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IS VVBLUI^r
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DUCTED BV. . . CAROLINE LEE HENTZ.
[ WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL. ]
TO ELLA.
Oh! Ido love the artless grace
Os childhood’s joyous spring-*-
When sunny smilos around the lace
In dimpled beauty cling—
Where bright thoughts find a resting place,
Like birds of silver wing,
And on the cheek, with varied trace,
Their softest lustre fling—
As pure as though their native Heaven
Its own soft radiance had given.
A voiee, whose slightest accent swells
Prom feeling’s glad excess—
An eye, whose silent meaning tells
What words may not express—
A form, like music charmed to life
Bv its own loveliness—
And lit by that soft summer’s sun
That gladdens all it shines upon.
And as it shone when life begun
It beams upon thee now—
And such, thou loved and lovely one,
As I have drawn, art thou—
The world’s cold hand hath not yet won
God’s signet from thy brow —
And all of earth that mingles there
But makes its loveliness more lair.
ALPHA.
1 WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR THE SOUTUI:R#|SENTINEL. ]
ONE HUNDRED DOLLAR PREMIUM
r UET’ je: ®
MINNIE ASHLEY.
BY MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR.
CHAPTER VI.
“It is not the fear of Death,
That damps my brow—
It is not for another breath,
1 a. k thee now :
I can die with a lip unstirred.
And a q liet Inert—
Let but this prayer be heard,
Ere I depart.” [ wilus.
“And now, farewell, farewell! I dare not lengthen
Thes- sweet, sad moments out. To gaze on thee,
Is bliss indeed—yet it but serves to strengthen
The love that now amounts to agony.
The world is wide, and we must dwell apart ’’
[ MRS. WELBY.
“Mr. Ashley, you do not—you surely can
not mean what you say!”
“Look in mv face, Herbert Lacy, and tell
me if you think I am jesting ! YV ould to
God that I were I Would to God that all
the suffering I foresee, might fall upon my
own head! Then would I grieve less bitterly
over the one fatal error of mv life. It is as I
said, Herbert. Minnie cannot be your wife!”
and Mr. Ashley sank upon his seat again and
covered his face with his hands.
“This is worse than madness, Mr. Ashley.
What meaning can I attach to your wild
•words? Yesterday morning you gave me
permission to address your daughter. \ou
told me that if I had won, or could yet win
her young heart, you would willingly, freely,
give me her hand. Last night our vows
were exchanged—they are registered in
Heaven—and now you come to me and say
that those vows must be broken. They shall
not be! In the sight of God, and lIU holy
angels, they are as binding a"S if they had
been uttered before the altar* and your capri
ces are powerless to annul them.”
Air. As!.lev’s face was still covered, and
for some moments he made no response to
Lacy’s earnest words; but When he removed
his hands and looked up, the young man
started—it was so pale—so rigid, and his
voice 60 altered. “Sit down, Herbert Lacy
—come and sit near me, for I cannot speak
loud. I have a tale to tell you that I had
hoped might be buiied with me—but God has
willed otherwise.”
He obeyed, hut with a look of wonder
and incredulity, and Mr. Ashley commenced :
“It will be seventeen years next January,
since mv business called me to an Eastern
city, about one hundred miles from the town
where I then resided. It was completed,
and I was making my arrangements to return
home, when my attention was drawn to a
group of men, who were discussing the
charge to the jury, in a late trial for murder.
The murder, the indictment, the trial and the
eentence, had followed each other with unu
sual rapidity, and the whole affair was new
to me. With my curiosity somewhat exci
ted, I drew near to listen.
“They were speaking of the prisoner. He
bore the same name as did one of the dear
est friends of my boyhood—one whom I sup
posed was then in a foreign land. They de
scribed his person —it corresponded exactly
with that of my friend, and I determined to
unravel the mystery. After making many
trials, and surmounting many obstacles, I at
last succeeded in gaining admission to the
cell of the convict. I remember even yet,
the close, damp air—the long, gloomy passa
ges, with their vaulted ceilings, through
which our footsteps echoed drearily—the
grating of the bolts—the jarring that thrilled
me from head to foot, as the heavy door
swung on its hinges—and the dark, nar
row cell. The prisoner sat upon the low
iron bedstead, with his arms folded, and his
head bent upon them, and neither stirred nor
spoke as we approached. The jailor laid his
hand upon the poor felon’s shoulder, and
calling him by name, addressed him kindly’.
