, who was foremost, reached
her, than she turned deadly pale, and her eyes
seemed rivetted in the glassy gaze of horror,
on some object before her. She Would have
fallen to the ground, if Mrs Cornet had not
caught her, and supported her against the tree
by which she was leaning :
“ Lord have mercy on us!” she exclaimed,
“ What is the matter with the child ?”
Selina Anderson,,who was too much terri
fied to discover the cause of Annette’s alarm,
began to teeep w ith affright; bi t lhe little boy
seizing his mother by the dress, exclaimed
with delighted eagerness, “La ma! here’s
Rover ! —ma, do look at Rover!”
Following the direction of the child’s eyes,
they Sate a large black horse rising slowly
from the ground. Tlie canes and shrubs for a
small space aroinid him had been trodden doten,
and the grotind was paw ed into link s in many
places. How he came there was a mystery,
for there were no marks of ingress of egress ;
but a trough was fastened to a tree,- w here it
teas evident he had been fed for some time.
“ Gracious heavens ! can it indeed be Ro
ver? What then has become of peer Ralph ;
or mavbe he’s about here,” said Mrs. Cornet,
lookii g round a little wildly.
At the mention of that name, so fraught with
terrible remembrances, an undefined awe
seized the fuhids cf the adventurous females.
Thev clung closer together, seeming for the
first Ume to feel alone in that unfrequented
place.
“Irt’tus go from here,” whispered Annette
faintly ; but before they turned to depart. Mrs.
Cornet, to assure hersi If that it was indeed the
horse of her husband’s ill fated frother, called
him bv nnm-e, sad the animal, familiar to the
sound' of her voice, w alked up to her and evrti
ced his recognition of her by many mute but
intelligible signs of joy.
A musing spirit seemed to have seized Mrs.:
Cornet. She left her store of gathered (low
ers to wither on the rock, and resumed her
station in the canoe in silence. At length she
said almost unconsciously, “ 11 Ralph Cornet
is about here, we shall soon see him : but
then,” she continued, “the horse seems to
have been a long time in the island. For
the first time iti Tier kfe she appeared to be
puzzled, and she said no more.
A sigh from Annette was the only answer
she received. That speech had aroused the
poor girl from similar thoughts. They fctlirn
ed in perfect silence to the fort, for Selina An
derson bad not sufficiently recovered from her
fright to be eonversible, and lhe little boy had
cried himself to sleep on his mother’s lap, at
the thought of leaving his favorite, Rover, be
hind.
Mr. Dobson, the much abused gate keepef,
w hose goodness belter treatthent than
he received, admitted them with perfect good
humor ; for he had learnt a very sad lesson of
forced submission to a woman. But the little
man resolved iu his inmost heart to be fast J
enough fur them next time,
CHAPTER VII.
“ How dear the dream in darkest hour ofill
Should ail be changed, to find thee faithful still
Be but thy heart like Selim's firmly shown,
To thee be Selim’s tender as thine own,
To soothe each sorrow; share in each delight,
Bleild every thought; do all btitdisunite'”
It had become a settled conviction on the
tnmd of Annette, that Ralph Cornet was still
living. In the lock of hair found within the
wall, she recognized some of her own, which
had once been in his possession, and this cir.
cumstance connected with the words which
Genera! Pit kens had spoken in her prescribe,
confirmed in her lhe suspicion, that Ralph had
employed litis, asa certain, and plain telegraph
to her heart. The discovery of his horse
awakened her to the keenest, and most distress,
ing suspense, 'l he reflection, that he was in
the neighborhood, tititl obliged to conceal him
self in the midst of dangers, was rendered still
bitterer by lhe thought, that he had not a sin
gle bi ing on whom to rely for comfort; for his
I father had been killed by thetories long since.
I In this desolate situation, she too had apparent.
! ly deserted him; and the affectionate girl felt
that it woifld be some consolation, if she could
only see him ami assure him of the violence
her coldness had done to her feelings. But af
ter that wild sally from the fort, the garrison
was proof against the stratagems or entreaties
of the ladies, and Annette despaired of seeing
the object of her solicitude,
Fate was, however, accomplishing her wish
es, by the severest test of her affections, in
a few weeks, a funeral processton emerged
from the fort; and Annette followed as chief
mourner that bumble coffin. Her father had
never recovered from his first attack ; besides
the wound in his arm, he liad received an in
jury in the chest, which brought on a pulmo
nary affection, and he declined gradually, so
gradually that no alarm was conveyed to the
heart of Annette, until near the last moments.
Nearly the w hole fortress followed the re
mains of Pierre Bruyesaht; that humble, but
devout supporter of truth and liberty; to the
grave. He was buried, according to his own
■ request, under an elm tree near hts cottage.
The hist sod Was replaced over the spot where
the grassy turf had been disturbed, and the pro
cession rnoYud back to the fort; but Auuette
could not be torn away.
“ Leave me for a moment alone with him”
—she begged; and there tteffi nbne hard
hearted enough to refuse that sac.ee request.
