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IE SOUTHERN SENTINEL
IS PUBLISHED
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1Y
T. LOMAX & CO.
TEXXEXT LOMAX, Principal Editor.
Office on Randolph street .
Ciicvftv \) D flvtwfnt.
Cokdcctss p.v CAROLINE LEE HKNTZj
l WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR THE SOLTHER.N SENTINEL.]
THE LITTLE BROOM BOY.
BY MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ.
Mr. C ampbell appeared greatly affected
by this outbreak of filial emotion. He cov
ered his face and seemed to weep. All tia
ces of anger had fled.
“I would willingly give this right hand,”
said he, “if this had not happened. If I had
the means to pay this sum, I would do it in
one moment, to save you from disgrace. —
There is one thing, however, I can do—l can
assist your flight. You can go beyond the
limits of pursuit, and establish in anew
country, the reputation you have forfeited
here.”
“Never,” exclaimed the young man, and a
haughty flush swept over his cheek arid brow,
“never will 1 thus set the seal to my infamy.
1 will not fly—for lam innocent—and the
world will one day know it. I believe there j
is justice and retribution even on earth, tod
is righteous, and will not forsake those who
put their trust in him. I will trust him. I
yielded for one moment to the weakness of
nature, hut I arn strong now. % mother j
will not believe that lam guilty. I said this j
blow would kill her—but it will not. Chris- j
tianity will support her.’’ He paused a mo- i
ineut, then added, as if speaking to himself
rather than to Mr. Campbell:
“If Gahriella should doubt my integrity!
If her confidence should be shaken! Can
she resist the terrible force of circumstances,
and preserve her esteem ?” .
“And what is my daughter to you, young
man ?” interrupted the father, sternly, “that
you dare to talk of her confidence and es
teem, at a moment when her very name
should be a stranger to your lips?”
“She is what you have made her to me—
the companion of my childhood ; the sister ol
my soul; the inspiration of my thoughts;
the idol of mv affections. I speak of her
now’, as the dying man speaks of the treasure !
lie is about to leave forever, in the freedom j
and honesty’ of the death-hour. I loved her ]
as a child—l loved her as a hoy—l adore her i
as a man. In the midst of vanity and frivol
ity, 1 h ive seen the glory-gleams of an an
gelic nature, struggling through the mists
with which folly and pride have sought to
envelope her. I never presumed on her af
fection; never forgot that she was to he of
fered at the shrine of Mammon. I should
have carried the secret to my grave, had not
this unmerited obloquy forced the revelation
from me—for know, sir, it is for her sake,
that I yield myself a passive victim to the fate
now darkly closing around me-”
Mr. Campbell listened in silence to this
bold confession, and its singular close. Ilis
hand was pressed upon his eyes, his lips firm-
Iv closed, and the veins on his temples dark
and full.
“Have you ever told Gahriella that you
loved her t” said he, rising and turning
towards the door.
“Never, sir.”
“It is well.”
The door slowly opened, closed again,
the echo of retreating footsteps died away,
and Ellery Gray was left alone—with his
God.
Mr. Campbell passed on to his chamber by
a back passage, with hurried steps, driven
along by wild, stormy, maddening thoughts,
lie held the lamp in his left hand, while his
right clenched his forehead, in the vain at
tempt to still its strong, irregular heatings.
He entered his room and threw himself on a
sofa, groaning from the very depths of his
soul.
“My God!” lie ciied, “I cannot bear this.
I can not. I shall turn a maniac, and then
—and then—good Heavens! what then ?”
“Who’s there?” he exclaimed, starting up,
as the door suddenly hurst open, and Gabri
eila, with her hair loose and dishevelled, her
cheek white as alabaster, and a dark shadow’
under her wildly flashing eyes, rushed in, and
casting herself at her father’s feet, wrapped
her arms round his knees.
“What is this they tell me, father?” she
cried, resisting his efforts to release himself—
“that Ellery Gray is a villain—that he has
committed a dreadful crime—that he must
suffer the felon’s doom? Oh, father! you
know that this is false—you know this can
not he. Oh! father, save him—save him
from ignominy and punishment. Bear witness
to his good and noble character. Bear wit
ness to his truth and integrity. You can—
you ought to do it. Father, you turn away
your face—you frown—you struggle to shake
me from you. You do not believe him guil
ty. Look at me and tell me if you doubt for
one moment, the worth and honor of Ellery
Gray ?”
