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THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL
IS PUBLISHED
EVERY FRIDAY MORNING,
BY
T. LOMAX & CO.
TFXNEXT LOMAX, Principal Editor.
Office on Randolph street.
Citcranj Department,
Conducted by CAROLINE LEE HENTZ.
[WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.]
MAGNOLIA LEAVES^
Since sending you tlie last Magnolia Leaf,
we discovered some lines, written upon the
beautiful gem of the ocean, we have endeav
ored to describe, in the hand-writing of him
whose character adorns this sketch. They
were addressed to a friend, and appear to
be impromptu: \
“The mused isle, the embattled walls, . \
Where erst our livesfin concert fell,
Till Time from hence my spirit calls
On memory’s fairest page will dwell.
Along the strand, so bleak and wild,
Tliough winds and waves tempe-tuous came, A
Our martial home seienely smiled, kW
I United by friendship’s vestal |r
Affections there attuned to thine, 4
WithVocial charms would giidjthe hours, J
The hfcart subdue, the soul retirfe,
And sfcew the soldier’s path with flowers^’
The remaining verses are personal, and
may be omitted here. They were composed
ill the wintry season, when the wild blasts
raved around the embattled walls, as it angry
with the dashing waves? that beat in foam
against them.
VVe saw him again at another home—a
fortress still—but more magnificent than the
other. Fort Monroe, at Old Point Comfort,
is said to be the largest, most commanding
isolated Fort in the world. Situated on the
noble Chesapeake Bay, it looks down on its
grand expanse of water, ready to launch its
thunder-holts on the toe that would invade
its walls, (.'lose by, are the Rip Raps —or
Castle Calhoun, as it is also called —a Fort
constructed of rock, on a foundation ol stone,
sunk deep into the Bay. Nothing can look
more bleak and isolated, than this rocky
hermitage, which was destined to rise in cas
tellated grandeur, above the element whose
dominions it had invaded ; but owing to the in
calculable amount of labor required tor its
completion, it remains unfinished, and at a
little distance, looks like a huge rock, heaved
lip from the bed of the ocean. Parties oi
pleasure from the Fortress, in barges and
sail boats, resort to ibis lonely retreat; and
the weary statesman often escapes from the
h tils of Congress, to spend a tew days there
in solitude and meditation. W e might have
called it a modern Delos, thus born in the
ocean, by the creating power of man, but
where were the emerald carpet and glowing
flowers of the Grecian Isle?
Nothing was more frequent, in the depth
of winter, when the Bay was lashed by the
storm-spirit, than for vessels to be wrecked
within sight of the Fort. Again and again,
with dauntless chivalry, had the gallant sol
dier, gathering round him a band of comrades,
gone out to the rescue, and won the blessing
of the drowning mariner. One dark, tem
pestuous night, when the earth was covered
with snow and ice, the signal of distress was
heard, and a ship was seen drifted by the
wind, and tossing on the wrathful billows.
Regardless of the roaring elements, drenched,
chilled, benumbed, he passed the whole night
in the work of preservation. In returning to
the Fort, his foot slipped on the frozen
ground, and lie fell, apparently without inju
ry. Inflammatory fever was the conse
quence of the night’s exposure, and when he
rose from his sick bed, a slight lameness of
the knee reminded him of the forgotten fall.
Strange ns it may seem, it was a death-stroke,
for from that moment, slowly, but certainly,
began to fail one of the most glorious con
stitutions God ever bestowed on man. What
a terrible infliction to one of his stately mien
—his firm and martial tread! \et no one
dreamed of its being a permanent injury, and
his elastic spirit never yielded to desponden
cy. It was about this time that he accompa
nied us in a journey over the Alleghany, and
never shall we forget the glowing enthusi
asm with which he would indicate the sub
lime and magnificent features of that moun
tain highway —the fascination of his conver
sation, the play ot his fancy, and the vivid
ness of his intellect. Weariness was forgot
ten, and apprehension beguiled. Whether
passing through some rocky gorge, that
threatened to enclose us in its narrow and
rugged passage—winding round the steep,
dizzy verge of the mountain-top, high as the
eagle's eyrie—or poised on the brink of the
Jlairk’s JYest, above the murmuring Ka
nawa, which flows eight hundred feet below—
he vv.ss still the same bright, mastering spirit
What a difference in travellers! What a dif
ference in human beings! There was a gen
tleman, who was our fellow-traveller, who
scarcely uttered a syllable the whole way
—who seemed perfectly unmoved, while
hatted in sunshine, he looked down on
clouds rolling and lightnings darting below,
or when the mountain-side was covered
witl one broad sheet of rainbow. In passing
through Charlotteville, we beheld the summit
of Honticello, leaning on the golden bosom
of Mmset. He, our military companion, was
an linpassioned admirer of the genius of Jef
feipon, and proposed r a visit to the former
residence of this great statesman.