He raised his head, and throwing back the
long, thick hair that fell over his eyes, looked
at me for a moment with a bewildered stare.
It was as I had feared—and as my friend re
cognized me, his wonted calmness or stoi
cism fled, and he sank upon the stone floor of
his cell, while his whole frame was convul
sed Nvith agony. It was long ere I succeed-
VOL. 111.
ed in calming him; but at last the storm of
passion spent itself, and he rose from the
floor and told me his story.
” The evidence against him had been fear
fully strong. He had been found near the
body of the murderedlnan—he had a sum of
money upon his person that amounted nearly
to that which it was proved had been in the
possession of the victim on the morning of
the murder, and there were many other inci
dental circumstances that were as added links
in the chain. He had just returned from a for
eign shore—he was friendless and among
strangers—and he was found guilty. ‘But,
John—John Ashley,’ he exclaimed, grasping
my hand and standing erect before me,‘l swear
to you, before high Heaven, that 1 am guilt
less of this awful crime. I must die upon the
scaffold. I have not the slightest hope of
escaping the dreadful death to which I am
doomed; but there is justice in Heaven, and
my name will one day be freed frotn the ig
nominy which now covers it. Do you be
lieve me ?’
“I cannot tell you bow his words impress
ed me, but there was that in his whole mien
and bearing, which convinced me that he was
speaking the truth; and I bowed my head
over his thin hand, as reverently as I would
have done over that of a martyr.
“ ‘Can I do nothing to save you V I asked.
‘ls there no hope V He shook his head
sadly.
‘“No, none! But you can take from my
heart its heavy burthen. My Mary, thank
God! is in her grave. But my little girl—my
precious—my only one!’ His voice faltered,
and he ceased.
“‘Where is she, George? I will take her
to Nelly, and she shall be our child Can
you trust ns ?’
“I cannot dwell longer upon that inter
view. The next day I left the city, hut 1
bore with me the convict’s daughter, and in
less than a week her father was executed.
That child—you know what I would say —
that child was Minnie. She has never heard
this tale. I thought to shield her from all
sorrow, by concealing the truth, and ”
“And you have done so,” interrupted Her
bert, and he grasped Mr. Ashley’s hand
warmly, while his face, so lately clouded,
was lit up with hope and joy. “Why, my
dear sir, did you think that my love for our
sweet Minnie could be shaken by as light a
breeze as this? You have brightened her
young days, and I bless you for it, and my
lips shall never teach her to call you by a
less tender name than that of father. And
you thought I would love her less, because
she was a felon’s child? She is good, and
pure, and lovely, and she shall not suffer for
her father’s sake.”
A deep groan burst from Mr. Ashley’s lips,
and his pale face grew ghastly white, as he
said in a hollow whisper:
“Herbert Lacy, Minnie’s father,was execu
ted for the murder of yours. You have
wrung the whole truth from me. Now may
God help us!” N
Mr. Ashley expected that Herbert would
shrink or faint, or in some manner give vent
to the agony which those fearful words must
have occasioned—but ho did not. For an
hour, that seemed an eternity, he neither mo
ved nor spoke—he did not even sigh—but
his hands were so tightly clenched that the
blood oozed from beneath the nails—the
veins upon his temples were swollen almost ;
to bursting—and his lips were parted in a
strange, unnatural smile. At last he rose,
and approaching his companion, laid his
trembling hand upon his arm, and spoke in j
a low, calm voice; but oh! it was so mourn
ful, so full of suppressed anguish, that the
composure for which Mr. Ashley had been
struggling, fled as he listened.
“I will go—l must go —but I would see
Minnie once—only this once. Fear not,” he
added, as Mr. Ashley hesitated—‘‘l will not
betray your secret. Attribute ttiv desertion
—for such she will deem it—to what cause
you please; but oh! let me see her once
more.”
He did see her; and half an hour after
ward, the hall door closed with a sharp, sud
den clang, and Minnie was sobbing wildly
upon her mother’s breast. Poor child! It
was her first real grief—it had followed
closely upon the footsteps of her first great
joy, and it was very, very terrible!
CHAPTER VII.
“There is to me
A daintiness about these early flowers.
That touches me iike poetry.” [ willis.
“For sure the greatest evil man can know,
Bears no proportion to this dread suspense.”