Thus wildly pleading, and closely clinging,
Gahriella lay at her father’s feet, unconscious
of the energy of her language, the abandon
ment of her attitude. AH artificial coldness
and conventional restraint was swept away
by the whirlwind of excited feeling. She
would as soon have doubted the immutabili
ty of the word of God, as the excellence of
Ellery Gray. This faith, born in childhood,
had strengthened with every passing year.
In all her capriees and follies, it had been a
talisman to preserve her from absolute evil.
His dark, clear, terious eye, was to her spir-
VOL. 111.
it, what the glowing pillar was to the chil
dren of Israel—an emblem of the presence of
God—and it guided her, even when she 1
seemed most devious in her course, through
the moral wilderness in which she w'as j
wandering. A silent hut powerful influence
was always resting upon her, unaeknowledg- I
ed, hut still deeply felt. No one dreamed
that the young clerk was to her anything hut
an object of occasional condescension and
kindness; hut conviction now flashed upon
the father’s mind, and he felt the error he
had committed in placing this highly endow-j
ed and singularly attractive young man, in
such close juxtaposition with his daughter.
“Father, you do not speak,” continued she, 1
with more impassioned emphasis. “Tell me
if you believe him guilty.’’
“Gahriella,” cried her father, goaded to
frenzy by her reiterated appeals, and seizing
both her hands in his, with a force that made j
them ache, “Gahriella, if he be proved inno- j
cent, the world may believe your father guil- :
ty. The shame, the ignominy, that now rest j
on him, will then doubtless full on me; but ;
I swear before the God that made me,” ad- ;
ded he, raising hi3 eves with a look that j
° “ . ’ !
made her shudder, “I will not one moment ;
survive the loss of my honor. Good Heav
ens! what have I done? Gahriella, Gabri- ;
ella, look up! Almighty Father! Ido believe
I have killed her.”
She had fallen to the floor with leaden
weight, and lay still and white as marble.
Her eyes were closed, and her face, partly ;
covered by masses of dark brown hair, was j
like the face of the dead. Raising her in his
arms, he bore her to a window, and throwing
up the sash, suffered the night air to blow in !
upon her brow. The moon was just rising ;
above the hill-tops, grand, serene, holy, mag- ‘
nificent. It rose, and the dark outline above j
which it beamed, turned to glistening silver. !
It rose, and the waters of the •majestic Ohio, j
gliding and gleaming through the distant so- ;
iiaue, shone and sparkled and spread out into j
a glassy mirror, in which another moon ‘■
looked up and smiled upon the moon above; j
and just over his head, a faint beam, strug
gling through the curtained window of Elle- ’
ry’s room, mingled with the splendor of the ,
firmament. The white glory of the moon- j
light, and the dim, reddish ray issuing from
that window, fell together on the pallid face j
of Gahriella, as she reclined in her father’s!
arms. He trembled as he looked upward, al- ;
most expecting to see the Deity rending those
beauteous heavens and coming down ; those :
dark, silver-edged hills, flowing down at his
presence. He held her closely to his breast,
and prayed that she might never again un
close those eyes—never look upon his face
again. But she did unclose them—did look
up to him—and as the mists cleared away
from her vision, she read that in his counte- i
nance, which made cold shudders run j
through her frame. A horrible fear took
possession of her, a fear that could not he
expressed, but from whose haunting pres
ence she could never he free. Her mind
seemed endowed with a sudden and terrible
clairvoyance. A thousand circumstances,
which made but little impression at the time, !
came back to her memory with the distinct- \
ness and vividness of letters of fire. The j
experience of years was condensed in that
moment of time, and the wither of age struck
her young and blooming heart.
As the father and daughter thus looked in- j
to each other’s faces, in the clear, pale moon- 1
light, with the stilly night sighing around j
them, there was a mutual revelation of
thought which both would have given worlds j
never to have made. But eyes are the win
dows of the soul, and are sometimes trans
parent as crystal. Gahriella rose from her
father’s arms, and as she did so, the clasp of |
her bracelet caught in the sleeve of his coat,
arresting her motions. He stooped to re, j
lease it, but tearing the jewel from her wrist,
she cast it at his feet. Then with a sudden
reaction of feeling, she gathered up the gem, j
and gazed earnestly upon it.