fl'he day was one of the fairest the sun
ever made with his autumnal beams. The
afr was so clear and refreshing, it seemed to
give one wings to waft them to the moun
tain’s top. Arrived there, what a pros
pect unfolded to the eye! What a glorious
panorama! On one side, the Blue Ridge hung
its undulating and heaven-sweeping drapery
of mist—on the otherj the majestic Rotunda
VOL 111.
of the University, with its classic buildings,
specimens of the different orders of archi
tecture, brought the refinements of art in
beautiful contrast with the freedom and mag
nificence of nature. The morning breeze
sighed through the branches of the forest
trees “Which surrounded the dwelling, and
seemed breathing a requiem over departed
greatness. The sage of Monticello had plan
ted those trees with his own hand, gathering
together in one brotherhood, all that are na
tives of the forests of Virginia. Thus leaving
a monument, grander than marble and more
| worthy of his fame. We sat down on the
long grass beneath those rustling trees and
gazed around in silence. The oppression of
great feeling was upon us, and speech is not
; for such moments, if the episode will be
pardoned, in this brief and unpretending life
| sketch, we will give a few lines to the des
cription of the mansion Jefferson once occu
pied—for Monticello, like Mount Vernon, is
our country’s classic ground.
The house is built in the form of a Rotun
da, and has something of the air of a Grecian
temple. The architecture is beautiful, but the
proportions are too small for the magnifi
\ cence of the design. The windows of the
dome are sky lights, which let in a flood of
1 sunshine, that must be oppressive in sultry
seasons. As you enter the vestibule, the eye
is arrested by a bust of the statesman, placed
on a colossal pedestal of black, ingrained
marble, presiding in lonely majesty over the
entrance of dwelling. The floors are of
tesselated wood, giving a peculiar and for
eign aspect to the rooms. But the impress
of other hands is there, and destroys in a
measure the interest of association. The
Mount itself was his dwelling place—and
there his memory will remain, though his
mansion be converted to purposes of utility
and shorn of its original brightness. We
would gladly linger on every incident of that
journey', which developed the noble, self
sacrificing character of our soldier-compan
ion ; but if we did, volumes would be written,
and we fear to blend too much egotism with
a record, intended as an example of social
grace and moral excellence.
From this time the shadow deepened. The
active duties of life were suspended—alas!
never to be resumed again. It was hard to
leave a station endeared by domestic associa
tions, at a time too, when the honors of pro
motion rested upon him; but he was advised
to seek medical advice in a Northern clime,
and returned a drooping invalid to the home
of his boyhood. There amid the love scenes
of his nativity, surrounded by idolizing kind
red, devoted friends, and cheered by that lov
ing smile, which “no cloud could o’ercast,”
the soldier’s last tent was made.
In a letter dated at this time, he says :
“I am grateful to Heaven for the opportu
i nities with which 1 have been blessed of see
ing you at our martial home in Virginia, and
during our memorable, never to be forgotten
journey over the cloud-capped Alleghany.