April had come—capricious,yet lovely April ;
—with her few pale, delicate flowers. The
springing grass grew greener, as she passed,
and the swelling leaf-buds unfolded, as she
breathed upon them. The river glided by
with a gentler murmur—the wind lifted one's
hair with a soft, caressing touch—and the
rain “fell in the beaded drops of summer
time.”
“I have brought you some violets, dearest
Minnie; are they not beautiful?” The young
girl took the frail, trembling flowers in her
small, transparent fingers, and smiled sadly, I
but gratefully.
“They are indeed very beautiful, dear father, j
It is strange, but the sight of these early |
blossoms always saddens me, and yet I
dearly love them.”
“Everything saddens you now, Minnie.
Oh! my child, my child! would that J could
remove this cloud that is darkening your
young days.’’
©ic Southern’ Sentinel.
Minnie was sitting by the open window,
watching the sparkling of the waves as the
sunlight fell upon them—a large tear rolled
slowly down her cheek, and fell within the
tiny cup of one of the violets, glittering like
a dew-drop—but she did not answer. Her
father took her thin hand in his and gently
turned her head, so that he could look up
on her face.
“Look at me—speak to me, Minnie! I
cannot bear to see you thus. You do not
complain—you seldom weep—you have
rarely spoken even, of what 1 know is killing
you ; but you are growing thinner and paler
each day, and you move about as one in a
dream. Will you not try to rouse yourself
from this lethargy ? I could witness the
noisiest grief without half the paiu that your
silent sadness gives me.”
“Father, father, you do not know—you
never can know, how I have struggled
with this sorrow. I have wrestled with it
for months I have tried to make myself be
lieve that Herbert’s desertion was a causeless
one—that he had been but trifling with my
love; and I thought if I could believe that, I
could cast him from my heart as unworthy
of a thought. But I feel that he was no tri
fler—that the vows he breathed the evening
before we parted, came from the depths of a
tune and loyal heart. There was agony
stamped upon every lineament of his counte
nance when I last looked upon it, and I know
it was not feigned. Father, you can unfold
this mystery. It is wearing my life away.
I know not what to think or what to believe,
and I have nothing to hope. lam weary—
weary of being thus tossed on the waves of
doubt and uncertainty. Tell me all, I be
seech you, and let me rest.’’
Minnie had risen from her seat while speak
ing, and now she fell at her father’s feet, and
lifted her pale face, down which the tears
were streaming, imploringly to his—“ All, all,
father ; tell me all, I beseech you!”
Mr. Ashley raised her tenderly, and fold
ing her in his arms, he smoothed back the
rich tresses that had fallen from their place,
and tried to soothe her with soft, low words,
and fond caresses, as if she had been a fright
ened dove. But still she repeated, “All—all!
tell me all!”
“Minnie, Minnie, my child, you know not
what you ask!”
“Father, I can bear anything, anything
better than this mystery. 1 know that I am
separated forever from Herbert—that there is
an insuperable bar to our union—but oh, let
me know what that barrier is! It is this that
is killing me. If the secret connected with
this affair be a dark, a fearful one—as l often
think—it is still better that I should know it,
and be at rest.”
“She is right, John; Minnie is right,” said
Mrs. Ashley, who had entered the room just
in time to hoar the last sentence; “she can
never be at rest while this burden is upon her
mind. It is better that she should know the
truth.”
“Tell her then, Nelly—l can not,” and
placing Minnie in her mother’s arms, Mr.
Ashley left the chamber.
“Minnie, my own darling Minnie, would
you love me any the less if I should tell you
that I am not indeed your mother?”
Minnie had expected something very, very
terrible, and it may be that Mrs. Ashley’s
words were rather a relief than the contrary,
for there was a faint smile upon her lip as
she answered—“ Nothing that you can tell mo
will make me love you any the less. You have
been to me the dearest and best of mothers
all my life long. I can never feel that you
are anything else.”
“And you have been, oh, more than a
daughter to me, Minnie! lam your mother
in heart—in love. Be contented with that,
mv darling, and with the knowledge that no
child was ever dearer to a parent, than you
have been, and ever will be to us.”