“Father,’’ she suddenly exclaimed, “what’s
the value of this ? and this, too ?” extending
the other beautiful arm, on which a golden
circlet was shining. “Oh ! 1 have jewels j
without number—cannot they ransom him ?” ;
“Alas! they would be but drops spilled ;
in the ocean.”
“But my rnotlier! I will go to mv moth- 1
er. She has jewels enough to ransom a i
King. She will not, cannot withhold them.”
“All your mother’s gems added to your
own, would avail nothing. Trouble her not. j
It would be worse than useless. You can
not save Ellery, and let me tell you, Gabri
ella, this strong interest in the young man,
is unmaidenly and unbecoming. It will ex
pose you to censure and me to reproach.
Retire and learn more modesty and self-con
trol.”
He spoke bitterly, severely. It was with
a great effort he did so, hut after the first
cold, measured words, the others came with
more ease and arbitrariness of tone.
“Retire,” repeated lie, “I would he alone.”
She obeyed him in silence, and he was
left alone.
Ellery had not moved since Mr. Campbell
quitted him.. He sat in the chair by the ta
ble, his head resting on his hands, in the dim
and quivering lamp-light He knew not how
long he had thus remained. So deep was
his abstraction, he was not conscious of his
own existence. He knew not whether he
was waking or dreaming, present or absent.
When the door opened he did not move, 1
though his spirit sprang forward to meet the
unseen visitant. He felt its approach, though
the footsteps were noiseless, and through his
covered eyes, he seemed to recognize the
features of a dream-angel, such as often
beamed upon his nightly visions. A warm
life-breath floated over his cheek—a tear, a
warm, gliding, crystal drop, stole slowly’ over
its surface, but it fell not from bis own eyes.
“Ellery’,” whispered a sad, tremulous
voice, “l believe in your innocence. My
faith in you shall never waver. Farewell.
May God sustain us both.”
The dream-angel vanished, but the tear re
mained on his cheek—the balm in his heart.
He felt gentle and submissive as a weaned
child. They might carry him to prison—they
might immure hi;n in the dungeons of the
Penitentiary—but they could not shut out the
light of his innocence, the glory of her faith
and trust. lie might die, and fill a felon’s
dishonorable grave, but that innocence would
cast a halo round its darkness, that faith and
trust shed their glory on his memory.
We will not linger on these painful scenes
in the life of Ellery Gray. He was tried, con
demned, on circumstantial evidence, and
sentenced to ten years’ solitary imprisonment
within the walls of the Penitentiary. His place
became vacant in the office, and in the house
hold—his name a forbidden sound. Another
clerk filled the station he was supposed to
have dishonored. Mr. Campbell, after re
ceiving the sympathy and condolence of his
friends, for the ingratitude and turpitude of
his unworthy protege, pursued his accustom
ed course. If it was remarked that his face
was pale, and his brow more furrowed, it was
imputed to the anguish of betrayed confi
dence and outraged affection. Mrs. Camp
bell continued her course of vanity and ex
travagance, becoming, if possible, more vain
and extravagant than before. The disgrace
and imprisonment of Ellery Gray, disturbed
the stream of her life about as long as the
pebble ruffles the current into which it falls.
‘l’lie loss of h bracelet or a t ing, would have
affected her far more.
And Gahriella—did she resume her place
in the circles of fashion, forgetful of the youth
who, she fully believed, was suffering the
penalty of another’s crime ? Did she smile,
as she had too often done, on the flattering
worldlings who surrounded her? No! She
was never seen to smile, and from the night
when she had torn the bracelet from her arm,
and dashed it at her father’s feet, she had
never worn jewelry or ornament. Siie dress
ed with tiie simplicity of a min, and no per
suasion or reproaches could induce her to
change her attire. Mrs. Campbell was too
vain and too beautiful herself, not to become
reconciled to a course which threw into
shade the dazzling, youthful charms, which
threatened to eclipse her matured loveliness
Society wondered at the transformation, and
avenged its slighted attractions by secret
slander, or open animadversion.