These are among the dearest recollections of
my life, and I cherish them the more fondly,
as 1 am now bereft of that health, vigor and
buoyancy ol spirit, those qualifications as a
traveller, in which I once exulted. I must
now sustain the weary, stale, flat and unprofi
table character of a broken soldier. The in
spiring music of the war-band, the rustling of
the star-spangled banner, will never more call
tne to the ramparts, which I once loved to
tread. ‘Othello’s occupation’s gone.’ ”
Everything which affection could suggest,
or ingenuity execute, was done to relieve the
monotony of his life. Railings were put up
along the smooth green sward, on either side
of the dwelling house, to support his steps as
he walked, and rustic, seats erected under the
luxuriant shade trees, where he could sit and
enjoy the sweet influences of nature. He
would sit for hours in the moonlight, gazing
i in silence on that calm, beauteous orb, that
reflected its lustre on his pale, placid face,
and to those who remembered his restless,
| energetic movements in health, this deep
tranquility and meditation was sad and touch
ing. It seemed as if the ebbing tide of his
as it rolled beneath the trembling rays,
was subsiding into a peaceful equilibrium.
Nature brooded lovingly and mournfully over
her languishing votary, while her stilly dews
wept around him.
And so he passed away. The brave, the
noble, the generous, and the gifted. It was
when the twilight shades were beginning to
fail, that they turned from the grave where
he was laid, and the moon—that moon which
he had so much loved to gaze upon—came
forties if on purpose to illumine the spot, and
to light the mourners on their sad, homeward
path. What were now its beams to him,
who had gone to that world where there is
no sun nor moon, but where the Lord God is
the light ? What were they to those whose
i weeping hearts were folded in the darkness
of sorrow, which the Sun of Righteousness
1 alone could disperse ?
1
Rest, soldier, rest. The spot where thou
| reposest is holy ground. Rest beside the
mother—once a saint on earth, now an an
"el in Heaven—rest beside her, whose wid
i O
: owed breast thy filial tenderness had embalm
ed and gladdened—by the sister, whose me
mory was a holy incense burning in the heart’s
censer—by the kindred dust ot earlier genera
| tions. It is glorious to die on the battle-field,
| with the oriflamme of our country for a wind
ing sheet—but it is sweet to sleep on the na
tive soil, surrounded by the graves of a home
stead. C. L. H.
[ WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR THE SOFT HERN SENTINEL. J
ALICE HOWARD.
CHAPTER IV.
“How discord on the music fell,
And darkness on the glory.”
[ BARRETT.
And they were married! Years passed—
three years—and the home of Alice and
Frederick was seemingly peaceful and hap
py. The prattle of young voices gladdened
their hearth—the gay laugh of childhood rang
in their ears sweeter than music.
Blessed is the home, where little children
are made happy. Where the mother’s heart
is the haven, and the father’s strong love the
protection, of the beings committed to their
care.
“Alice, my wife, you are too intimate with
that young man,” said the husband and the
father. “1 have told you repeatedly that it
had my disapproval. Will you still persist in
it, when I tell you that it makes your husband
unhappy?”
“Mr. Howard, I know not what to say, I
am so surprised. I believed 3 ? ou above all
selfishness. 1 have thought you always the
most magnanimous being 1 ever knew. You
do me foul injustice by your suspicions.”
“It is riot suspicions, Alice, you well know,
that have excited my apprehension, but facts.
Magnanimity! It would be the obtuseness
of an eyster, and not the magnanimity of a
high-souled, honorable man, to tolerate such
love-like attentions as I see cbiily bestowed
upon my wife, before my very eyes. Rumors
have already reached me, insulting to myself
and to you, and disgraceful to our children.
1 command \’ou to break off this dishonora
ble intimacy, for I will tolerate it no longer.”
“What! give up a friend so dear to me, be
cause the idle gossips think it unbecoming?
I thought you above regarding such things,
my husband. I have been of great use to
that young man. He says 1 have done him
more good than any one else. That J have
given him new views of life and duty ; and
made life brighter and clearer to him. That
he never thought till now that he could be of
any use to the world.”
“Awful delusion ! What! is it possible} T ou
can deceive yourself thus ? Can you believe
yourself acting purely and doing good, when
the results of your conduct are the unhappi
ness of your husband, and the shameful ne
glect of your children and all your duties ?
Do I not see you wholly absorbed in your in
terest for that man, who is by no means your
equal in intellect or culture, and whose
moral character is below contempt? Have
I not seen letters which would be damning
evidence against you both, in any court of
justice? Letters full of passionate devotion
to each other, as if to you both, there were
no other ties or beings in existence ? Ob, that
my wife should ever be so degraded!” and the
strong man bowed himself and wept aloud.