Minnie nestled still closer in Mrs. Ashley's
arms, and in that long, fond embrace, both
mother and daughter—for we shall call them
nothing else—felt that the ties that bound
them together had grown stronger, rather
than weaker. Then, while she held her
there, cradled on her breast, Mrs. Ashley told
the sad story, gently, calmly, tenderly, as on
ly a loving woman could have done. And
Minnie, though she wept until the fountain
had run dry, and she could weep no longer,
blessed God that she knew the whole, and !
had nothing else to fear.
“How did she bear it ? Has it killed her ?”
exclaimed Mr. Ashley, as his wife came down
stairs, and joined him in the piazza, about
two hours after.
“Oh, no! she is in a calm, sweet sleep. Poor
child—her vivid imagination and bitter grief,
had conjured up phantoms more dreadful
than the reality could be; and she is more
quiet, and looks more like herself than she
has for months.”
“ Thank God—thank God!’’ and John
Ashley bowed his head in a gush of grateful
tears. “But, oh, to think how much she has
suffered! Years ago, you told me, Nelly,
that you had never known any good come
of concealing the truth. Would that I had
been guided by your judgment.’’
“Do not sav so, my husband—you did
what you thought would be for the best, and
we are blind, erring mortals, all of us.”
From that hour, Minnie neither murmured
nor repined. She was not the gay, glad
creature she had once been—but she bowed
her head meekly to the storm, and felt not
half its fury.
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, FRIDAY MORNING, JUNE 4, 1852.
CHAPTER VIII.
“Blood, though it sleeps a time, yet never dies ;
The gods, on murderers, fix revengeful eyes.”
ICHATMAN.
“There is in life no blessing like affection ;
It soothes, it hallows, elevates, subdues,
And bringeth down to earth its native heaven—
Life hath nought else that may supply its place.”
[ L. E. LANDON.
“Minnie,”, said Mr. Ashley, as he entered
the room where she was sitting, some months
; after the events narrated in the last chapter,
I “Minnie, you have borne sorrow bravely—
j can you bear joy as well?”
The color flushed to Minnie’s face, and her
heart throbbed tumultuously, as she glanced
at an open letter in her father’s hand. “I
cannot tell until I am tried, my dear father,
and 1 did not bear sorrow very well at first.’’
“There is that in this letter, dearest, that I
trust will make you my own happy, light
hearted Minnie, once more. Do you know
that hand-writing?’’ he added, with a smile,
holding the letter up before her.
“I think I do. I think it is Herbert’s.
“It is Herbert’s, and here is a note for you
that was in the same envelope.” With a cry
of joy, Minnie sprang forward to receive the
treasure. “No, dear, you cannot have it un
til you have read this letter. What! tears,
Minnie? Well, I will not quarrel with them
now, for I know they are tears of joy. Take
both the letter and the note, then, and read
them in your own room, if you prefer.”
Minnie trembled so, and her eyes were so
i blinded with tears, that for many minutes af
ter she.reached her own chamber, she could
do nothing but gaze upon that dear hand-wri
! Hog, and press the mute, insensible paper to
! her heart. Could it be that her dark dream
had passed ? but how could it be ? and with a
convulsive effort at self-control, she read :
Galveston, (Texas,) Dec. 10, 18—
I must write you to-night, Mr. Ashley, my
kind friend, though my brain b whirling, and
the press of thought, almost maddens me. I
last wrote you from New Orleans; but I
could not forget myself, and my own sorrows
there, and I came hither, hoping that in the
wild life of this strange land, I might be more
successful. I have been roaming here and
there, as fancy dictated, and late last night,
I returned from the mountains. On reaching
my boarding house, I found to my chagrin,
that my cot was tenanted by a sick man—and
without distuibing him, I bade mine host
swing me a hammock, where I could rest till
morning.
“The poor fellow won’t last long, I am
thinking,” said he, as he entered the room to
find a blanket.
“Is he alone—has he no friends here?” I
asked.
“Not one,” was the answer, “and moreover,
he has the most villainous face I ever set eyes
on. He is an old sinner, if I ever saw one.”
“That may be,” I replied, “but it is terrible
to die alone, among strangers,” and taking
the light from the landlord, I approached the
low bed and drew down the sheet. The sick
man, startled by the light, turned his head un
easily, and fixed his hollow eyes upon me.
Had I been a demon, the effect could not
have been more electric. With a shriek, he
sprang upright in the bed, and seizing the
pillow, hurled it at me with frightful ve
hemence.
