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THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL
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Conducted by CAROLINE LEE HENTZ.
[WRITTEN FoX TUE SENTINEL. J
MAGNOLIA LEAVES.
A packet tied with black!—pause, ere you
unloosen the baud, The knocker is muifled
and death has put its seal on every paper.
With solemn touch release them from the sa-
L.e ligament that confines them. On the first
which meets the eye is written in faint, pen
cilled lines, “The last letter of
The last! The hand which traced the char
acters, is forever paralyzed. The spirit
which guided it, has risen where the boldest
flight of imagination cannot follow. “Fare
well !” seems to breathe from the sacred
folds—“farewell!” to echo from the broken
seals. A solemnity is diffused from this little
packet, that fills the whole apartment—a
shade—a dullness—a twilight of the heart—
deepening into the gloom of sorrow'. We
remember a beautiful picture in the Dussel
dorf Academy, at .New York. It is the offer
ing of the Eastern Viagi to the infant Sa
viour. The divine child is lying on the lap of
its virgin mother, while the wise men are
prostrated before it, w ith their faces prone to
the earth. Triune bands of angels, hover
ing above, look down upon the adoring sa
ges. A flood of glorious light flows over the
whole picture, and it all seems to emanate
from the body of the divine child sweetly
slumbering in the dawn of its incarnation.
We know’ not by what miracle of art, the il
lusion was produced, but it w r as there. As
the light on that picture, so the shade from
these letters falls, wide and diffusive, solemn
and heart-sinking.
in unfastening the black ribbon, two sepa
rate parcels disunite, and fail into tiie lap,
both consecrated by the great fligh Priest of
nature —Death, it is no wonder a solemn I
mist dims the brightness of the present hour. ]
The memories of two radiant minds, two |
warm, noble hearts, are floating around us. |
‘fhe mist condenses into dew — the dew falls
in tears. They were brothers. •
“Oil! breathe not their name—let it sleep in the thaile,
Bad, silent and pure, be the tear that we shed,
As the night-dew that falls on the turf o’er their heads.
But the uijiht iiew that falls, though in silence, it weep,
Shall brighten with verdure jhe graves where they
sleep ;
And the tear that we shed, too’ in secret it rolls,
JSlmll long keep their memory green in our souls.”
Let us pause one moment, to pay a passing
tribute to their virtues. What matters it that
others know not on whose tomb w r e hang the
funeral garland of love? When we wander
through a church-yard, our sensibilities are
not chilled because the dust of strangers
heaves the soil beneath our feet. AH the
common sympathies of humanity are stirred
within our bosom, and we feel as if every
monument rising around us, consecrated the
ashes of a brother or a sister. Then, let a few
Magnolia leaves, pure as when first they un
fold their white blossoms to the light, mingle
with the cypress wreath of memory. They
are not inappropriate. There is something
sad in their deep fragrance, and the great mo
ral of life may be read in their fleeting
bloom.
They were brothers. In their early youth
their father died, leaving them the inheritance
o an honored name, a noble, irreproachable
example. A widowed mother, and young
orphan sisters, were a sacred legacy to their
filial and fraternal love, which they watched
and guarded as tenderly and diligently, as
tho Hebrews did the Ark of the Covenant.
Inspired by the same patriotic spirit which
animated their fathers breast, they adopted
his profession, and enrolled themselves under
the banner of their country. It is said that
the army is a school of vice and immorality,
a dangerous place for inexperienced youth 5
but these brothers were distinguished for
their irreproachable morality, their habits of
sobriety and temperance, and their lovely
affection for each other. They were never
heard to take the name of their God in vain
—never known to taste of the intoxicating
bowl—and tho narcotic weed, whose fumes
are the incense of the camp, never approach
ed their lips. The memory of their father,
was the pillar of cloud by day, the pillar of
fire by night, reminding them of the Holy
One of Israel. Their minds were enriched
by historic treasures, the elegancies of liter
ature, and adorned with the flowers of poe
try. Their manners w-ere graceful, polished
and winning; their bearing marked the sol
.dier and the gentleman. The younger was
;the less tall and more robustly fonyed, with
a more decided and martial tread. He had a
rich, deep-toned voice, winch discoursed
most excellent music; a fluent, eloquent
tongue, which could lend a charm and a pow
•er to every varying theme, from the thunder
| of war, to the music of love. His counte
nance expressed the restlessness and enthu
Cfiasm of his character—the sensibility, the
passion, of his heart Os him it might well
fcave been said:
1 “He is a noble gentleman ; withal
j Happy in’s endeavors; the general voice
j Sound.-;-him for courtesy, behavior, language,
And every fair demeanor, an example. S
7’itles of honor add not to his woith,
AYhp is himself an honor to his title.”