Alice endeavored to soothe him. She could
not behold her husband, the faithful friend of
many years, thus agonized, and on her ac
count, with indifference. Fie had never fail
ed in his duty to her. She thought of all his
goodness, his great forbearance, and said,
“Frederick, for the sake ofyourpeace of mind,
I will obey your wishes.”
It was a cold return for his love, for he
had loved the wife of his bosom, the mother
of his children—he had cherished her, as a
mother cherishes her child. Her reply was
a cold one, but he forbore to notice it. He
believed her promise and was calm.
In a few days, Horace Wilrnot, for it was
no other, left Mobile, where he had been
visiting for several weeks, for his home in
New Orleans. He had not been gone a day,
when Frederick found lying open in her bu
reau a letter from Alice. He read it—it
lamented the cruel destiny that separated her
from the beloved of her soul—from the being
she had most loved on earth. It was filled
with passionate love, and sad regrets that
they could not be together always—live and
die together.
Who can describe the grief and indigna
tion of a noble nature, when it finds its trust
abused, its “kindness answered with foul
wrong?” We shall not attempt to show the
horror of Frederick, at the discovery of the
baseness of his wife. She might have been
deceived at first, but now she had dissembled,
she had lied. She, the pure and truth-loving,
the child-like creature, who had always con
fided to him even so entirely; who had al
ways been so guileless! He knew not till now,
how much he had loved her; how her gen
tle ways had won upon his heart. To save
her from the fearful delusion, futal alike to
her happiness, purity and salvation, he deter,
mined to leave no means untried. But what
could be done ?
He went in search of her—found her in
the parlor reading. He walked up to her
calmly, looked her steadily in the face, and
laid the letter before her. She became dead
ly pale.
“Mr. Howard, you have no right, sir, to
read my letters. Am Ito have no privacy
because lam your wife ? Such surveillance
is meanness.”
“Call it what you please ; you are my wife,
although you are not worthy to be the wife
of any honorable man. You are the mother
of my children, and I will save }’ou if jmu
can be saved. I shall write to the villain who
has disturbed my peace, and show his cow
ardly heart what he may expect if he dares
any longer to insult my wife by his infamous
conduct.’’
“Cowardly 1”
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, FRIDAY MORNING, JULY 2, 1852.
“Yes, all vice is cowardly ; virtue alone is
firm and bold under all circumstances.”
The wretched husband left his wife to her
own thoughts, and went his way, pondering
on the mysteries of life, with darkness in his
soul—his faith in all things seemed shaken
for awhile.
They saw little of each clher for several
days.
One morning he was suddenly called to
the bedside of a dying man. It was the com
panion of his college days. The same who
had handed him the fatal letter, which had
separated him from his first and dearest love.
In the agony of the death-struggle, the
wretched man confessed his baseness, and
said he could not die without the forgiveness
of one he had so deeply injured. “You are
forgiven,” calmly said theyoungman. “Great
as is my suffering, yours is greater. It is'bet
ter, far better to suffer, than inflict such a
wrong. I pity and forgive you.”
Kneeling then, by that bed of death, the
faithful minister of Jesus Christ prayed for
his enemy, and his own heart was strength
ened.
He returned to his home. Oh! could he
call it home? Was there for him any home
upon earth ? He lifted his heart to his Father
in Heaven ; thought of the rest that remains
for the people of God, and wished that the
struggle of life might soon be over.
He entered indeed a deserted dwelling.
A letter from Alice lay on the table in his
study. It ran thus:
My Husband: —l leave you forever!
VVe have never sympathized with each other.
There has been no heart communion between
us. I am not fitted for the restraints and
drudgery of a domestic life. I go with the
friend of my soul to the sunny land of Italy.
We shall live there together as brother and
sister. There, in that fair land, where artists
have sung, and wrought, and made them
selves immortal, we will devote ourselves to
art and to virtue. Mere conventional forms
shall no longer trammel us. We will be tree.
