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THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL
IS PUBLISHED
EVERY FRIDAY MORNING,
BY
T. LOMAX & CO.
TENXENT LOMAX, pkincipal editor.
Office on Randolph, street.
Cite van) Pcptulmcnt.j
Oosdi'cted nY.. CAROLINE LEE HEN .
LAMORAH:
on
the western wild.!
A
TRAGEDY OR NATIONAL DRAMA, j
IN FIVE ACTS.
BY CAROLINE LEE HLXTZ.
ACT III.— SCENE FIRST.
[The Cabin of \Vealherlon—A small door
leading into another room visible—Jenny \
alone J
Jenny. It’s mighty lonely here. Some ,
how or other, I never like to be by my- <
self in a thunder storm. It always makes
me think of death and all sorts ot solemn
thiiurs. Job should be at home hy this
time. I wondef he stays out in the woods
ho late. As for the young lady, she’s not
milch company to me; poor soul, l pity
her; site takes on bitterly sometimes. I know j
it must be about her sweetheart, and it’s nat- i
ural—every living creature must have its i
mate. Now, 1 feel mighty uneasy about Job ;
—mighty uneasy. {Goes to the door and re- \
turns — then approaches the inner door.) I'll {
just speak to her and ask her it she ain t alraid j
of the thunder. Miss Virgin;/ ! No answer; J
she can’t he asleep when it’s liglit’ning so. j
Ah! here is Job.
[Enter Wen! her Lon with his rifle and game.'] ■
Wcalh. Well, Jenny, how goes it? Is Miss j
Virginv made cherry? I’ve been thinking a j
heap about the poor child. If the (Imoral i
don't push on pretty quick, I’ve a notion the |
Captain will be in a sorry scrape.
Jenny. Why, she keeps herself to herself, j
pretty much. And if I chance to go in sad-j
denly, she’s crying as if her heart would !
break; and if I try to compose her in mv
homely way, she says so sweetly, “1 thank
you, Jenny, I shall he better by and by.”
Poor tiling, it’s all about her sweetheart. 1
spoke to her just now, hut not a word did j
she answer; just, speak to her yourself, Job ! 1
1 don't know why, hut it scared me to hear j
my own voice.
Wcalh. ((Lulling at the door.) Miss Virgin- j
ny ! Miss Yirgiuny ! Maby she’s fallen asleep, ;
Jenny.
Jenny. Oil! honey, she couldn’t sleep when
the thunder shakes the cabin so. I’ll go in
and see myself. (Goes into the. apartment
and runs bach screaming.) She's gone !
Wcalh. Gone! Oh, she’s only rambled out j
on the banks, as little young folks like her are j
full of notions. But she shouldn’t be there. !
There’s no knowing what might happen, and ■
I never shall be able to look in the General’s j
face without winking if a hair of her head i
should get hurt. Come, my Brownbess, |
{snatching up his rifle,) we’ll after the game, j
Jenny. Stop a minute, honey. Oh, I shall j
never sleep quiet in my bed again if she’s got i
into harm, poor thing.
SCENE SECOND.
[The banks of the Ohio—Enter Weather
ton and Jenny—They look up and down the
river, calling on Virginia's name—Weather
ion knocking his rife on the ground with vio
lence.]
Wealh. Blast the rascals. If they’ve car
ried her otf, I’ll rattle more shot through their
bodies than ever whizzed through the trees of
the west. I’ll
Jenny. Oh, Job, honey, don’t swear. You
promised me you wouldn’t, you know you
did, and the wickedest are afeard to swear in
a thunder storm when the voice of the Al
mighty is speaking.
Heath. I tell you I will swear! What the
deuce did you let her alone for, confound
you ! You ain’t fit to watch a squirrel after
it’s treed, i’ll after her to the world's end.
Brownbess and 1
Jenny. Oh! Job, you never scolded me be
fore. I’tn a wicked critter, I know, but
Wcath. No, that you ain’t. I’d shoot the
dog that called you wicked, but I’ll say what
I like myself.
Jenny. It ain’t the first time that the inno
cent left to my care have been lost; you know
it, Job. I should have a clear conscience if it
bad not been for that which happened before j
we emigrated to the west. But, oh! that I
weighs on my conscience like lead. And it !
sometimes makes me afeard to he alone with j
my own soul. If Miss Virginia’s carried off
I shall know it's all a judgment on me for I
my sins, and it’s I that brought you into all j
this trouble, honey. ( Weeps bitterly.)