The elder was distinguished for the digni
and grace of his person, the symmetry and
auty of his features. In silence, the repose
j and tranquility of his countenance, reminded
i e of the divine quietud * of the chiselled
i rble. But if there was beauty in this re
j e, how much deeper was the charm, when
s akiug, it kindled into animation ! when in
VOL. 111.
smiling, it w*6 gilded with such inner light,
and joy, and peace! It has been said that
his smile was heavenly, sweet and winning
as ever parted a woman’s lips. His voice
was singularly melodious, and fell on the ear
like the strains from a sweet-toned instrument.
None that heard it, could ever forget its ac
cents. None that beheld it, can forget the
radiance of that smile. And there are some
to whom its remembrance will come like the
dream of an angel, like the morning twilight
of heaven’s eternal day.
We will give a brief sketch of the brother
soldiers, beginning with the younger, who
first passed away, “in manhood’s noble
prime.” Yet it is difficult to separate them,
for till their marriage, the history of one was
so mingled with the other, it formed a web,
whose unravelling would destroy its beauty
and finish. They were alike in their affec
tion for the home of their childhood, in their
devotion to its interests. When they return
ed to its luxuriant shades, they were welcom
ed as angel visitants, and to them it was a
domestic Eden. They loved to watch be
neath the kingly elms—twin monarchs of the
homestead—whose lofty boughs had spread
their leafy honors over a father’s brow, and
where the gorgeous oriole, year after year,
wove its pensile nest. They loved to wan
der bv the winding stream, whose clear,
blue waters fertilized many a green plain and
cultivated field, and whose gurgling voice
was sweeter to their cars than the clar
ion’s blast, or the resounding drum. Thus,
ever and anon, they turned aside from the
thoroughfare of life, to bathe their spirits in
the dewy freshness of its early remembran
ces. Thus they kept their hearts unpolluted
in the midst of temptation—warm and true,
though exposed to chilling contact with
worldliness and experience. A friend, whose
Muse has breathed a charm over the lovely
valley of their birth, alludes to them in a po
em, which, though it has never passed beyond
the eyes of intimate friends, is treasured in
their remembrance among things dear and
precious. He describes their native home:
“A K>liiier’s widow lives there—one on whom
My heart pours out a portion of the lovo that springs
From patriotic sentiment.
For long she cherished with a wife’s kind care,
And kept in all the genial warmth of youth,
A heart which beat hut for his country’s glory—
And she ha? watched with tender care, the growth
Os suns, inheriting their father’s spirit.
“Oh ! sure the minds that grew in this fair spot
Have pictures painted on their memory,
Which, whereso’er they he, when leisure hours
Wake np the spirit to sweet retrospection,
Will rise to shame each mean, ignoble thought,
Each sordid purpose, each unworthy aim,
And in the keenest hour of suffering,
Will pour sweet consolation. The remembered
beams
Os moonlight, such as this—remembered harmonies
Os scenes uncounted, irresistible
As this we gaze on—lulling us to peace.”
And it was so. With unpolluted spirits,
they passed through the temptations of youth
and entered the portals of manhood. They
married and made themselves homes, over
which the star spangled banner waved, and
where the guardian ramparts rose. And now
we will follow the steps of the younger, till
they disappear in those trackless regions the
living never travelled.