We will live a glorious intellectual life of
beauty and of friendship. You will soon
forget the poor orphan, whom from pure
magnanimity you made your wife. You
should have married Florence. She would
have suited your stern notions of duty ; and
you would have been happy, as we have nev*
er been.
I commend our children to you both—
you will do better for them than I could
ever do. Adieu!
Speak of me as I am. Nothing extenuate,
Nor aught set down in malice.
Alice.
She was gone! Nothing could save her
now. She had placed a great gulf between
herself and her home, which could not be
closed. He deliberated a moment, and went
to Florence.* He knew her woman's heart,
and sought her counsel.
Shocked as she was at the conduct of one
she had so dearly loved, she urged him by
every consideration to follow and rescue her.
“You can save her, Frederick—you only. Oh,
my friend, extend your forbearance and gen
erosity yet a little further. You have already
borne much. Be true to your own great and
noble heart, and bring back your deluded
wife, ere ruin, worse than death, overtake her.
Alice is not wicked—she cannot be.”
“Call her never again *rny wife, Florence.
Oh, God, save me from madness! Have 1
lived for this ? Is this God’s providence, or
is there any providence, any God?”
Had Florence heard aright? Was tin’s
the language of Frederick Howard? Os him
who had been her guide, her exaaiple in holi
est things ? She went to him—laid her hand
upon his brow—it was burning with fever.
She knelt by his side and prayed aloud a
prayer for him, and for the poor wanderer.
Ah, little did she know all his anguish. The
despair that had seized his soul was greater
than he could bear. He was ill—too ill to
walk home, or to be taken there. A physi
cian was sent for, who remained with him
the greater part of the night. Florence could
not leave him thus. She bathed his temples
and his hands, and sought to allay the fever that
was burning up his brain. “Oh, Florence,”
he exclaimed, “come to me; do not leave
tne; be my friend always. You who were
my chosen wife; my dearest love; the malice
of the foul fiend alone separated us.” Thus
he raved, and thus she learned all that had
made her life so desolate! The skillful phy
sician left him not, until he was sleeping, and
he awoke in the morning somewhat refreshed.
Florence still sat there by bis bedside.
She had left him not a moment. How could
she ? She would have watched by her worst
enemy, and he—she would have died to save
his life even now.
“Frederick,” said she, “if you are able to
rise, go, I beseech you, at once, for Alice. I
cannot doubt her purity; bring her back to
her home. She will yet thank you.”
“I will go now,” said he, and he did go
immediately, to New Orleans, whither he
suspected they had gone.
Alice having left Mobile, under the protec
tion of Horace, found on their arrival in New
Orleans that there were already rooms pre
pared for them. They entered a private parlor.
“Alice,” said Horace, leading her to a seat,
“now that you are free, we will arrange our
plans.”
“Oh, yes! we will live so beautifully ! We
will travel—and together see the world, and
all the wonders of art and nature ; and we
will have music and poetry—and you will be
my brother—and we will be so happy. I have
always had a passion for music. Do von know
l intend to support myself, by the sweet mu
sic 1 shall make, wherever I go ?”
“Support yourself, dearest! do you think I
will allow that? Are you not now wholly
mine? Have you given up all for me, and
shall these beautiful hands work for daily
bread ? Oh, no, my beloved, you shock me
by such a thought!”
“But I shall do as I please, my brother. Am
I not free ? I will warble like a bird who
has flown from his cage, and my warbling
shall be so beautiful, so thrilling, that l shall
gain all hearts. Oh, music, divine art, I cair
only express my soul through thee ! I will
live a life of melody.”
“But we must talk sensibly now, Alice, my
love. Your husband might seek you; we
must fly, and at once- You say we will go
to Italy. Let us sail immediately. A packet,
I believe, goes to-morrow, and we must be oft’
as soon as possible.
“Support yourself, indeed! lam rich.
Are you not mine ? My wife in the sight of
Heaven? Do we not love each other more
than all the world ? Is not love greater than
conventional forms ? Will it not be my duty,
as well as pleasure, to give you every luxury
wealth can bestow
“No, no,” said she warmly, as his mean
ing began to dawn upon her; “use not the
word wife in my presence; I do not like it;
we are brother and sister; we will live as
such—and 1 choose to be free and indepen
dent.”