“Back—back, Thomas Lacy!” he scream
ed—“back, I say—l did not kill you—it was
George Morton, and they hung him ! Ha, ha!
Twelve good men and wise ones, they were.
It was George Morton—not I! They said
so, and the Judge said so, and they said
George took the money;” and then lowering
his voice to a husky whisper, he beckoned
me to approach him. “They said he took
the money, but he did not. I have it here,
here ; and I’ll divide with you.” Then with
another of the sudden changes of a maniac,
he cowered beneath the bed clothes, and im
plored me not to touch him: “Have mercy!
have mercy ! Thomas Lacy, and I will con
fess all!’’
1 was convinced that my father’s murderer
was before me, and although my’ blood curd
led with horror, I determined to investigate
the matter as far as possible. The death
damp was already perceptible on the sick
man’s brow—there was no time to lose—and
I seated myself by his side, and looked stea
dily and sternly at him. “Confess, then, as
you hope for mercy!” And he did confess,
coherently, and I believe, fully. He describ
ed the place, and the weapon used—the man
ner in which the deed was done, with fearful
minuteness; and I listened with freezing veins.
He told how he had diverted suspicion from
himself and thrown it upon Morton—how he
had testified against him—how he had gloried
in his conviction—and then, with a wild pray
er for mercy, he fell back upon the pallet,
struggled fiercely for a moment, as with in
visible foes, and died. To-morrow we shall
bury him. His confession was taken down
as it fell from his lips, and I shall make it
public as soon as I reach the States. I shall
be with you very soon after you receive this,
perhaps quite as soon. Will you not pro
mise me a welcome? And Minnie—tell her
that no shadow rests upon her father’s fame
now. From the terrible trial at which our
hearts have so repined, has sprung the beam
of light, that has driven it away forever.
Thank God, for her sake—for all our sakes,
that this dark mystery is a mystery no
longer!
The letter dropped from her hands, and
falling upon her knees, Minnie lifted her
streaming eyes to heaven. She breathed no I
words, but that voiceless thanksgiving need- !
ed none, to render it audible to the ear of
Him, without whose knowledge not even a
“sparrow falleth to the ground.” She had
forgotten to read the little note—it lay unno
ticed beside her —and she thought not of
Herbert. Her father—her poor father, over
whose memory she had wept and prayed—it
was for him she rejoiced; for him she sor
rowed. Rejoiced, that there had been no
blood upon his soul when it was driven to
the bar of God. Sorrowed, that the dull ear
of Death might not take cognizance of the
glad words—“He was innocent! ho was
innocent!”
She was roused from her trance of ming
led joy and grief, by the hum of voices and
the tread of hurrying footsteps. While she
listened, Mr. Ashley’s voice called, “Minnie—
Minnie!” and in a moment more, Herbert
Lacy’s arms were around her, and his warm
tears fell upon her cheek, while he murmured:
“Our trial is over now, Minnie, dearest. Let
us bless Him whose name is Love.”
And they did bless Him, then and ever
more !
I WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.]
MAGNOLIA LEAVES.
Quincy, Fla., May 15,1852.
Col. Lomax:
Dear Sik, —In looking abroad at this mo
ment, the eye meets the two most beautiful
colors in nature, green and blue—the green
of the earth and the blue of the sky. The
horizon presents a uniform, scarcely undula
ting line, broken by the lofty top boughs
of the forest trees, or the sharp roof of
an occasional dwelling house. But near
er than the horizon’s edge, there is a
grove of young oaks, so thick, so green, so
cool and refreshing, we have no doubt the
Dryads hold many a moonlight revel in its
virgin shades. The Fairies, too, flit about on
the dewy sward, at their nightly rendezvous,
after wandering
“Over hill, over dale,
Through bush, through brier—
Over park, over pale,
Through flood, through fire.”
The other evening, and a true fairy evening
it was, all moonlight and dew, as we sat lis
tening to the sweet duet, commencing with
“I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blov’s,
Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows,”
and as we looked out into the deep shades of
this grove, all sprinkled with silver as it was,
the spell of the mid summer night’s dieam
was up,n us, and we could see Titania slbep
ing there, in all her elfin beauty’, while cruel,
mischievous Oberon, squeezed on the fringed
curtains of her eyes, the juice of the miik
white flower, made purple by love’s wound,
yclept by young maidens, Love in idleness.