He had command of a Fort, and his mar
tial spirit revelled in the scenes that surroun
ded him. He was in the same scenes, where,
a beardless stripling, he entered his country’s
service, burning with military ardor. Now,
in the possession of the purest domestic hap
piness; in the full realization of his brightest
dreams of love and joy ; in the dignity of an
advancing reputation, he trod those ramparts
with stately steps and kindling eye, the com
mander of those gallant soldiers, who were
seen issuing from their white walled bul
warks, at the morning reveille, or the evening
parade. Oh! it was a beautiful, beautiful
spot. We never can forget the moment
when we first beheld it, glimmering in the
pallid moonlight, when we passed under the
port-cullis, and beheld the sentry, with meas
ured tread and folded arms, walking “his
lonely round.” We could see pyramids of
cannon balls glittering on the ramparts ; we
could see the starry flag fluttering in the breeze
of night. It was the first time we had ever
gazed on the glittering paraphernalia of war,
and we felt hereditary fire kindling in our
bosom. It seemed an earthly paradise—that
beautiful Fort—with its gravel walks, clean
and level as a lady’s drawing room, its war
like decorations, the sublime cannon-peal of
the morning, the inspiring music of the eve
ning, the pomp, the circumstance, the glory
of military display, the graceful hospitality
of the commander and his charming wife,
the gayety, the brightness, the novelty of the
scene—all combined to imprint it on the
memory in indelible colors. Among the pa
pers scattered before us, we see some lines
written while the impression was w: rm on
the imagination. Shall we transcribe them
here ? for one can paint a picture so much
better in poetry than in prose. It was writ
ten after a sail on the moonlight waters.
Such a glorious night it was! So calm, so
bland, so bright, one could scarcely tell
where the sky and water met, only the silvery
blue of the latter had a quivering motion,
and the former was still as glass. The deep,
rich voice of the commander, singing some
martial song, floated over the rippling wake
of the barge, aud blended with the sound of
the dipping oars. It was rowed by eight
soldiers, in uniform apparel, all fine looking,
dark-browed men, whose motion*, as they
bowed over their oars, were as regular and
graceful, as the wjngs of a bird flapping
the air. There were no stars visible —the
moon was shining too resplendently—but the
revolving gleam of the light-house, reflected
in the waters,
“Looked lovely as Hope,
That star on Eternity’s ocean.”
There was inspiration in the scene—at
least we felt so, when we perpetrated the
stanzas below—with which we will fold this
Magnolia leaf, and send it abroad, ere it be
comes withered and defaced :
Know ye the place where the white walls rise,
Mid the waves of ocean gleaming ?
Where the guardian ramparts meet the eyes,
And the starry flag is streaming?
Know ye the spot where at evening’s close,
And at morning’s early breaking,
The music of battle inspiringly flows,
The rock-bom echoes waking ?
Oh! fair is that place, where the sunbeams rest
In their glory on the billows ;
Or tho moon on her native ocean’s breast,
Her silvery forehead pillows.
And fair are those walls with the banner that floats,
To the waves our triumphs telling ;
And sweet are those clear and warlike notes,
On the ocean breezes swelling.
But fairer still are the glance and smile,
That beamed there a kindly greeting;
Aud sweeter the heart-born tones the while,
Our own glad accents meeting.
In the fortress of war, the home of the bold,
The spirit of love is residing ;
And dove-wings furl, with a downy fold,
Where the eagle in power is presiding.
We stood on the ramparts, and saw the white surge
Roll onward, then hoarsely retreating ;
Or the Indian his bark o’er the blue waters urge,
Bome forest descant repeating.
When evening in taiments of silver came on,
How calm was the current that bore us;
Around us, like diamonds, the clear ripples shone,
While the heavens bent glistening o’er us.
But the ray we loved was flashing afar,
In fitful, revolving glory ;
It welcomed ns back, like a beacon star,
That watched o’er the battlements hoary.
Oh ! when, lonely sentinel, when wilt thou beam
On our path to that gem ol the ocean ?
Where life wore the brightness that visits our dream,
And time had of snow-flakes the motion.
C. L. 11.
I WRITTEN EXI'KF.SSLT FOR THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL.]
ALICE HOWARD.
C HA P T E R I.
“His high endeavors are a holy light,
That makes the path before him always bright.”
[ Wordsworth.
“Alice, do you love Horace Wilmot?”
suddenly inquired Frederick Howard of his
young ward, as she sat beside him, chatting
half gayly, half seriously, of her brief experi
ences in life. Her observations of men and
women, and her remarks on society in gen
eral, had interested him greatly; they were
acute, witty, brilliant. was astonished
by the thoughtfulness and feauty of her mind,
which even this light conversation developed.
Though only a year in society, she sur
prised him by the knowledge she possess
ed, which usually comes only witli years.