“Well, we have no time to lose now, in
idle discussion. I must see if a packet can
be obtained. I will return to-night, and we
will arrange all.”
“No, not to-night, Horace—l would be
alone—l shall see you in the morning—l need
rest now.”
CHAPTER V.
“Angels, let the ransomed stranger,
In your tender care be blest,
Hoping, trusting, sale from danger,
Till the trumpet end her rest:
Till the trump, which shakes creation,
Through the circling heavens shall roll—
Till the day of consummation—
Till the bridal of the soul!” [Conder.
Os Horace Wilmot, we have said little, foi
the plain reason that there j s little to say.
He was every way, a common-place charac
ter. Ilisgreatest attractions were, a musical
voice, and a fascinating, self-possessed manner.
Not the self-possession of a great soul, but
of mere good breeding, which is often mista
ken for it. Flow he had ever acquired any
influence over such a woman, is one of life’s
mysteries. True, in the exuberance of her
own beautiful thoughts and fancies, Alice had
invested him with all graceful and noble quali
ties. Her brilliant imagination had created an
image which had no real existence, and she
bowed down and worshipped it. Under this
awful delusion, she fondly believed that it was
a purely spiritual affinity that drew them to
gether—the sympathy of kindred natures.
Had she, in the intoxication of this delightful
dream, but carefully examined her own heart,
she would not —she could not have been so
deceived. But if, for a moment, at any time,
the voice of conscience would he heard—as
heard it will be—she sought to justify herself
by the false principles of a light that shines
only to lead astray. “It is only coarse and
worldly natures, who would blame me for
being true to the holiest intuitions of my spir
itual being,” whispered she to the still, small
voice.
Ah! how the first step in an evil course,
perverts the judgment, and vitiates the puri
ty of the heart!
Man of the world, as he was, Horace Wil
mot was not at all deceived. His intellect
could not soar to the lofty regions of highest
thought, and revel there in beautiful crea
tions. He had little cultivation and no re
finement, except of manners. To appreciate
either the intellect or character of Alice, was
wholly beyond his grasp. His vanity was
flattered greatly, that he had been able to
win so great a prize as the beautiful Mrs.
Howard. Her high standing and character,
as a woman of cultivated taste and pure, re
fined manners—her well known superiority
in every respect, and the high character and
position of her husband—made his triumph
still greater. He was in ecstacy.
He well knew that their intercourse togeth
er had been such as lovers only hold. That
his power over her was such, that she loved
him with a passion that made her oblivious
of every tie, every duty, every individual, that
could interfere with its indulgence. But he
affected not to know it. He affected to be
lieve that her husband was apprised of all,
and sanctioned it. And she was duped.—
And she deserved to be, for she had sinned,
and her own heart condemned her.
In darkness and in solitude, sat the delu
ded victim of a false philosophy and a guilty
passion, to commune with her own heart.
Oh, the ravages that sin has made in a world
of beauty ! How many peaceful homes are
made desolate! how many pure natures cor
rupted ! And of all the forms in which its
desolating influence is felt, none is more fa
tal, (because so insidious,) than that guise of
error which is propagated under the show of
Christianity. With enough of the truth and
beauty of the gospel to render it attractive
to all earnest anti enquiring minds, it is most
attractive to the young and imaginative—who,
with unsettled principles, and poetic temper
ament, are asking eagerly, and as they
think, earnestly, what is truth ? In the hour
of strong temptation—which comes to all in
this world—excuse may be found for almost
any enormity under the broad irgis of the
transcendental philosophy. Let the teachers
of such a system look to it—they have had
a larger share in bringing desolation to home
and hearth—in alluring to the grossest sensu
alism, degradation and ruin, some of earth’s
choicest spirits, than any other influence that
we know of.