How beautiful is the poetry which peoples
nature with the glorious creations of imagin
ation ! Wh at a charm has it given to the
lonely wood, the silent rock, and the voice
less stream! The poetry of mythology, tqp.
How exquisite is it! What beauty and inter
est it imparts to inanimate objects ! The im
prisoned Dryad moans amid the leafy boughs.
The Naiad murmurs in the gurgling fountain.
In the plaintive notes of Echo, we hear the
accents of the love-lorn nymph, the victim
of the self-adoring Narcissus; and in the
beautiful wind-flower, born of the blood of
Adonis, we read the history of the enamor
ed Venus, and the beautiful, but scornful,
hunter youth.
Take away all poetical, mythological and
historical associations from nature, and it be
comes a body without a soul—“all coldly
sweet, all deadly fair.” Even the child, un
taught in mystic lore, finds a charm in inani
mate nature, independent of its own loveli
ness. The soft wind-breath that lingers on
its cheek reminds it of a mother’s kiss ; the
gentle murmur of the violet, of the music of
her voice; the summer rain-drops, of her
tears; the autumn gusts, of her solemn elud
ings.
Take away all Scriptural associations from
Nature—what a blank is left! Yea, what
grandeur—yea, what glory are annihilated !
The hills, what are they ? Piles of granite
and rough masses of rock and soil—inequali- j
ties on the surface of the broad earth. Let
mythology invest them with its poetic charm.
They become the dwelling places of the
heathen divinities, the thrones of Olympian
gods and goddesses, the fabled hierarchy of
Greece and Rome. Let Christianity come
forward, and we feel an influence more holy
than poetry, more mighty than superstition.
God himself is enthroned on the mountains,
in “light inaccessible and full of glory.” We
see Him in the thunders and lightnings and
thick smoke of Sinai; in the flowing blood
and darkened summit of Mount Calvary.
Wherever the sacred mountains rise, whether
baptized by water, fire or blood, they are the
thrones of invisible or incarnate Deity, and we
think of them as magnificent temples, typical
of those temples not made with hands, “eter
nal in the heavens.” So it is with the waters.
The rivers, what are they ? The rains
descend—they fall on the hill-tops—they
penetrate the fissures of the earth, wind
through its subterranean cavities, gush out
through rocky portals, and meeting congen
ial springs, swell into volume, and roll on
through guarding shores—roll on to sea or
ocean, a tributary, formed of thousand tribu
taries. Mythology gives life to this cold
element. The virgin, Arathusa, animates the
gliding fountain—the divine Alpheus moves to
love the hearts of the river nymphs, who gaze
upon his beauty. The sea green tnantle of
Neptune floats over the bosom of ocean—his
fiery steeds flake with foam its azure surface.
How beautiful, how sublime are these asso
ciations! Yet how infinitely short in beauty
and sublimity are they, of those awakened by
the bards of the Bible! The prophets stand
on the margin of Jordan. On the opposite
bank smiles the promised land. One sweep
of Elijah’s mantle, and the waters flow back>
as at the mandate of a God. The Israelites
tremble on the shores of the Bed Sea. They
fly from Pharaoh’s royal hosts. At the bid
ding of a God, the waves rise up in crystal
walls, making a path for the chosen children
of the Most High. We are told that the Al
mighty holds the seas in the hollow of his
hand, that the mountains flow down at Ilfs
presence, that the deep lifts up its hands on
high, that the perpetual hills do bow.
Surely this is a suggestive grove. We had
promised you a sketch from this place ; but
after saying it is beautiful, rural, sweet and
tranquil, we feel as if we had said all that it
becomes ns to utter, at this early period of
our sojourn in it. We have tried to collect
some legendary lore to transmit to you, but
in vain. We are told of some hoary seer,
who could give us most thrilling accounts of
Indian life and warfare, but alas! he is far
from us, and we can derive no benefit from his
storied memory.
There are the ruins of an old Spanish Fort,
about ten miles from here, that must be inter
esting, from their antiquity—so moss-grown
are they, so old. A gentleman, who was
describing them, and who visited the spot
about nine years since, says, that then it had
been so long deserted that large trees were
growing up in the midst of the four roads
which diverged from the old Fort. There is
said to be a still more interesting ruin near
Tallahassee. If we should chance to visit it,
we will endeavor to enrich ourselves with the
traditionary gems which adorn the place.