There was hut one place in the world that
now possessed a charm for the saddened spir
it of Gahriella—and that was the humble
borne of Ellery Gray. She had made a vow
to herself to minister, with a daughter’s ten
derness, to his heart-stricken mother, and
she, who went to impart consolation, receiv
ed it in her own bosom. Mrs. Gray was a
Christian. Gahriella, though the daughter
of a Christian land, was as ignorant of the
true principles of Christianity, as though born
on the banks of the Ganges. Mrs. Gray,
though ignorant in modern literature, was
“mighty in the Scriptures,” and it was aston
ish! ng with what eloquence and power this
humble, unlettered woman, explained the
mystic scroll of revelation, which seemed
now for the first time, unrolled to the eyes of
the young Gahriella. It was not alone the
thought of Ellery languishing, an innocent
victim, in the dungeon’s loneliness and gloom
—it was not the blighting of her heart’s first
love—that had frozen the smile on tlie lips of
the young girl, and changed to the lily’s
whiteness the roses of her cheek. It was a
secret that never could be revealed—a cloud
that never could be rolled away—a horror
of thick darkness, that never could be illu
mined with one ray of hope. She stood
trembling on the brink of a precipice, with
out one arm to sustain, one pillar on which
to lean, looking down into an abyss of shame
and sorrow, the more deep and dark, because
an impenetrable curtain concealed it from the
world. In this indescribable desolation of
the soul, religion found her, and throwing
around her a divine arm, she bore her along
the margin of the gulf with an unfaltering
step, directing her gaze to the green fields and
flowery plains beyond.
The first year of Ellery’s imprisonment
drew to a close. Mr. Campbell, who bad
never been prostrated by a day’s sickness,
attacked by strange paroxysms, which
alarmed Ins family’, but for which he posi
tively refused medical advice or assistance.
He shrank, too, from the filial cares of Ga
briella, preferring to remain alone, in a dark
ened chamber, far from the sad and gentle,
eyes that so mournfully regarded him.
When the next annual examination of the
Bank was made, the astounding report was
again circulated, that there was a deficiency of
a sum even greater than that of the preceding
year. That another clerk as unprincipled as
Ellery, should supply his place, seemed a
strange coincidence. This young man be
longed to a highly respectable family, and
had influential friends in the city. The irre
proachable character of Mr. Campbell, could
not now exempt him from suspicion, though
its birth seemed sacrilege. The unbounded
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, FRIDAY MORNING, JUNE 18, 1852.
extravagance of his wife, had long been a
subject of censure anu curiosity, for specula
tion was busy as to the source whence it was
supplied.
011 the day of the investigation, Mr. Camp
bell was too ill to leave his room—too ill to
admit any one to his apartment. Messengers
were dispatched with the promise of attend
ing to business on the morrow—the morrow’
which he must await in fear and trembling.
Night came on. lie would allow no lamp to
illumine his apartment, avowing that darkness
was more tranquilizing to the nerves. The
moon shone in with a struggling beam, just
as it had done a year before. The bed stood
close to the window, so that by leaning
towards it, he could gather the curtains in his
hand, and folding them on one side, let in a
flood of radiance. The shadows lie had
sought began to be appalling.
“Once more,” he cried, shading his eyes
from the insufferable splendor, “once more I
am passing a terrible, an awful crisis. An
other victim may be sacrificed, but what is
that to the preservation of an unblemished
reputation? After the sacrifice of Ellery,
what if a hecatomb be offered up? Him l
have destroyed, but have I not destroyed my
own soul also ? If I have doomed him to
the torture of imprisonment, have I not suf
fered the agonies of the damned as an atone
ment? Is he not far happier in his lonely
cell, than I, stretched on the burning coals of
remorse ? But suppose lam detected, dis
graced, undone?”
He paused, and clenched his hands, till the
nails cut into the shrinking flesh.
“I was not always a villain,” he continu
ed. “I had a kind, loving heart. I loved that
boy, when I adopted him for my own. I lo
ved him till I wronged him, and then I hated
him for the very injuries I inflicted. I never
intended to defraud. I never thought of steal
ing. I meant to return the money, but the
woman whom God gave me as a curse, kept
tempting me, by demanding means to satisfy
her insatiable desires. Step by step, I have
been plunging deeper and deeper in sin and
iniquity, till 1 must go down, down, into the
bottomless pit. I meant to stop after the
rnin of Ellery, but retrenchment would have
excited suspicion. I was already lost beyond
redemption. For one crime, the sun of the
morning was banished from heaven. Oh!
avenging Deity, can there be a deeper hell,
than that which looms in the abyss of a guil
ty’, remorseless soul ?”
While he thus held communion with his
tortured, self-upbraiding spirit, Gahriella en
tered, and came and stood at his bed-side.