When they had all gone, Annette threw her
self on the newly made grave, in that agony
of a young spir it, w hen first it feels lone and
desolate. l;i all the world she knew not of
one being who shared the blood of her veins,
‘ N*'ne that with kindred consciousness endued,
If She were not; wotild seem tit srtiile the less.”
and she Sofabed aloud the endearing mirne of
father, in the despairing accents of the ship
wrecked mariner, who sees his last hope ; the
shattered plank on which he had borne him
self, sink down beneath the wave. How lo:m
she remained thus, insensible to all but the
weight of her affliction, she knew rot, nos Was
slie aware that the child of Mfs. Cornet had
lingered with a kindly instinct near her, until
he clung to her screaming with affright.
Aroused by the cries of the child, Annette
raised hereself, and as she Idoked up, she saw
the object of his trlarffli in a man who was
standing within three feet of them. It was I
Ralph Cornel; but so pale, so wan, so differ
ent from his former self; that it was no won
det thb little boy did not recognize him. He
was dressed plainly in a suit of daik cloth,
which rendered almost ghostly the expression |
of bis pale, sad, countenance ; and a frightful
scar extended over his left eyebrow;
The surprise—the shock of his appearance
was too much for the weakened nerves of the
poor girl; and she would have fallen again to
the ground, if she had not been caught in the
arms of her lover.
How wildly did he call upon her to look
upon him once more! And how passionately
did he kiss the pale face which bung Lke a
drooping flower on his arm! But lhe warm
blood soon flowed back in fitful gushes to her
cheek, and her eyes opened upon hirfi; bbl
she di«! not this time Withdraw herself from his
embrace; Her mind was impaired by grief,
and long suffering—she had no more the pow.
er of resistance; and besides in the heart
weary loneliness of her situation, she felt that
lhe breast on which she leaned was the only
link that hound her to lhe deaf memories of
the past. Whoso well could sympathize with
her in her joys decline aS he, who by the
sweet enchantment of his presence had given
them their ghtduftSs.
But while Annette, with woman’s natural
fuithfidness to her hallowed memories, fondly
reflected upon the past; Ralph Comet thought
only of the future—and, as he recounted to her
the series of misfortunes which hid befalte'n
him; while he* head rested quietly wri his
shoulder; he felt “the rapture which kindles
out of Wo.”
The tones of his voice Wcfe like a delicious
strain of music to Annelte—music long and
well remembered. It is true they had lost the
lingering jiyousness of other and better days;
bu: they had new the stJbdued and yearning
tenderness which sorrow wrings from the
heart- Strange it is, that its pure wmth.
never knowm until tried in lhe fire of afflic
tion ; The gay know not the wealth of their
afflictions; or the touching softness—the fer
vor—the fidelity w hich spring iq> from the
bruised heart-—for passion is the rebel
of disiqipointment.
“And now,: my darling Annie”—.continued
Ralph Cornet, in a voice which came “o’er
her ear like the sweet south which breathes
upon a bank of Violets;” —“we are alone in
this worM—why should' We bn separated
more ? It is true ns you foretold—l am.a dis
honored diod, feared and despised by my cuuu-
Vol. VI—No.
trymen—yet, for nil that, I care not since you
do nbi rihte me ! It has been the consequence
of my early errors ; and I am not a man to
weep idly over wlint is past.. But iny own
love, though, there is no longer a plate of penco
and safety for us here, we need not despair.
In the distant regions of the far West, I have
heard them say, there are lands richer far then
ti is ; and spots more beautiful—where the In.
dhn lives all lhe year rousd withofit toil nr
trouble, with his feathery bow, and his lowing
herds—there, by some pretty stream, we will
build a little cottage, which shall remind us of
this-'-and there we will be all the World to
each other.”
Annette wept on in silence; her griefs were
too fresh ntid strong, and disappointment had
weighed too heavily ; on her mind, for her t •
be able yet to realize the bright creation* of
this day dream. Ralph, who in the elastic
buoyancy which Love had imparted to Kbi
mind, felt the springing hopes he so vividly
pictured, seemed butt that she did not parti
cipate in them.
“You do not speak Annette—you do not say
that you w ill go with rne ;” —said he mourn
fully,—“Surely, I have not deceived myself in
the deftr hope, that when the world grew dark
around me, and every face was averted fl*bm
me, that there wolf'd be one heart unc hnngHi
—one smile, which shining us a beacon -of
hope, would lend me b ick to the peace and
happiness I had lost.”
Annette raised her head, aud looked up in
his face. The flush, which excitemei t bad
brought h to her < h eltF,w; sfad.iigaw aj before
the deeply mournful expression of bis thoughts
and she felt pained at the memory of all her
coldness must have wrought ou his seusative
soul.
“Ralph Cornet, you have stvorn never more
to take up arms agains. your country she
asked eagerly.
“Never, rny.lovc ; so help me God !—ex.
cept Hi hiv oUm defence ;” —he replied.