Wealh. Well, Jenny, don’t erv so! It
isn’t so bad after all. \ou are a good wife I
and a kind soul, and I'll never think you the
worse. Back home, Jenny, while I get into
my boat and down among the copper-skins.
I’ve a misgiving they’re at the bottom of this j
mischief.
Jenny. Oh! Job, you’ll get killed yourself,
and it’s all my doings, honey.
Wcath. The devil can’t back me while
Brownbess and I stick together.
Jenny. I’ll go with you, then, Job—for if
you must come in evil’s way, I’ll not stay be
hind—and if we find the poor soul, she’ll be
right glad, I know', to see Jenny along side
of you.
Wcath. That’s right, my gal. Push in—
there, brace off—never mind the squall.
“(They get into (he boat and push off.)
V OL. 111.
SCENE THIRD.
[The Indian encampment—Enter savages j
on one side dragging in the captive Virginia j
-St. F ‘rancis and Ozcmha enter on the other.)
Oz. Where have you tracked the fawn ?
1 irginia. (Struggling to release herself j
and falls at St. Francis’ feel.) Oh! thou ait
white;
Thou wilt have mercy, then ! Ou ! save me,
save
St. F. Why, ’tisa piteous sight—most pit
eous. Ila!
What forms, what features break in beauty j
on me?
| The breathing apparition of the dead!
i Surely I’m in a dream. The slave, the sport
Os a distempered brain ! A stranger youth
Is brought a captive here, and every nerve
In my worn frame thrills with electric (ire.
And this young maid—with the fair, plead- j
ing face,
And lips like chisel’d marble, mocking death!
Oh! ’tis the same, the same. How’ cam’st
thou here ?
Oil! perjured woman! in thy undimmed
youth,
Unwasted loveliness, and cherub grace,
Triumphing o’er my pallidness and woe; j
And like the ivy on the blasted oak,
Blooming around the ruin thou hast made?
Away! thou multipliest! Thousand forms
Like thine are clinging in derision here!
(Staggers back against the Indian ChirJ.) !
Oz. The white friend raves. There’s fever
in his brain.
Virginia. Alas, he’s frantic—whither shall
1 turn?
I dare not plead to this dark chief for mercy *
And yet he may relent. Oh! forest king,
The brave are ever kind. The warrior scorns
To lilt his hand against a feeble girl.
Let thy gre.at soul look down upon the weak ;
Let not a widowed father mourn his child.
Oz. The eagle’s strong and brave. His j
talons grasp
The white-winged dove—its plumes are wet j
with blood.
Virginia. I’ll put my trust in Heaven. i
The pleading cries
Os innocence will reach the Almighty’s j
Throne,
Though man disdain to hear.
St. F. Who is thy father ?
Tin calmer now—the waters have flowed i
v back,
Covering once more the wreck of desolation, j
Tell me thy father’s name—thy mother’s, aye. i
Virginia. 1 glory in my father’s name I
and fame;
It is a passport to each loyal heart;
Winfield—the leader of a gallant band,
Who pour their life’s blood in their country’s
cause.
. I am a soldier’s daughter.
St. F. Winfield, oh !
And thou baptized, Virginia—-’twas her
, I
name!
Virginia. Oh! didst thou know in)’ mother? j
Hast thou seen
Her angel face, and yet behold her child
With cold, unpitying eye, a captive here ?
Si. F. Know her! Ha! ha! Virginia,!
I’m avenged!
Virginia. Oh ! my poor father
St. F. Aye ! thy father, too!
I know him well. Is he a happy man ?
Are his dreams quiet? Does no ghostly
form,
Resembling mine, glide round his nightly
couch,
Plant his pillow with corroding thorns?
Has he ne’er told thee this?
! Virginia. Cruel, unkind.
My father never wronged thee.
! St. F. It is false!
I tell thee lie’s a villain—a dastard villain !
1 lie’s made me what 1 am—all nerve and
flame—
| Scathed by the lightnings of consuming pas
sion :
j A prey to growling care: unslaked revenge:
A stranger to the charities of life.