There is a gentleman residing there, who is
said to be a living Indian Encyclopedia, if
we may call him so. A son of the forest,
whose raven locks were bleached by the sun
and wind of one hundred, and forty years,
told him all he knew of his fast vanishing
race. Would it not be worth a pilgrim
age to beg some of these treasures, which may
be buried with the possessor, give them the
golden setting of imagination, and then ex
hibit them to the world ?
Why is it that we admire light and shade,
so much more than light without a shadow ?
Look at the shadow of the lattice-work
thrown wide across the street. You can see
the foliage of the trees playing among the
checkers. Now and then, the figure of a pe
destrian glides over the alternate bars of silver
! and ebony. Beyond, where all is brightness,
it is not half as lovely. Is it not so with life ?
The lights and shades of feeling checker the
surface of the soul. Fancy flutters over it
like the play of the wind stirred foliage, and
memory, like the gliding figure of the pedes
trian, throws a long dark shadow, which we
fain would keep from fading away.
Did you ever read the German story of
the Man without a Shadow ? Tempted by
an inexhaustible purse of gold, he sold his
shadow to the Evil Spirit. What cared he
for his shadow —that useless, haunting ghost
of matter? But the boys, when they saw
him intercept the sunshine, yet leave no more
shadow than a crystal, fled from him in ter
ror. He walked in the moonlight, with the
lady of his heart, and whispered soft words
of love; but when she saw on the wall, a
lonely shadow, while she felt the warm clasp
of his hand, she turned from him in speech
! less horror. Even the mendicant, whose
i wants his gold relieved, shuddered at his un
’ shadowed presence, and refused his unblest
gifts. He would have given a kingdom—
ten thousand kingdoms, were they his—to
win back his haunting shadow he had so
thoughtlessly bartered. So it is with man:
when he would utterly free himself from sor
row—the shadow of life—he is divorced from
the sympathies of his kind, the fellowship of
humanity. He walks alone, in the solitary
glare of his destiny. Oh! who would not
prefer walking in shadow, side by side with
friendship and love, to the lonely brilliancy
of the German student’s lot!
We would escape from Death, the great
shadow rolling behind the steps of humanity ;
yet what curse so fearful as that denounced
upon the wandering Jew—immortal roamer
on Time’s deserted shore—doomed to gaze
upon the successive wrecks of joy and love—
praying for the shadow that never falls on
the burning sands of his existence !
No! children of sunshine and shade, of
joy and sorrow, of life and death—heirs of a
two-fold being—let us avoid all unholy
league with the Spirit of Darkness. Let us
never dare to barter our divine birth-right,
lest, like Esau, tve find we have only a mis
erable mess of pottage in exchange, while we
expose ourselves to the retributions of Eter
nity.
How strange it is, that the reflection of a
slight curtain of woven wood-work, on the
moon lighted road, should call up ideas like
these! Yet every object in nature may be
made a round in the ladder, on which the an
gels of thought mount up to heaven.
Morning. —How different an aspect ev
ery thing wears by sun-light! No more
fairies; no more deep, poetic musings. Re
ality reigns, and the gilding tints of imagi
nation tade like the phantasmagoria of a
dream.
If you turn to the left, another grove greets I
the eye, luxuriant and beautiful, though less
romantic than the one we have described, i
M-au has appropriated it to the busiuess of •
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NO. 23.
life. A handsome Court House, built of a
kind of limestone, stands in the centre, and
the green lawn is surrounded by a railing,
once white, probably, but now looking ra
ther dim and discolored. The morning is
excessively sultry. You would know it by
looking at the horses tied along by the rail
ing, under the cool spreading shade, lazily
sweeping away the flies from their shining
sides with the brushes that nature has provi
| ded them with, and lifting up first one foot,
j then the other, to assist in the operation,
j Sometimes they suddenly wrinkle their
j smooth skins, turning their heads simultane
| ously, to see the effect of their muscular con
| traction.
That building a little beyond, gleaming
white through the trees, is the Methodist
Church, and a little further, the Presbyterian
Church stands, in front of a green common,
whore the cattle love to browse in the shade.
There are Episcopalian and Baptist Church
es also—though, at present, the flocks seem
scattered for want of shepherds.
It cannot be said that there is any archi
tectural magnificence here—though there are
many handsome dwelling houses, adorned
with shrubbery, having beautiful flower-gar
dens, indicative of the taste and refinement
of the inmates.