“Leave me,” cried he sternly. “Did I not
forbid all intrusion ?”
“Send me not from you, father, at a mo
ment like this. Close not your heart to sym
pathy and affection, for you w ill have need
of them to comfort and sustain. Oh! my fa
ther, if the whole world forsake you, I will
cling to y’ou —even in dishonor and shame I
will remember that I am your daughter
still.”
“Speak, and tell me what you mean ?” ex
claimed he, grasping the bed-post with both
hands—a cold perspiration bedewing his
forehead.
“Alas! alas!” she cried, wringing her
hands, “I thought I was very calm—but I
sink on the threshold of duty. I have heard
words not intended tor my ear—words which
[ came to repeat, but they die upon my lips.
Father, the doom which has fallen on Ellery
Gray, hangs over you. They say you can
not escape it. Oil, how long have 1 seen its
shadow coming!”
“They!” lie cried. “Who dares to im
peach my honor? My character -is above re
proach. Y on, who never doubted the inno
cence of Ellery, are you sacrilegious enough
to suspect your own father of crime?”
“Oh! it is in vain to contend with the Al
mighty,” cried Gahriella, sinking on her
knees, and clasping her hands on her bosom.
“His hand is upon you, father, and you must
submit. Just one year ago, in this very
room, when I knelt at your feet in the agony
of a breaking heart, by your words, vour
looks, I discovered your terrible secret.
The evidence was as strong to me, as if the
thunders of Heaven revealed it. Oh ! I have
greatly sinned in hiding it so long in my own
soul. I ought never to have risen from your
feet, till you promised to do justice to the
innocent, suffering in your stead. By right
eous boldness, I might have arrested you in
your dark path. Nay, my father, tear not
your hands from my clinging grasp. Turn
not away in frantic passion. I love you still
—in spite of the past and the present—in
view of the dreadful future—l love you still.
You have been tempted—you have sinned—
but though man may condemn, God will for
give. Oh ! my poor, poor father—resist no
longer—confess your guilt before man and
God. Humble yourself in dust and ashes at !
the foot of the cross—be there till drenched
in a Saviour’s blood—die there pleading for
mercy—but live no longer in sin and misery I
—tempt not the wrath of the Lamb of God.” j
Mr. Campbell, who had at first writhed un- j
der her glance, and struggled to free himself j
from the slender hand that grasped his own.
felt himself under an influence too mighty to
resist. He gazed upon his young daughter, 1
with her pale, beautiful face, lighted up with
such a holy lustre, transformed as it were, to
an accusing angel, bearing in one hand the
broken canons of the God he had defied, and j
pointing with the other, to the blood-stained
mount where mercy sat enthroned. Even in
that moment of agony and shame, he felt a
sensation of relief that his crime was known ;
that there was no more necessity of strug
gling to conceal it; that the terrible battle
between conscience anti temptation, was at
an end. He never thought of denying the
charge those pale, pure, fearless lips had ut
tered—never thought of breathing one word
of vindication, or in extenuation of his guilt.
But he had sworn never to survive detection,
and resolved to embrace death, rather than
ignominy.
“Enough, enough, Gabriella,” he cried, in
a hollow, altered voice. “I yield to the fate
I can no longer contend with. But leave me
; °
now! I would prepare myself to meet it as
1 a man.’’
As he raised his hand, in the act of speak
ing, the pillow moved and Gabriella caught
a glimpse of a pistol beneath it. She remem
! bered the vow he had made, not to survive
detection, and divined the nature of the pre
paration to which he alluded. With a shriek,
she snatched the pistol and dashed it through
the window to the ground, shivering the glass
and scattering it like diamonds in the moon
light. It exploded as it fell, and at the same
moment, Gabriella, faint and sick, threw her
arms round her father’s neck and burst into
tears.
“You will net put yourself beyond the
reach of pardon !” she sobbed. “You will not
inflict so awful a curse on your child!”
“Oh, ni}* God!” exclaimed the father, fold
ing his arms round his weeping daughter;
“Is there, can there be pardon for a wretch
like me ?’’
Scalding tears gushed from his eyes, amT
rained on Gabriella’s cheek. Long and bit
terly he wept, and it seemed as if every tear
softened the iron pressure of despair, gird
ling his heart. The awful thought of self
murder melted away. He would surrender
himself to the justice of man, he would bow
before the vengeance of the Almighty. He
deserved to sutler all that Omnipotence could
inflict, or an immortal nature endure.