Thy mother, too; hut peace—she’s dead,
she’s dead.
Virginia. Then wreak upon their unof
fended child
The boarded vengeance duo to all thy
wrongs:
Destroy me! when, perchance, a word of
thine
Might give me back to liberty and life.
Oh! such revenge is noble.
St. F. She stings me to the soul.
Am I so lost to revel in the pangs
Os guiltless loveliness? She shall not die.
I’ll soar above the baseness of mv foe
And scatter burning coals upon his head.
(7b Ozembra.) Friend of St. Francis, chief
of mighty heart,
Restore the captive maiden to hor sire ;
Her tears will quench the torch that lights
the brave
To victory’s path. Let the white dove re
turn.
Oz. Thrice the Great Spirit in my dreams
has spoken
And told me of bis will. He bids me lay
The fawn upon the altar when it conies
M ithin his children’s fold. One victim lives.
Thrice from the storm-cloud, as it rolled in
wrath
Mid the red lightning’s glare, he told me this.
I lie daughter of the pallid chief must die;
Her sire will scatter us like forest leaves
betore the winds of Heaven; I will make him
weak
M hen the blood nearest to his heart is spilt.
St. I . Have 1 not scattered light upon thy
dwellings: ° 1
Learned thee the arts and blessings of our
race:
Taught thee the music of our speech; to read I
The mysteries of nature, deep, sublime?
Hast thou not called me prophet, brother,
friend ?
I ask thee naught but this young maiden’s !
life ?
Oz. Ozemba's spirit will not bend again.
Ilis brother has been kind, but words are
breath.
Virginia. Stranger, it is in vain. No mer
cy beams
In bis cold, glittering eye. I know my doom :
But thou hast melted: thou hast prayed for
me.
The orphan’s friend shall bless thee. Yet,
once more:
Methinksl beard thee, in thy ravings, speak
Os a young stranger brought a captive here?
Oh ! tell me if thou know’st: tell me he lives !
The gallant Forester; if he is spared ?
Si. F. Ah! is it thus! What is his fate to
thee ?
Virginia. Torture me not, but tell me if
ho lives ?
St. F. Me lives. I left him cradled on a
rock,
His weary senses slumbering. By his side
‘Pile dark-haired daughter of Ozemba watch
ed *
Virginia. He sleeps! Well, be it so. Free
and undodrned!
St. F. Free and undoomed! Ozemba’s
daughter bought his life
At peril of her own. She’ll pity thee.
Virginia. She watches by him, while, oh !
Heaven (Sinks on the ground in
agony and exhaustion—St. F. raises her
in his arms.)
Oz. No more.
Much talk is vain. Bind her, my braves j the
wings
Os the young bird will flutter to be free.
Virginia. Alas! it matters not. I’m pas
sive now.
St. F. Virginia’s child! By Ileavciq she
shall not die!
[Rushes out.] ;
Oz. (Lifting his hatchet over the. head of
Virginia.) Onto the stake! (Virginia \
falls fainting into the arms of the savages ‘
and is borne of.)
SCENE FOURTH.
[Forester is discovered asleep reclining
on a rock—Lamorah watching by his side.)
Lamorah. lie sleeps! I’ve scattered o’er
his rocky couch
Fair blossoms of the west that love the dew;
They breathe their fragrance o’er him, and he
dreams
Mis blue-eyed maid has placed them on his
breast:
Sweet be thy slumbers, warrior! May the gale i
That softly rustles in thy wavy locks,
Whisper of joy beneath thine own blue skies. !
Yes, thou shalt see thy native bowers once
more,
While in the covert hid; the wounded deer,
Pierced by the hunter’s dart, unheeded, dies.
[Enter St. Francis.)
St. F. Lamorah, roiise thee froth thy dream
, of love;
A captive maiden weeps. Thy sire has
doomed
The victim to the slake. Haste, for thy words
Can melt the rocks and bid the waters flow.
Lamorah. A captive maiden; is she young
and fair ?
St. F. Young, fair and innocent; yet doom
ed to die!
Lamorah. Not if Lamorah’s voice has
power to save.
My heart has told the secret of her name!
[.Exit.]