The question—what a question for a
young man to ask, and with such authority,
too!—startled her greatly. She blushed,
trembled a little, looked up and down, and
answered:
“Love him? No! I like him as a friend
nothing more.”
“I do not like him, Alice, as your friend;
but I know little of him. It would be unjust
for me to speak of him censurahly. 1 own,
though, his manner has not pleased me. Ido
not like it, nor his countenance.”
“1 like both,” she answered quickly. “I
am sure you would, if you him as I
do.”
“Well, we will see, Alice. My promise to
your mother gives me the right to speak
plainly to you, as I have always done. The
long absence and unaccountable silence of
your father, gives me the right also to watch
over you, and enquire concerning matters of
vital importance to yourself. Appointed as
your guardian during what 1 supposed
would be a merely temporary absence, I have
now a very painful communication to make.
Prepare yourself, dear Alice, for mournful
tidings. It has recently been announced to
me that your father died some two years
since, under circumstances of a very distres
sing character. I have long endeavored to
prepare you for some such event as this.
Sudden though it be, rumor has been busy,
and from authentic sources, I am assured
that the large fortune you expected to inher
it, has been squandered. Your father’s man
ner of living, as a man of wealth and fashion,
exhausted his resources, and you have barely
a competency, and I am your only protec
tor.”
The head of the fair young girl bowed low
before this heavy affliction ; the first trouble
comes heavily to the young. “They know |
not yet the part which life will teach—to !
suffer and be still.” But this was not a heart i
sorrow. She had known little of her father ;
from childhood. His inexcusable and un
feeling neglect for many years, had estran
ged her heart from him. But she felt deso
late. The loss of property, in a world like |
this, is itself a heavy affliction, and without :
father or mother, brother or sister, she felt ‘
indeed alone. Yet she knew that in Freder- !
ick Howard, the true and generous-hearted, i
the friend and counsellor of many years, she 1
would still find a protector and a guide.—
Kindly and gently as he endeavored to i
soothe her grief, what was her asto ishment, j
when, after a long conversation, he conclu
ded by offering her his hand !
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, FRIDAY MORNING, JUNE 25, 1852.
“Alice,” said he, “you are young and
beautiful; you have many lovers, and 1 have
little to offer. A heart hitherto saddened by
many bitter experiences, and now consecra
ted to a high and holy mission, has little to
attract or interest the young and the joy
ous; but if you can trust your happiness to
my keeping, I will esteem it a sacred charge.
Answer me not now. Wait until you have
thought much, and prayed also, for wisdom
and direction. I will not annoy you with en
treaties; 1 leave you with yourself and your
God. I know the life of a clergyman has
few attractions for the young and the gay,
hut you have too much good sense to place
all your happiness in the gay world—too
much piety, also, I hope. Adieu. I will see
you again. Be calm —act truly.”
He was gone. What a time for a decla
ration, and what a declaration !
But she was flattered. The love of Fred
erick Howard was no light boon. The of
fer of his hand, was no slight compliment.
And she felt grateful too, deeph grateful, that
under such circumstances, she should be ad
dressed by a man who compelled her highest
admiration. But was it love that she felt
for him? She unconsciously compared him
with Horace Wilmot, and she felt that in all
that a man ought to be, Frederick was infin
itely his superior. How unselfish had lie al
ways been, and how magnanimous. Ah!
perhaps even now, ho had offered her his
baud from pure generosity. She did not
quite like his closing speech—it was so fa
therly. It struck her coldly, too—not a
word of passionate entreaty —not a single ex
travagant phrase. Nothing that showed a
heart entirely given up to her. Ah! had she
fully known that noble heart, she would have
seen there, that the all absorbing feeling, was
love for the Redeemer, and his cause.
It had been the secret wish of Mrs. Cam
eron, the mother of Alice, years ago, that
her darling child should marry the young and
gifted orator, for whom she had formed a
strong attachment, in one of our Northern
cities, whither she had gone for health. Alice
was then too young to care much about any
tiling, except pretty dolls, and gay dresses.
Her mother’s health declined rapidly—there
was no hope for her. She looked upon the
beautiful child, so soon to be a woman, and
trembled—trembled for her woman’s heart
and woman’s destiny. What mother would
not ?