The morning found him nerved for the or
i deal through which he was doomed to pass.
When he presented himself before his judges
and made a full and voluntary confession of
his guilt, indignation for his crime was miti
gated by the depth of his penitence, the great
ness of his remorse. Even justice hesitated
to crush the man, who laid his body beneath
its chariot wheels, a waiting victim. But the
confession once made, the strength which had
sustained him suddenly failed. A hot, purple
flush dyed the deadly pallor of his cheek and
brow—and pressing his hand to his head, he
fell back in a violent spasm. For hours he
passed from paroxysm to paroxysm, such as
only attacks the strong frame and wrestling
spirit. When they subsided, he seemed weak
as an infant, .and the grave instead of the
prison seemed waiting to receive him. But
it is said that a strong will can make death
itself its vassal.
Mr. Campbell, who had always appeared
to be a yielding man, only too easily swayed
by the will of others, was resolved to put in
to execution one design. Asa dying man,
he could claim exemption from the immedi
ate execution of justice—but before passing
to the tribunal of the eternal judgment, he
would drain to the dregs the cup of earthly
humiliation. He would die in prison. The
same bed of straw on which Ellery had so
long groaned, should receive his failing limbs.
Through the gloomy grates, which had bare
ly admitted the faint sunbeams to the darken
ed eye of the young man, his guilty spirit
should struggle upwards to the great Omnis
cient Judge.
It was vain to oppose his determination,
and as strength returned to him in a miracu
lous manner, even the physicians thought it
best to yield to his wishes. He was placed
in a carriage with Gabriella by his side, who
was resolved that neither imprisonment nor
death should separate her from him. Mrs.
Campbell, at the first intimation of their dis
grace, had sought refuge with some wealthy
relatives, never dreaming that, like the first of
womankind, she had yielded herself to the
delusions of the arch-tempter and then drag
ged her husband into transgression.
They arrived at the prison, at an hour
when the convicts were all separate in their
solitary cells. Ellery Gray raised his head,
as the heavy bolt was undrawn, and the dark,
sunken eye in which the light of hope arid
joy had long been quenched, turned slowly
and languidly towards the door. His grace
ful form was disfigured by the felon’s dress
and badge of shame, his luxuriant locks were
all shorn, and his complexion white and wan
as the flower of a sunless soil. He caught
a glimpse of a black, flowing robe, a pale, fair,
sad face, such as had often in dreams illumin- i
ed his dungeon’s gloom,—and he passed his
hand over his eyes, believing himself the j
spQrt of an optical illusion. Again he look- j
ed, and beheld another well remembered fig- ‘
ure, not firm and erect as he had last seen it, !
but bowed, weak and tottering, with haggard
features and dim, death like countenance. !
i
Mr. Campbell staggered forward and would ;
have fallen, had not Ellery thrown his arms i
around him. He laid him gently on his pal
let of straw, while Gabriella supported his
head on her bosom.
“Ellery,” cried he, extending his trembling i
hand, “this bed of straw is mine—this grated
dungeon is mine—the guilt, the ignominy, are i
mine. I have dragged myself hither, a dying j
man, to acknowledge my transgressions at ;
your feet, and pray you to forgive me, in the
name of a merciful Redeemer.”
Ellery bowed his head over the dying man
and wept. No words could be so expressive
as those silent tears. The penitent felt them
to his heart’s core.
“Oh! my son,” he cried, “son of my adop
tion and early love. Do you indeed weep for
jme ? Am I ever to be forgiven ? Ah! if man
j can forgive, may not the great God have mer
;cy ? Go forth, Ellery—go from this prison
, house to a world waiting to redress vour
j wrongs. Go in the glory of martyrdom and
I wear the crown of honor. Y"ou are young.
| Long years of happiness are in store for you —
for you and Gabriella. But oh, my children,
try not to curse m v memory.”
He paused, exhausted by the efforts he had
; made, and his heavy eyelids closed. He had
; accomplished the purpose for which he had
exerted himself with superhuman strength,
the energies oflife subsided, and natureyielded
without further struggle. His inind began
to wander, his pulse to fail, and after a few
hours of alternate delirium, his spirit
passed away.