St. F. (Rousing Forester.) Wake, Fores
ter ! The hunters are abroad ;
The blood-hounds are let loose! Wake, war
rior, wake!
Forest. (Springing from the ground.) Give
me my sword S My dauntless boys,
come on!
Hurrah! the gallant chargers are at hand.
Where am I ? ’Twas a dream—a glorious
one.
j Methought I stood upon the battle-field,
Trampling the British Lion’’neath my feet,
! While swelling on tho breeze the deep’uing
strains
! Os martial music roll'd inspiring round me.
! Why didst thou wake me? I’ll go dream
again.
St. F. No, this is no soft, tranquil hour for
sleep.
Sleep is night’s heritage—the boon of peace—
-1 Day lingers on the mountains, where the
clouds
| Have folded up their banners, and the sun,
Like weary warrior, pitched his golden tent.
Thou’st slumbered while the thunder spirit’s
rav’d,
: Unconscious of their wrath. But rouse thee,
now.
Art thou of Winfield’s band?
Forest. Yes ! what of him ?
St, F. Nothing. Is he encamped within
these woods,
Armed to destroy ? Wert thou not sent as
scout
To see the strength and weakness of the foe?
Forest. Question me not. Wherever he
may be,
Whate’er his purpose, ’tis not mine to tell.
What! dost thou think I’ll prove a traitor ?
Hal
St. F. Is he a brave man ?
Forest. Ask bis enemy.
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, FRIDAY MORNING, APRIL 30, 185*2.
St. F. I am his enemy, and he a villain!
Forest. Kis honor is unstained. I will
not hear
The champion of bis country lightly named.
The man lives not who to his face‘would dare
Say what thou say’st to me.
St. F. I dare! I will!
If ever face to face we meet again !
Thou look’st upon me with indignant glance
As if I’d made an outrage ’gainst high Hea
ven.
What! Is this man so immaculate, sin-proof,
That frail humanity must bow before him
And do him reverence! Oh! the cred’lous
fools!
Forest. ’Tis cowardice to blast an honest
name
By cold, insidious hints. Come boldly out,
And toll what monstrous deed, what unknown
crime,
Ilid from tho world, is festering in thy mem
ory ?
St. F. Forester, it is just I should reveal
To thee the unknown history of my wrongs.
For years I’ve brooded o’er it, hoarded up
The sullen treasure, hugged it to inv soul,
And with unrighteous alchemy, transformed
My life, breath, substance into gall, the food
Os self-consuming, profitless revenge,
I’ve never told my injuries. In the pride
Os secret, incommunicable grief,
I’ve travelled through tho wilderness of life
Without one kindred soul entwined with mine,
To strew my solitary path with flowers.
Thou, like the Arabian traveller, hast found
The entrance to the dark and caverned cell;
And in some hour of silence and of gloom,
When nought but the pale stars are gleaming
o’er us,
Thou shalt descend and see how chill the
place
Where, for revolving years, the holy warmth
Os the Almighty’s blessing has not shone.
Forest. Mysterious being! why not now
unfold
The secrets of the prison-house?
St. F. No ! night
Is sorrow’s empire ; ’mid its regal shales,
She has set up her everlasting throne.
Forester, follow me! Thou shalt behold
One who can witness that my words are true.
I’ll show thee a faint image of the gem,
Os which my heart’s untreasured faintest
copy,
Yet not like the original, divine.
[ Exeunt.)
SCENE FIFTH.
[ Virginia discovered bound to a slake —
Savages dancing round with lighted torches.)
[Enter St. Francis and. Forester.
Si. F. Hold!
Forester, knowest thou that pallid maid?
(Virginia shrieks and stretches out her
shackled arms to Forester.)
Forest. (Rushing forward, encircles her in
his arms.) Virginia! Oh! Heaven! A
captive here!
[END OF THE THIRD ACT.I
(Dm* ContrUmtors.
MY STAR.
BY ERNEST SOLE.
[We were walking in the field at eventide, and a bright
star stood out upon the deep blue sky. Then she nam
ed that star, and the name of it is Fannie!]
I.
Thou hast blest tho sweet orb, thou hast named the soft
star,
That gleams in yon heaven, so bright tho’ so far ;
Thou hast called it thine own, and I gaze on it now,
With the feeling that causes the Parsee to bow
At the shrine of the God, whose splendor he deems
The light of that Eden, the home of his dreams.