“Alice, my love, promise me”—said she
one day—“you are too young to think of
such things—but I may not be with you long
—promise me never to marry a man unless
you are sure of his principles. Trust only
to rectitude, in the choice of a husband—
such as that of Frederick Howard. He is
my friend. I shall appoint him your guardi
an. Never marry without consulting him.
Oh! that lie could be your guardian for life.”
“What, mamma, a preacher! surely, mam
ma, you would not have me marry a preach
er! I should be bored to death.” But obser
ving a shade upon the beloved face, she ex
claimed, “Oh, yes, mamma, 1 will marry
Mr. Ho ward. I will do anything you
wish ”
“Arrogant child—you will? Think you
that Mr. Howard would stoop to such a bun
dle of imperfections as you are?” Yet, who
knows what she might not become under his
influence? mentally said the fond mother, as
she gazed into the artless face of her child—
the fair flower so soon to be left in the wil
derness alone.
A few months saw the grass grow upon
the grave of the mother, whose brief history
mat’ he told in few words. She “loved not
wisely, but too well.” A few years saw in
the reigning belle and toast of the season, the
gifted and brilliant Alice Cameron.
Her father had been a man of the world
vain and ambitious. He was proud of his
child, and would have her splendidly educa
ted. She should not come back to her
Southern home, until she could shine there.
He paid with due respect, the last honors to
his ever gentle wife, aud laid her in the beau
tiful cemetery of Mount Auburn, in the cy
press grove, at her own request—placed his
daughter at a fashionable boarding school,
and departed for Europe.
To Frederick was then delegated the over
sight of the young, fair child, so lovely and
so dejected. He performed his duty, like a
Christian, as he was; but other cares claimed
his attention, and he saw her but seldom, as
she was not permitted frequent intercourse
with any visitors. A year passed, and he
left New England for the home of his youth,
on the banks of the beautiful Alabama.
Already his fame had preceded him. The
power of his eloquence, and still more, the
power of his example, gained all hearts. Beau
ty, wealth, wit and talent—vigorous youth
and honorable age—bowed down alike, be
fore the majesty of so pure and blameless a
character, adorned with gifts so beautiful.—
Yet he turned not aside to hearken to the
voice of temptation, but like his Master, went
about doing good. His ministrations of love
were every where. No hovel too obscure,
no palace too lofty, for his access. Sorrow
visits all alike, and to all alike come, also,
the truly commissioned comforters.
It was on a mission of mercy that he had
gone to Alice, and he came away a declared
lover. Strange mystery of the human heart!
But he was not a character to take such a
step rashly—he nad acted deliberately—he
had done his duty.
CHAPTER 11.
“She will command herself and bear
The doom by fate assigned—
In natures high as hers, the heart
Is mastered by the mind.” [l. e. l.
Weeks passed away, and Alice was alone.
Frederick had left home to give her time to
think and act. Her dearest friend. Florence
Delano, was absent also. She had no coun
sellor.
She had spoken, as she thought, truly,
when she said she did not love Horace Wil
mot. She regarded him only with a pure
friendship. They sympathized so entire*
j ly—they agreed so on all subjects. He
| never spoke of marriage, and to do her jus
; tice, she had never thought of it in connec*
tion with him. It had always seemed to her,
that if she did marry, her husband must be a
character of a different stamp.
Alice had been educated in New England.
She had early given herself up to beautiful
dreams and fancies, and instead of living in
the actual world, she occupied a fairy region
and bowed down before her own creations.
Unmindful of the dangerous tendency of a
false philosophy, she reveled in the beautiful
writings of Emerson, and others of that
school; and knowing, from all she could
learn, that his was a pure and blameless life,
she at once caught the idea of forming her
character on this fair model; she devoured
his writings with the credulity of a devotee.
They were so pure and elevating in their
tendency. Nothing but the cant and bigotry
of contracted minds* could find room for cen
sure.
She studied German, and read German
too, with an eagerness that knew no bounds,
and found herself wholly engrossed with the
ideal beauty of the language and literature.
She had been home now a year. Frede
rick having selected a place of residence for
her, under the protection of a distant con
nection, she was at once by her position,
her gifts, and the immense fortune she was
expected to inherit, immersed in all the gay
eties of fashionable life.