Ellery Gray was restored to freedom and
honor; the public, anxious to make restitution
for the unmerited sufferings he had endured,
I pressed upon his acceptance offices of emolu
ment and distinction. The Directors of the
Bank insisted upon paying him the year’s
salary he had lost in prison—and this he ac
cepted as an act of justice ; all other pecu
niary gifts he declined, though offered in the
most munificent manner.
It was long before Gabriella recovered
from the terrible shock she had received.
I But it was her father’s guilt she deplored more
J than its consequences, and believing that he
; died repentant, she bowed to the cross and
endured the shame, in the spirit of her divine
i Master. If sympathy and tenderness could
| embalm a wounded heart, hers would have
| been healed. And it was healed. Life shar
; ed with Ellery must be happy, for he was one
j of those sons of God not often linked with
| the daughters of men. They were happier for
j their past sufferings, for they were better, and
j happiness is always commensurate with
! goodness.
The early days of their married life were
passed in retirement, for Gabriella shrunk
from a world over which the memory of her
father’s guilt hung a darkening shadow, but
her nature was too noble not to discard this
morbid sensibility. She urged her husband
to return to society, to rekindle the glorious
ambition of lii.s youth, and give to mankind
the influence of his talents and his virtues.
So they removed to the Queen City of the
West, rising in grace and magnificence on
their Ohio’s native stream. With her own
mother Gabriella had no longer any associa
tion, for their paths too widely diverged—but
the mother of Ellery shared their home—her
piety, the rainbow of the household, remind-
I ing them of the unfailing promise of God.
Though Ellery Gray gained influence and
honor, it was by the exercise of domestic and
social virtues, rather than the splendor of
his public acts. lie never would accept'any
office of civil or political distinction, never
allow himself to be made the idol of the popu
lace. “He would not give to party what
was meant for mankind.”
And Gabriella walked by his side, in holy
simplicity and godly sincerity, wearing no
| ornament but that of a “meek and quiet spirit,”
| no gem but the “pearl of great price”—that
pearl, which she had found under the ocean
| waves of a great sorrow.
[written for the sentinel.]
MAGNOLIA LEAVES.
Quincy, Fla., May 20, 1852.
j Old letters! leaflets of memory! Yes,
I they are indeed so. Did you ever sit down,
| on the eve of a journey, or a change of resi
dence, and untying packet after packet, pie
pare to consign them to the flames? and as
| you-unfolded the papers one by one, have
; not words arrested your eye, so full of vitali
ty, that it seemed they would writhe in ago
ny when exposed to the wrath of the burn
ing element?
A short time since we prepared for a simi
lar holocaust, with a sad and self-upbraiding
heart. We deemed the act a duty, and yet
it seemed little less than sacrilege. Seat
ing ourselves by the side of an open trunk,
overflowing with the accumulating stream of
written thought, we began to separate the
chaff from the wheat, the wine from the lees,
the gold from the dross. This appeared at
first an easy task, but we were soon convin
ced of our error: as Dominie Samson
stood on the steps of the library, holding in
his hands the huge folios he was to dust and
arrange: forgetful of time or place, we bent
over the trunk, absorbed, abstracted, while
“The soul of other days came rushing in.”
Shall I write down some of the reminis- I
cences awakened by this review ? Shall
memory be the Magnoiia tree, green and
beautiful, and its tablets the blossom leaves,
on which the hand of affection has traced
deep and abiding characters ?
Here is a packet, superscribed in a fine,
easy, yet decided hand, more than usually
slanting, somewhat careless, as the uudotted
i’s and uncrossed I's indicate. The down
sweeping lines are all single; no folding back
of the y’s and g’s; all straight like p’s and
q : s. I ime is too precious to allow of such .
superfluities. One flash of the mind—one
dash ot the pen—and it is done.
At sight of this hand-writing, a fair-haired,
blue-eyed figure appears, with joyous smile,
and frank, sunshiny countenance. No one
would dream that under this girlish, almost
childish exterior, there resided a powerful in-
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NO. 25.