11.
’Twere sweet ever thus to catch the bright ray,
That tints the blue sky in its ether-paved way,
From the realm where the hymningsef silvery spheres
Mark the moments that glide through Eternity’s years,
Where the wing of the seraph hath listlessly hung,
To list the deep chorus front spirit harps flung.
111.
’Twere blissful, I ween, to feel and to know
That thy bosom, far purer, far whiter than snow,
Hath heaved with a sigh, as the soft, trembling beam
Os that star hath slept calmly on yon quiet stream,
Whose waters no orb any fairer have known,
Than the one thou hast titled, sweet Fannie, thine own.
IV.
In years that are coming, oh! may I not claim
To know that sweet star by Fannie’s dear name?
I pray but one thing—grant my simple request—
When death brings the weary and care-ladcn rest,
Then think, as thou catche-t its gleam from afar,
That the home of my spirit is in that bright star!
[WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.]
Characteristics of the Nineteenth Century.
BY REV. PHIL. P. NEELY, D. D.
No. 0.
The Preacher of the Nineteenth Century.
We h ave insisted, so far, upon a forcible
exhibition ot un com pounded gospel truth.
In divining this, we would not be understood
as indicating a belief that the pulpit has no
befitting shrine, whereon learning may be her
intellectual “frankincense and myrrhor
that the preacher of this century is to hold
himself under uo obligation to seek for the
treasures of knowledge wheresoever they mav
be concealed. Os all men, he should toil
most after truth, of every kind, and should
labor for the acquisition of healthful knowl
edge. Many there are in the various churches
of Christendom, who, professing to be teach
ers of truth, are in ignorance even of gospel
truth, in its large and catholic apprehension—
while, with not a few, the preaching to which
they seetn pertinaciously wedded, is but little
else than a stereotyped pulpit monotone—a
straight theological line, beginning with the
Eden-innocence of man, and extending
through his fall to his ultimate beatification
in paradise, or imprisonment in perdition.
All this is repeated with no variety, from Sab
bath to Sabbath, and with a sickly conven
ticle whine, or an affected furor, which, with
some, [lasses for high spiritualism, or godly
zeal, but which will never fail to impress the
better judging with a humiliating sense of the
impotent advocate of a most powerful sys
tem. The minister who has no concern for
the mastery of truth: who is satisfied with
generalities, badly conceived and still more
badly arranged: who is content, while his in
tellectual store house is in a state of impover
ishment : who, presenting himself before a
congregation as a preacher of the sublime
system of Jesus, has no methodical arrange
ment of its doctrines, no well-chosen argu
ments whereby to defend it, nor ready illus
trations by which to simplify it: who, conse
crated to the work of expounding truth which
angels are emulous to know, gives but a moi
ety of his time in solemn meditation on that
truth, and in earnest and prayerful investiga
tion of its awful import : and who, in the su
percilious pride of his pitiable understanding,
declares his independence of those masterful
intellects whose lives were passed in agon
izing endeavors to know that truth ; such a j
preacher—and there are such—is a libel on
his profession, a dishonor to religion, and a
blot on the escutcheon of that church whose
misfortune it is to be disgraced by his name.
Hearers, if they be intelligent ones, must
have variety. The mind instinctively demands,
the soul asks for it; and the Gospel, above all
other fields, has abundant resources for these
calls, if those who are its teachers will but put
forth the necessary energy in their efforts to
know that Gospel. Its topics cast their shadow
of grandeur over all others, including as they
do, all others, and extending as they do, through
all eternity. They are, therefore, inexhausti
ble. The work of the preacher is but a con
tinuation of the mission of Jesus—an exten
sion of the ministry of the All-wise—and as
such, calls for the profoundest knowledge,
demands the intensest application.
We talk of the want of spirituality in the
ministry, by which popular phrase many
good people mean only the want of furor—
the absence of a bellowing zeal. Many lach
rymose standstillers there are in our day, who
expend their dolorous sighs over what they
are pleased to call the want of power, in the
ministry of this age. With them sound is pow
er, rant is unction, and sectarian savagery is
zeal. We admit that the spirituality—yea, the
power of the pulpit, might be improved. We
mean truo spirituality—gospel power—and
not the spurious cant and dogmatic fierce
ness which have passed current for spirituali
ty and power. While we thus concede, we
avow the conviction, that the greatest want
of the American pulpit, (and we speak more
particularly of that church of which, by
connection, we have most knowledge,) is pro
found knowledge. Our zeal, in most cases,
has outstripped our knowledge. We have
need of increase in both; yet more, as we
conceive, in the latter.