He saw her often enough to be interested,
and to admire her greatly; but no one
thought, and she, least of all, that he regard
ed her with more than the affection of a
brother. When he offered her his hand, she
was surprised, and wondered why—they were
so diligent.
But even in a worldly point of view, a
marriage with Frederick Howard was not to
be thought of lightly. He was rich, of good
family, and great influence. He would have
been considered by many a worldly woman,
a fair match for her fairest daughter. But
Alice was no worldly woman. She knew as
little of the world, of its beguiling arts, and
corrupting influences, as a child. Her heart
had never entered into the gayeties around
her. Her inner life was kept apart, and in
her heart of hearts, she worshipped only the
spirit of intellectual beauty.
Oh! fearful delusion of the young and the
gifted—the pure-hearted. Surely the spirit of
all evil comes there, in the purest guise of an
angel of liidit, when he comes to allure
such pure and gentle natures from their only
rock of strength. Far better cling, in sor
row and sadness, with maniac despair, to the
Christian’s cross of hope, than relinquish it
for such vain dreams as these !
Alice enjoyed areally her friendship with
;Ho race \Y ilmot. Oh, little did she know
| that where he was best known, he had the
I character of an accomplished flirt, and his
principles were, just what his inclination was.
His passion for flirtation, was the absorbing
one of his life.
“Shall I marry or not ?” said she. “Shall
I yield myself up to this delightful friendship,
or place myself under the guardianship of
another man, who may perhaps restrain me
in it ? To be sure, it is not wrong, but men
are such tyrants. I was not born to be the
slave of any man.” Saying this, the proud
beauty gazed self-complacently into the mir
ror before her, and with a bird-like carol, and
an air of sweet defiance to the boy-god,
threw on a simple hat and mantilla, and walk
ed forth into the sunlight.
The blessed sunlight! Thanks be to the
Father for the sunny days, and the fresh, free
air!
Alice Cameron walked forth to breathe
“the Lord’s breath,” and drew not vainly upon
the resources of nature. Her heart became
lighter, and better thoughts aqd feelings pre
dominated, as she turned into the quiet dwel
ling of her friend. Here she would find j
strength, for the lofty virtue of Florence De- |
lano was a blessing to all those who came i
within her influence.
“Florence, dearest, lay down your work
and say something to comfort me—do,” said
the young girl, ardently embracing her. “I
am so weary, so life-sick. Tell me, Florence,
will it be always so hard to live, as I find it
now, do you think ? I see before me a beau
tiful ideal, and long to realize it in my own |
character, but when I seek to cultivate what- I
soever things are lovely and pure, I find my- j
self wandering off in day-dreams, and living
evermore to no purpose. You, Florence,
have realized my ideal; tell me, my friend,
can I ever be like you ?”
Florence raised her calm, dark, spirited j
eyes to the beautiful speaker—“l would, Al- ‘
ice, that your aspirations had taken a loftier j
flight. If you would have happiness, seek it
not, dear friend, in the vain show of worldly j
pleasure. If you would be good, take for j
your standard, no earthly modal, but let the j
words of Him “who spake as never man
spake,” show you where, and what is truth.
The life of Jesns — study it— copy it—let it be
incorporated into j our own—and the beauti
ful ideal of your day-dreams, will be trans
muted into the realization of a truer and more
enduring beauty. There is nothing so lovely
as a Christian’s life—nothing so satisfying.”
“Florence, my dear, I like your religion.
It is so free from cant—so beautiful. But I
have no liking for so-called religious people;
they offend my taste; they would immolate
all that is beautiful and glorious in life, on
the altar of what they call religion ; out up
on such! But we will talk of this subject
again. lam in trouble—l came to tell you
of it—but you will think me so foolish—you
who have no weaknesses.”
“I ?”
“Yes. 1 don’t believe you were ever in
love in vour life, and I am sure I don’t won
der. You never saw any man great enough
for you. I know you. You esteem not what
men call great. You could not be tempted
by riches or fame; hut has your woman’s
heart never rebelled against your head ?
Has the tempter never beguiled you into for
i getfulness of duty, and contempt for wis
! dom ?”
“Call you that love, Alice ? Must the ho
liest sentiment of our nature be profaned
thus? I have my ideal of love. So has ev
ery true woman ; but it is not of such an in
fluence that l predicate the name.”