There is a large Academy, where the youth
of both sexes are taught iu distinct depart
ments. They celebrated the coming of May,
by a large party, which, though unaccompa
nied by coronation rites, was undoubtedly
not wanting in youthful hilarity. The asso
ciation of childhood and youth with the sea
son of bloom and flowers is charming, and
many a garland is twined at these sweet eras,
which bloom when the blossoms of May are
faded and gone. We remember some fair
young faces blushing among the flowers, em
blematical of the fleeting glow of youth, and
we sigh to think that the dust of the grave
has dimmed the brightness that seemed des
tined for perennial bloom.
Oh ! if such hues of beauty shone
Forever fadeless iu our path—
If never o’er the heaven’s bright blue
There floated darkening clouds of wrath—*
Our spirits would too fondly cling
To this too fair, deluding earth ;
The soul that flutters for the skies,
Would sink regardless of its birtii.
And now, methinks you will say, “this is
a paper filled with heterogeneous matter.”
And so it is—-we have called it a Magnolia
leaf —on which we have traced the passing
impressions of the moment. At first, it might
seem like vanity, to borrow a name so ex
quisite and fair; but who, that has seen these
lovely blossoms, or who, after their surface
has received even the most delicate touch,
has marked the dingy brown stains which
deepen on the petals, disfiguring their fair
ness, and rendering dim and illegible the
characters traced upon them, but must read
a lesson of lowliness and humility ? Soon,
also, will the shade gather over these lines;
but if, while fading, they give forth the faint
est breath of the frngance that gushes from
every pore of the Magnolia petals, they ask
no longer leaf of life or fame.
Yours, &c. C. L. IL
[From the Home Journal.]
PERSONAL.
Thackeray, it appears, was born at Cal
cutta, in 1811. and he is, therefore, forty-one
years old. His father was an official.ofhigh
rank in the East India Company’s service.
Thackeray went to school and to college in
England ; inherited and squandered a proper
ty yielding a thousand pounds a year; sub
sequently became a student of law, editor,
“bookseller’s hack,” and, at length, a success
ful author. He first met his wife, an Irish
lady, at Paris, and married her there. Next
to Dickens, he is at present the most popu
lar author in England, lie is superior to
Dickens in age, knowledge and mental sta
mina ; and thougji less admired, will leave a
deeper mark upon his time than his rival.
Thackeray’s new novel will appear, it is an
nounced in the papers, about the first of
June. John Haviland, whose death we
lately noticed, designed and built no less than
thirteen great penitentiaries: among them,
the New York Tombs, and the famous Pen
tonville prison, iu London. Douglass
Jerrold, according to the author of “What I
saw in London,” is “making a sad wreck of
himself through the excessive use of intoxi
cating liquors.’’ Can this be true ? Jerrold
was never a more laborious man than at pres
ent. He has just assumed the editorship of
Lloyd’s newspaper, and is supposed still to
be the conductor of Punch , and is writing a
new novel to be issued in numbers. This
does not look like being a “wreck.”
Charles Kean, we are most gratified to learn,
has recovered from his late dangerous ill
ness, and was welcomed to the stage with
great enthusiasm. William Ilowitt is
about fifty years of age, and Mary, his wife,
only a few years younger. By their connec- g
tion with the People's Journal, the happily m
mated pair incurred pecuniary ruin ; but they
are said to be again prosperous. Howitt is
described to be a handsome old gentleman,
and Mary, though not, strictly speaking, beau
tiful, has a countenance full of expression.
Both are particularly cordial to Americans.
The Academy of Sciences of France, at
their last session, unanimously voted to give .
the Cuvier prize to Professor Agassiz, for bis
Rccherches sur les Poissons fossiles. We
learn from the English papers a fact highly
creditable to our old friend, Sheridan
Knowles: Ann Kelly, an actress, lost her
hearing, when she was in her sixtieth year,
and was, of course, debarred from the exer
cise of her profession. Being wholly desti- i
tute of resources, she was received into the
family of Sheridan Knowles, by whom she
was liberally maintained for forty-three
years. She died recently at the age of 103.
A Miss Frost, in Massachusetts, has re
covered 8365 of a gallant, for a breach of ‘
promise. He courted her a year, and has to >
pay at the rate of a dollar a day for it.