The progress of society, in science and let
ters, claims of the preacher of this age, a pro
portional advance. If he fail to make it, his
ministrations may be endured, yet will they be
unprofitable. They may have the power of
zeal, but there will be wanting the power of
a sanctified intellectuality; a power, which
one has called, “great in its very silence,”
and which, like Elijah’s prayer, cleaves the
skies and draws down fire from above.
Correctly, therefore, did John Foster, in
his “Causes of Aversion in Men of Taste to
Evangelical Religion,” assign as a leading
obstacle in the way with many, “the pecu
liarity of language adopted in the discourses
of its teachers, the want of a more classical
form of diction, and the profusion of words
and phrases which are of a technical and
systematic cast.’’ It is even so. Not until
there is a reviviscence of thought on the part
of preachers everywhere, on entering into
the contest for profound knowledge and a
struggling for holy attainments in the same
proportion: not until the pulpit comes forth
from the swaddling clothes in which bigotry
and prejudice and slothfulness have bound it,
and walks forth boldly upon the high places
of great thought and eminent purity : not un
til religious literature is dispossessed of the
“wrinkled and withered skin of an obsolete
sectarianism, and puts on intelligence as a
garment, and brings forth the fruits of power,
and of love, and of a sound mind: not until this
isdone, will the preachers of this country be,as
they might and should, the master spirits of
the age, and the pulpit become a pavillion
from which God will speak with a voice that
will subdue and entrance the world.
We come next to speak of how far a
preacher, in his presentation of Gospel truth,
should bring to his aid the wealth of imagina
tion, and the adoruings of rhetoric and elo
cution.
Alabama Conference, 1852.
IsJT A Glasgow merchant was lately ac
costed in his counting-house by a man who
needed charity. Money having been given
him, he said, “you havn’t got such a thing as |
a pair of old trowsers, have you ?”
“No, my man, I don’t keep my wardrobe
in my counting-house.”
“Where do you live?” asked the imperii- :
nent rascal, “I’ll call in the morning for
the ould pair you’ve got on.”
The father of President Fillmore, it is said, !
7 I
is a Methodist preacher, and is at this time presiding
cider in a cocf-reflce district in New York,
[WRITTEN TOR THE SENTINEL.]
THE LADY LINDA,
BE TAUL FRL'TON.
CHAPTER I.
Listlessly amid her maidens, sits the lovely
Lady Linda. Ulla, of the silver voice, creeps
timidly to her side, but not a glance does the
favorite receive.
The autumn wind whistles without—the
Lady Linda listens, and shudders.
A wassail shout rings through the apart
ment—slowly the tears start down the cheek
of the Lady Linda—the fairest cheek in Eng
land.
Vila presses her lips to the white small
hand, that drops beside her. Awakening as
from a painful dream, the Lady Linda cares
ses her favorite with a sad smile.
‘‘Sing thou that pleasing song again,” she
said, “the song of the beautiful land.”
Vila’s voice was sweeter than a rippling
stream, and she sang :
“Loving hearts, maiden,
Are waiting for thee;
Glad voices calling the©
Over the sea.
Sunbeams are flashing—bright waves are dashing,
Maiden, dear maiden, impatient lor thee.
“A heart’s wildly yearning,
Sweet maiden, for thee—
Oh, mount thou its throne,
And a Queen thou shalt he !
By a lover’s true hand, in this balm breathing land,
Shall thy white brow be fanned,
’.Neath the sweet Orange tree.”
M ith a clash, the ponderous door of the
Lady Linda’s chamber swung upon its hing
es, and the heavy foot-steps of the Earl Hol
lo echoed from side to side.
“Our good king Alfred sends thee a little
page,” said he, pointing with a sneer to a
tall, dark stranger, who accompanied him.