“Tell me, then, what is your opinion on
this mighty subject, that has puzzled the pro
foundest philosophers. Os course you have
an opinion, but of the experience I doubt.”
“Opinions are little to the purpose. One
must speak feelingly, to speak effectively.
But I will say this much : I have no sympa
thy, no patience, with a certain class of lov
ers. A class who, in the indulgence of a re
fined and morbid selfishness, which they dig
nify with the name of love, set at defiance all
influences, and all claims, however sacred,
that interfere with its gratification.”
“You are right, Florence; but hear me
now experimentally. lam loved ”
“That is nothing new, dear Alice. Your
| conquests might well make a silly woman
! vain, and corrupt a frivolous one, by creating
| a passion for flirtation, ‘which grows by what
! it feeds on.’ ”
“Bah! Speak not of the brainless tribe
who beset me so unconscionably, that I won
der if I shall ever be forgiven the waste of
precious time of which 1 have been guilty, in
endeavoring to be entertained by such. No,
it is of a genius—a gifted, glorious creature
—that I have taken the trouble to come out
this morning and take counsel with you.
Now, my best friend, as you are great, be
merciful. The problem I want solved Is
; this: do I love this man, and ought I to mar
ry him ? Help me, most gracious Minerva,”
said the blushing girl, archly looking up at
her friend.
“These are questions,” said Florence,
“more easily asked than answered. You
! mean Horace Wilmot. Do you love him ? I
! should think you did, from the assiduous and
! delicate attentions you receive from him.
Attentions too delicate to be misunderstood.
Ought you to marry him ? A bare compari
son, I should suppose, between him and an
other character, whom you must always re
vere as his superior, would soon settle this
question.”
j “Ah ! but Frederick is too good for me. I
j feel it. My mother would have wished our
union, and perhaps I ought to ; and there are
times when I regard him with a feeling that
must he worship. I think it is so different to
all other feelings I have ever had ; but when
I do wrong, his mild rebukes, his unfaltering
rectitude, take away my freedom. I can
never resist his will, and his voice is like the
trump of doom, when he tells me of my
faults. Florence, I want to do right. I want
to act truly, according to the intuitions God
has given me. Ah ! where am I ? I cannot
see my way clearly.”
“Be guided, then, by the counsels of those
who love you. Ask your own heart, and
trust to its best teachings, uninfluenced by
the vain brilliancy of a false philosophy.—
Above all, seek wisdom, from the Author of
your mysterious nature, and oh, dear Alice,
do nothing unworthy of yourself—nothing of
which you will have to repent. Give your
self time, and pray.”
“Y ou speak coldly—you do not understand
me, Florence, at all. Nor do you under
stand the feeling you term false and delusive.
How can that be false, which has its origin in
the deepest recesses of our nature? Can our i
intuitions mislead us? can the feeling be un- j
holy which tells me l have a friend, whose !
sympathies are so entirely with my own, !
that he seems like a second self? Never j
have I so freely opened my heart to any hu
man being, as to Horace. Never felt myself
so entirely appreciated. Are any ties to for-
bid the indulgence of so pure a sentiment as
this ? F have found mv soul’s friend in Hor
ace Wilmot. I have found sympathy for
once in life. Oh! let me cherish it—it is my
life. It makes me better, purer, happier. But
it was not with Horace that I spoke of mar
riage. Frederick has offered me bis hand,
and my trouble is, that I fear his sternness
and his cold restraints. I have not thought
of marrying Horace—but Frederick, he must
be my husband,” and Alice told her all—her |
forlornness—her bereavement—her father’s I
unfortunate end—Frederick’s magnanimous j
offer, which she persisted in declaring was i
only magnanimity—and strangest of all, her I
determination to marry him. She could not
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NO. 26.
help it. There was every reason why she
should ; none why site should not.
Alice was so absorbed in her own narra
tive, as not to notice its effect upon her friend.
Hastily rising, as a visitor was announced,
she departed, saying, “Adieu, Florence!
think of me, and pray for me.”
CHAPTER 111.
“With fervent prayers,
Fasten yout souls so high, that constantly
The smile of your heroic cheer, may float
Above all floods of earthly agony—
Purification being the joy of pain.”
And Florence thought, and did she pray ?