Alice Howard sat alone there, in that
strange room, gloomy and solitary—she felt
unprotected. She did not quite like the lan
guage and manner of her friend, now that 3he
was entirely in his power. She thought of
her husband. What was it? Was it re
morse, that brought back toiler remembrance
ail his goodness—all his great and noble
qualities? She compared him with Horace,
and felt his infinite superiority, with a bitter
ness that knew no bounds. She had left her
home—her children—broken the holiest tie3,
and for what? Aye, for what? What if
she had been deluded! Was this merely a
spiritual love ? Why, then,-had she given up’
all to be near him? Could they not have
communed at a distance? Oh! could she
conceal from her own heart now, that it was
a guilty passion, instead of a pure sentiment,
which she had been cherishing ? The sellish
tiess and wickedness of her course rose up,
before her, in all its enormity, and she felt
that she would not be willing for her dearest
friend to know the nature of this intimacy,
as she herself knew it. Alas! alas! there
was no help for her! What could she do ?
She felt that she loved him still; that life
would be common-place without him—a per
fect blank!
“I can die,” murmured the wretciied wan
derer, “but I cannot cease loving him. I can
not go back to my wronged and noble hus
band—his very forgiveness would crush me.
lain lost! But I will save myself—these
hands shall supply my necessities, and I will
go to some unknown land, where I shall nev
er be heard of more—l will there labor, suf
fer and die.” Hopeless and wretched, she
threw herself on a couch and gave way to a
paroxysm of tears, which relieved her, and
she slept.
Horace came in the morning to tell her all
was ready—they must sail in a few hours.
She was gloomy and dispirited. She said
j nothing of the feelings that oppressed her,
| but determined to bear her lot, as she had
! chosen it. Hopeless lot, indeed! She told
I Horace plainly of her determination to live
lan independent life. To be free to command
| her time, and to prosecute such studies as she
i delighted in, particularly music, which she
j told him decidedly should be her means of
subsistence.
“Bat it cannot be, Alice, This is no
world in which to carry out so wild a
scheme. It cannot be done—it never has
j been. Wherever we go, you must pass for
j inv wife, and you will be, indeed and in truth,
Imy beloved. There is no real union but of
! hearts, and heaven sanctions such only. Let
! not the cant of fanatics and fools frighten
: you. You are mine, soul and body, and I
; defy the universe to separate us.”
Furious, desperate, horror-stricken, she ex
i claimed, “Was it for this I have risked all
that is dear to woman ? home, friends, pro
| tection—all—to minister to the selfishness of
j a creature so base \ Are the beautiful vis-
I ions of freedom and blessedness 1 have cher
j ished, thus dispelled ? I will return at once
to my husband, claim his protection, and ask
j his forgiveness. I have been duped ”
“By all the devils in hell, you dare not,
you shall not. You cannot escape me thus.
You are dreaming, Alice. You surely did
not believe that the wild theories of French
philosophers, or transcendental fools, could
be carried out into practice! Child, you
know nothing of the world. But l will teach
you. You will soon become accomplished
under my tuition—it is wonderful that a wo
man of so much sense did not know more.
Come, confess now, that you were playing
upon my patience. You did not think of
leaving me,” said he, approaching her tender
ly, and throwing his arm around her.
She shrank as from an adder. “Forbear,”
said she, with dignity, “to contaminate me
with your touch. Your very presence is
pollution. Igo at once to my husband. I
leave this place this very instant.”
“Never!” said he, “never! These are
only pretty airs—they frighten rne not.—
Think you your husband would tolerate your
conduct? He would scorn you 1 You are
in my power now, and you shall not go.”
“W ho dares to sa\ r shall not, to wife of
mine?” said Frederick Howard, entering the
room. He, for an instant, steadily confront
ed the guilty pair, with all the indignation of
which a noble nature is capable, concentered
in his features—then with a withering look :
of scorn, too bitter for expression, he turned ,
to Horace, and in a voice of thunder ex- j
claimed:
“Leave this house, sir, instantly! Lose not
a moment, if you value your safety. Tempt
me no further.”
His look and tone of proud command were
not to be resisted. “I go, sir,” said the de
feated villain. “Good morning! I have only
one word to say. I advise you to go home
now, and teach your beautiful wife what is
propriety.” Saying this, he coolly bowed 1
himself out of the room.
Alice looked at her husband. His features
were convulsed with strong emotion. He j
was deadly pale, from the ravages made by ‘
fever and suffering—and utterly prostrated in ,
strength, he sunk into a chair and groaned !
audibly.
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NO. 27.