“A Southron girl, who will sing thee enough
of love ditties; methinks a youth of thy inch
es, had better be wielding the battle-axe than
picking up a lady’s glove!”
For an instant, the fire flashed like a dag
| ger from the stranger’s eyes, but turning his
gaze on the Lady Linda, he awaited with
an inquiring air, her answer,
“Methinks, my lord and father,’’ she replied,
“thou mightest have told thy mission without
j taxing this stranger’s courtesy so far. What
j matters it to moot the question here ? Thou
; knowest that mv law is but thy will.”
| “My will would be, to hang every Southron
j hound that comes!’’ lie answered fiercely,
j “But since our King hath sent thee, why
j thou e’en must stay.”
“Small thanks to thee!” cried the stranger,
with his hand upon his sword-hilt.
“These barking curs never bite!” murmur
ed the Earl, as lie retired with a clancinar
step. “They show fire like the flint beneath
our horse’s hoof, but do no harm!”
Linda motioned to her maidens, who retir
ed ; raising her eyes from the floor where they
had been bent in silence, she looked at the
stranger. He stood before her with his mus
cular arms folded across bis broad breast—
tall, handsome, and commanding. A merry
smile played around her lips as she deman
ded—
“ What canst thou do, sir page?”
“Thy will, fairest of women!” he answer
ed, bending bis flashing eyes upon her, till
; the rich color flushed to her brow, and her
I eyes again sought the ground.
“Canst thou pick up a lady’s glove ?”
“Aye, and the hand that wears it!”
“Canst thou deliver faithfully a tender
message to my lover ?”
“If that lover be myself,” was the quick
rep! y.
|
! “Thou art bold!” said the Lady Linda,
; with a tinge of haughtiness.
“The boldest warrior ever wins the battle,”
was the reply.
“Aye—But thou presumest, sir !”
“The Lady Linda is very lovely!”
She raised her eyes in displeasure. There
was that magnificent face bonding toward
her—his intense dark eyes gazing into her ve
ry soul—the full warm lips quivering with
their burden of words which he could hardly
restrain—the dark curling beard that hid his
massive chin. A moment. What is this feel
ing that steals over her? This delicious
faintness, how comes it ? She does not
know, but her hand is in both of his—he
presses it to his heart—his lips. She must
arouse! This stranger! This menial!
“Leave me!” she cried imperiously,snatch
ing her hand from his grasp. In a moment
he was gone. She almost spoke to recall
him. She trembled and wept. She reproach
ed herself. “I will never see him again,” she
said to herself. “He should be punished ! No.
Never! The man should die who dared to
think of such a thing!” and finally, when Ulla
entered the room, wondering at her mistress’s
long silence, the Lady Linda had fallen,
and her long golden curls lay around her
like a sunny veil.
The poor Lady Linda was sick for many ;
days. She had no mother. Ulla was the ‘
daughter of her father’s freedman, and her
mistress loved her very devotedly.
She said nothing of her mysterious visitant,
and no one spoke to her of him. But she
still felt that burning kiss upon her hand, and
the liquid tones and Southern accent ot his
voice dwelt in her ear like pleasant music ;
and she sought in vain among the fair haired
sons of the North, for an eye so brilliant, so
wonderful in its power, as his.
One day— she was no longer sick, but ve
ry languid—Ulla was kneeling beside her.
“Repeat to me uow ; sweet Ulla 7 the stories ;
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NO. 18.
of the sights which our good king saw ; be
lievest thou there is a land so beautiful ?
Would 1 could see it!” With a slow step the
stranger page entered and knelt beside the
Lady Linda.
“Forgive, sweet Lady, and hear me! /
will tell thee of a land whose beauty shall
steal thy soul! When thou returnest to-mor
row, to thy house, amid the cold ice-hills of
Norway, the memory of my words shall
dwell upon thy heart like a breeze of Spring.
When nothing shall meet thy longing gaze,
save the solemn pines of thy Northern home,
and the streams fettered with ice, think thou
of the tale I told of my home in the beauti
ful South. There is a land where summer
ever dwells. The streams there, laugh ami
murmur the whole year round, like happy
children amid a bed of flowers. The sky—oil,
lady, nothing can picture to thee its glorious
hues! The sun, like a monarch, loving and
loved, scatters his blessings on every side.