Oh, when the human heart is so brought low by
suffering, that it must pray front a very neces
sity of its nature, or die, that is prayer in
deed. Then the urgency and earnestness ot
the appeal, leaves no room for Omnipotence
itself to disregard. Never is such prayer un
availing. Strength will come; t:ot perhaps
as we expect—but it comes, nevertheless.
Yes! the calm, cold form, which to the
eyes of others appeared so lofty and so
proud, so free from human weakness and hu
man sorrow, was prostrated on the floor ot
her chamber with the anguish ot a mighty
grief—such as comes but once in li!e. A teel
ing of despair came over her—the young or
phan giil—as she bowed her whole nature
before the Great Arbiter of all destinies, and
prayed to be comforted —and prayed yet
again—a loftier prayer—to be “mails per
fect”—if need be, “through suffering.”
Whence came this mighty grief?
Florence Delano had been reared in a
beautiful and quiet home by the aged parents
of her departed mother. ‘J here she had
learned to appreciate, fully, the elegant and
refined pleasures of literature. Surrounded
by all the comforts that easy circumstances
bestow, without any of the temptations with
which wealth and fashionable life abound —
caring little for general society, and neces
sarily thrown upon her own resources —she
had devoted much time to mental cultivation.
Among the few who entered freely the
family circle, none was more highly esteem
ed or warmly welcomed than Frederick
Howard, the young minister, whose prayers
and teachings were the delight ot the good
old couple—they always hailed his coining
and felt it a blessing and a joy. Florence
remembered him among her earliest friends.
Though many years had passed since she,
a little child, had tempted the young student
from his books to play with her, or to decide
the mighty differences that arose among the
little ones, in which appeal was always made
to him as to an oracle. Yet, when he came
back to the home of his youth, from a long
absence in a northern clime, he came not
quite as a stranger. The old influence re
turned—the oracle had not lost its virtue.
She was just growing into womanhood*
She was not beautiful, as men term it; hut
there'was a pure, earnest look, a calm, lofty
self-possession, that are to some minds more
than beauty. There were times when she
was roused to enthusiasm, and the eloquent
blood mounted into her cheek, and truly “ono
might almost say her body thought,” so vary
ing, so soul like, so radiant, was the ex
pression.
In the perfection of manly grace and no
bleness Frederick Howard stood before her,
the realization of a sculptor’s dream. But it
was not that; it was not the pure lofty brow
and iidble carriage that attracted her; pure
physical beauty to woman is a little thing;
but she saw there the impersonation of virtue.
Day by day as they were thrown together,
without restraint, he became more and more to
her, the absorbing object of interest. He took
pains to improve and cultivate her powers ami
her character. Did she need Information ? It
was often gratuitously given. Did she utter
a false sentiment! His eye was the first to
look disapproval. They became friends, dear
friends. He treated her with a respect and/
regard always flattering from such a man.
He was not much in female society. His high
and holy commission kept him always apart
from frivolous associations, and Florence felt
that the time given to her was not given mere
ly as pastime; that his life was too full of high
endeavors, too sc-lf-denying, to admit of this.
What then ? Did he love her ? There was al
ways a tenderness in his tones to her, a watch
ful eye upon her ever, when they were in cotn
panj” together, and if she was perplexed or
embarrassed, no matter how earnestly con
versing with another, he had eyes and ears
for her, and always came at once to the res
cue—so adroitly, so gracefully too. What
did it mean ? “Pshaw,” said the pure-hearted
girl. “I will not mar our friendship by idle
dreams. I will at least bo worthy of his love.
I will be like him.”
And time passed on. No words of love were
spoken ; but she listened to his teachings and
grew in spiritual beauty.
When the announcement was made by
Alice, that Frederick had asked her in mar
riage—the blow came—withering, blasting,
prostrating every hope of her young life.
She knew not until then, how every thought
of joy, every hope of happiness, was blended
with his image; and he loved another; he,
the beloved, the idolized of her soul! Oh,
the unutterable anguish of that hour! For
her, there was no more suffering. This was
the first, the greatest, the only grief of her
life; for it swallowed up all others. But she
must bear it. A few hours of uncontrolled
and uncontrollable grief, and she arose from
her despair to act and to live. “The sorrow of
the world worketh death, hut the sorrow of
the Christian strength and purification.” And