“Then”—said nhe—“here on this sacred al
tar, I renew my former vow. to be unto you
what I have ever been—true in heart ; to
leave all, yes, even this precious spot of earth,
to follow.”
Sobs choked her utterance, and as the young
man knelt, and folded his arms around her,
tears came into his oWn eyes—tears of sublime
qmotion;
“Il is enough”—he whispered—“my own
Icve ; you are what 1 have always thought you
the truest, and best of womankind. It istiue
I once feared that you had permitted those
around you to estrange yuUr affections from
me; but fi.fgive rue, love— l suffered enough
thr that thought.”
Ralph went on again to picture the bright
hopes which he had imagined of nn elysium
in another land, where malice and treachery
could not teach them ; and where, without
any law but nature, or other guide than luv*.
they should enjoy the ease and happitieSs of
lhe primitive inhabitants of earth.
“ Why should we tvaitany longer’—said lie
—“we have nothing leit to bind us to thii
spot ?”
A blush crimsoned over Annette’s pahr”?
features, and she answered hesitatingly: q
“But, Ralph, I cannot go except as—as your
wife;”
“1, too; Have thought of thwt, my love
eaid be smiling fondly. “I saw Andrew
Morrison this morning, irho ti f ;rin»d ma titat
he would he here on this m> un.fn! occ isioA,
Something whispered me that you would Im
true, and lhe plan v Inch I have just revealed
to you, of leaving the country, then oeCHtrt#
to me. There is in the fort with you a French
minister—a good and kind man— wbcf forilm
love he bore jour father, might be prevailedot»
to do us this service. I will engage Andre#'
to bring hirri here—eien to rndrrow night if
you—”
“Wh it so soon, Ralph? And my poor fa
ther just buried t<» day And Annette burst
into a fresh passion of tears,
“My beloved Annie, do not grieve so—you
shall Have it as you please. But I am bu
coming very cowardly since you have render,
ed life so dear tome —and there is no sttfi tjr
fur me here.”
“Well, Ralph—well”—said Annette, re
signedly—“but I mu# return to the fort—and
how shall I escape again ?”
“Why retutu, my love T I cart place veil
in safety until to morrow—and then I shall
bid them defiance for ever.”
*N<b no!”—snid Annette, wHo was be
coming alarmed for must not
be. My absence from the fort would elcite
suspicion—they Would search for us; and
then all would be lost.”
“Pj not fear, Annette”—“satid R dph, smeling"
at her earnest ess—“no power on earth shall
tear you from mo now ; but r< turn to the for
as you have prudently suggested. Andrew
Morrison is my friend—you may depend rrpm»
him—and I will be ready with a rope? ladder
on the western side of the fort—to receive yoc»
Here; where We huve e j >yed so many years
of happiness, we will be wedded; and then
we will bid farewell tor ever to ali> ib«r ew
i emind us of sorrotf.-”
she little Goy,- Wfio was alarmed 1 at the* first
sight of Ralph, had been silting at rhrir feet?
liste ling with perplexed interest to this can*
versation ; but by this thrift he seemed to re
cognize him, and efaspitig hinT bX’ lire hfncvW#
he said. “And I will go, too f May 1 not
go uncle Ralph-
Ralph had left him hitberttt u-mofieed, hwf
he now sat him on his knee, and* Cates-St-rf feinf
fondly*. **No, Willie, sftsid fee.* ‘*yoi
mtfst sfsy !o take etrte bf yoftfr mother.-”
The child was ndt insensible to these cares,
ses ; and he threw his arms aroundhis uncle’#
neck/ as he was wont to do : “Where haVo
vou been gone so 1 long, wnc'o Ralph? A'mnt
Bruv esant has cried so much for you;”—Mid
he,* in Infantile simplicity.
‘•Btrt A; Wie Brayesafrt Will cry no mofb
r»oW —said Ralph,- with n smile, wh Ist put,
Sing aside ’hj cut Is, to kiss the brow of AM
Ititle relative.
Willie made norc|My—fete attention scented
to be fixed on something opposite to hrtwi
They were Very near the deserted cottage?
which, since il h id been rifled by the
steed with Hs elbws open, or br-.kew dwWtK
“Look, uncle R.ilph.-look I*’—riidlv*,—-“Tew
dor is a man peeping tlwonghitlw? door.’*'
Ralph locked up hastily S "Oh, no? WHlic!
you are mistidtcnf” —sard he.-
B-ut ih ! - chf'il would unt br natisfi"dun’il bis
iineh- wei t mi h h-ini. to .-ear< h- tile house.. .
Tli'-re was no one visible. An icttv.- however
had becoihc afarmedand after a few more
whispered Words, she took tire hand of the
little boy, and rothrn id J with' iiXnublinv step#
to the fort.. Ralph CoFiteC Waited until tire
last glvmpse of her form was hid from hi»
sight, by the thick trees, and then he tur.iedi
‘aWay also.
7<> be .