Amid groves of citron and orange and myr
tle, a thousand birds make music. Lady,
when thou shalt list to the rough wooing of
thy warlike suitors, and their uncouth accents
fall upon tl;y delicate car. remember my words.
In that land of which I speak, there are arms
strong to defend and hearts warm to love
hearts which would burn with adoration for
thee! ardent, faithful, yet all as bravo as thy
blustering Northmen!”
lie paused, and she turned her face from
those brilliant eyes of hi3.
“Methinks thou art not what thou seemest,”
she said slowly, “and if thy home is thus beau
tiful, wherefore hast thou left it?”
“Wherefore,” answered he with passionate
eagerness, “but that a star blazed in this
Northern heaven, the report of whose beauty
I could not resist ? Ah, Lady—l hoped that
in that lovely form, thy heart beat warmer
than the snow of thy frozen mountains!
Wherefore, didst thou say ?” he added, as if
correcting himself, “because when Alfred
yet tarried under our warmer skies, I was
pleased with the stories of his home and
’ wished to see it with my own eyes, Lady,
| thou art too lovely for these rough boors
| around thee; thou shonldst be won, not by
i the man who can boast only of his strong
j limbs, and the flagons of ale lie quaffs, but by
! one whoso mind is as symmetrical and culti
vated as its perishable casket. In our own
beautiful Italy, there are such souls—wouldst
thou visit my home ?”
“Oh, how willingly!” she answered, ea
gerly clasping her hands, “but alas, I cannot!
my stern father loves not the Southron.”
“Fly, Lady! Fly with me to my sunn v
[home!” The words echoed like music in
j her heart.
i “With thee /” she cried in ecstacy. Her
i eye fell upon Ills page’s dress, and the pride of
j her race arose, as she repeated in a tone
of contempt —“With thee!” lie read her
thoughts and smiled. The smile was one of
conscious power, and somewhat merry withal.
“Aye ! My lord, fair Lady, has heard of
thy wondrous beauty, and would claim thee
as his bride. lie who sails in the vessel of
State could not leave Lis native land even to
woo his love—therefore he sent me. Now
wilt thou fly with me ?”
“And if I should not love him ?” she asked.
“But thou wilt!”
“Still if I should not, and should bo im
happy ?”
“Then shalt thou return to thine ice-ribbed
| home.”
j “Oh,” she cried, bewildered by this sudden
| proposition, “I cannot go! Leave me!”
j “Farewell!” and he pressed her hand to
his lips.
“Nay, stay!’’ she cried, raising her hand—
butiic had gone. “But this page is a fool, to
believe a woman means every whit she says!”
she cried in vexation, turning toward Ulla.
“He is a fool, my Lady,” said Ulla, laugh
ing to herself.
“Now, Ulla, howdarest thou speak thus?”
said the Lady Linda in a displeased tone.
“He is no fool, hut full of courtesy and cour
age, and of learned speech, withal. And yet
methinks he is over hasty, and of a temper
somewhat high.”
“Aye, my Lady, a bad temper!” coincid
ed Ulla.
“Nay, Lila! Methinks thou art not
Hi thy wonted mood,” said Lady Linda,
sharply. “ J’hy speech is full of cavilling,
this morning. If thou art not deaf and blind,
canst “thou not see be is most gentle temper
ed ? Surely his eye though full of fire is like
the sun’s—flashing with the fire of love—and
a voice so wonderfully like sweet music, no
man e’er hath with a coarse temper. But,”
she added with a sigh, “he seemeth to care
naught for another’s feelings—he doth not
sufficiently avoid giving pain.’’
“Truly, my Lady,” said Ulla, as though
she had just discovered the right expression,
“he is selfish, and possesses a cruel heart.”
“Now, Ulla, thou art most provoking!’’ said
the Lady Linda, almost ready to cry with
vexation. “I would be alone!” Ulla went out,
glad to get where she might laugh freely.
Lady Linda, whose temper was .as lovely
as her face, had never before exhibited so
much irritability ; but Ulla wa3 not grieved,
for she had discovered what probably the
reader has, before this.
The next morning the Earl Hollo, his two gj
stalwart sons, Ulla, and the Lady Linda, and
the few retainers who had come with him to
“morrie England/’ embarked for their Nor*
way home,