tellect, a strong will, and indomitable energy of
character. A thorough disregard of the airy
graces of her sex—a lofty scorn of its foibles
and faults—-individualize and set her apart
from the circle in which she dwells. She has
a noble, self-sacrificing, generous spirit—a
mind thirsting for knowledge—a soul glowing
with enthusiasm, which no disappointments
can chjjl, no difficulties repress. Here is an
extract from one of her letters, written in a
moment of haste and excitement:
“I cannot help recurring to the feelings
with which 1 wrote to you, when I last dated
———. It was then, when depressed as
low as a human being can be, except by
crime, that I wrote you a transcript of my
heart. Did I complain ? Did I express want
of faith? If I did, I should now repent, for
at this mopient I feel that my original plans
are all more than accomplished. You sym
pathized with me then, Will you not do so
now ? Learn from my experience that the
darkest day may be tho precursor of a glori
ous morn. I now feel that the night was ne
cessary, in order that its tears might prepare
the soul for the genial influences of a happi
pier sun. There is a view of the subject of
suffering, whence springs the sweetest flow
ers of enjoyment. It is when we consider it
as developing the soul’s capacities of feeling.
When we sutler deeply, we feel as if our
souls’ boundaries were enlarged; we begin
to conceive of what is true; that our spirits
spread an infinite surface to the influence of
the universe, and its Creator. Hence comes
a more realizing sense of that Creator’s
boundlessness. We look to His revealed
will for more truth—more comfort—deeper
sentiments—and we find it there. It almost
seems anew revelation.”
She sometimes spreads the wings of imag
ination, and rises into tho regions of poetry
and romance. She thus apostrophizes a riv
er, flowing through a lovely valley, consecra
ted by holy remembrances:
“Thy river images
The very piety I love. Those waves
Which clear, and deep, and rapidly roll on,
Protected from the glare of noonday sun
And from the public gaze, by banks adorned
With trees itself has nourished into life.
Those sparkling waves not on the eye obtrude,
Os him who at a distune# views. Yet who
Can gaze upon the vale, nor know a stream
Os living water flows there? So fragrant.
And so fresh, the landscape glows—and see
The graceful drapery of silver, purple,
Gold, and every other rainbow tint,
That twilight and Aurora spread o’er all,
Betrays the modest benefactor, source
And presence too, of all this valley's
Beauty.”
And so she goes on, taking in the mountains
and the vales, and the mist3 that float over
them, and the friends, who
“Made every dear scene of enchantment more dear.”
Here is another packet, written in a more
delicate, careful and measured manner. We
can read the beatitudes here. One of the
ministering spirits sent to bind up the wounds
of the bleeding heart, and to pour upon them
the oil and balm of consolation, traced these
pale, religious looking characters. Yes!
they all have a Bible look, for they were all
dictated by the same Holy Spirit that inspi
red the sacred Scriptures, and prepares the
heart for their benign and purifying influence.
The life of the writer has been one of self
sacrifice. Year after year she watched the
waning health of a beloved mother, scatter
ing the blossoms of filial affection over the
pillow of disease, and making the passage to
the tomb, a beautiful and love-lighted path
way. And soon the grave closed over this
dearest object of her earthly cares. She has
gone on her heavenly mission, among the
sick and the sorrowing, relinquishing social
pleasures which no one was ever more form
ed to enjoy, whenever they interfered with
the duties of friendship and humanity. Will
it be considered a breach of confidence to ex
tract a few sentiments from these letters,
with which to enrich my own ? The world
will never know whose unobtrusive worth
has won this spontaneous tribute, and should
the passing breeze waft this leaf over inter
vening space to her, she will forgive the
transgression, for the sake of the love that
causes it.
“\es, you would find that I was indeed as
ready to enter into your joys and sorrows, as
in those bright days when the world lay
green and untrodden before us. You, with
out a thought of coming change—l, experi
enced more, but still leaning upon the little
varying influences around for weal or woe.
Your pathway has been more varied with the
flowers and garlands of life, than mine, and
though I have lived many more years, yet you
have had many more thoughts than have
passed through my mind. Circumstances
have brought out worlds of interest in you,
and you have found that the more you were
taxed, the greater your resources showed
themselves.”
The following remarks, written several
years since, were a powerful stimulus to the
mind they addressed. Shall we transcribe
them ?
“I wish you would write a novel, with
taste, elegance and wit, that shall show’ forth
in the highest degree, the superiority of mo
ral worth. Let your hero or heroine, bring
every feeling and thought into subjection,
and let every power and opportunity be im
proved to the greatest extent, from the grand
Christian stimulus, and yet, let it not be call
ed a religious navel. How well in fancy, we
can portray a sublime faith, guiding everv
thought, and yet the interests and the refine
ments of polished life, spreading over the
whole, as a halo, to give a softness to the
dazzling light,