Bot he spoke not—he had no words for
her. She went to him, threw heraelf at his
feet, and buried her face in his lap. “Oil!
my husband, this terrible silence kills me.
Speak to me, even though it he but to re
proach rne. I ask only for forgiveness.—
Oh! Frederick, withhold it not, as you hope
lor mercy ! I have foully wronged you, hut
oh! by all your kindness I ask only to be for
given.”
“Rise, Alice, be calm and hear me. Illy
would it become me to withhold from you—•
from any one —the forgiveness of a Christian,
lou have left your home. What do vou in
tend doing ? I heard loud and angry words
on entering this room, (fan I do anything
for you ? You spoke of your husband. Do
you need his protection ?”
“Need it!” said she, “I am forsaken of
hoaven and earth. Oh! Frederick, leave me
not in this hour of darkness! Take mo
home. Let me live with you, if only to re
pent of my wickedness, and emulate your
virtues.”
“Let us go, then, at once—we must hasten.
Florence only knows of your absence. No
one else must know it.”
The husband and wife departed for their
home.
Florence received Alice in her arms, as
her husband brought her from the carriage,
and laid her on a sofa. She had fainted. —
Restoratives were applied, and as soon as
she was recovered she was taken to her
room.
Florence remained with her. When they
were alone, Alice related all that she lmd suf
ferred since she loft her home, and in unqual
ified terms, blamed herself for her wretched
ness—herself only. The insignificant person
who had practiced so upon her incredulity,
was hardly spoken of. She considered him
below contempt, and wondered why she
could ever have been so ensnared by him.
But it had humbled her pride, she said, to find
she had beeh duped by such a character.
“Tell Frederick, my dear Florence—tell
! him, in justice to me and himself too—that I
am not the guilty thing he believes me to be.
I know he thinks me degraded. Oh! I would
give millions of worlds for the respect of my
husband—his love, I cannot hope for.”
A long spell of illness followed. Florence
did what she could to reconcile her two dear
est friends. She soothed and comforted Al
ice with all the tenderness and love of which
her nature was capable. Frederick knelt by
her bedside clay after day, in fervent prayer,
and she listened with an interest and eagerness
she had never felt before. His lightest word
was music to her ear. Never had she loved
him as now. Never felt for any human be
ing the regard and reverence, the unuttera
ble tenderness, she felt for her husband. But
she spoke little. When she recovered so
far as to perform her daily duties, she went
about them with interest and pleasure. Her
| little children were the objects of her unceasing
care—and her husband—if he looked a wish,
she would gratify it, if possible, at any sacri
fice. But there was sadness in all slio did.
A smile seldom passed her countenance —
never dwelt there. Yet there was a radiance,
Ia purity, a heavenly light about her, that
! irrew more and more unearthly. Months
I ® w
I passed away. The self-denying zeal with
I which she sought to atone for the past, hy
| refusing herself all gratification, every enjoy
ment, preyed upon her health. She grew
j weaker in body, but her soul was preparing
! for its rest.
Frederick wag h ag ily summoned one mor
ning to the be.q s id e ,f his wife. “Stay with
me now,” said she, any husband, in what I
feel will be my last conflict with suffering. I
can die calmly with you by mv side.—
Strengthen me as you have ever done, arid
oh! receive my blessing, my warmest thanks,
for all 3’ou are and have been to ine. My
last earthly wishes are for your happiness.
May it ever he equal to your goodness—
greater, I cannot wish it. Farewell! Let me
hear your voice in prayer once more, my
best friend, and take with you through life
this great consolation : that you have saved
a soul from death !”
“The struggle will soon be over,” said the
kind physician, who had done all that human
skill could do. “There is no hope.”
‘l’he sun rose brightly in the morning, af
ter that night of anguish—the sun of a hu
man life had set, but left a radiance behind it
redolent with the brightness of a Christian’s
hope. Death had no sting—it was swallow
ed up in victory.
Two little girls, fair and beautiful, entered
hand in hand, that chamber of death and sor
row. Their father was kneeling hy the sida
of the departed. Florence sat there with
her eyes riveted upon the beautiful face so
calm and holy in its last repose. The little
ones looked up in her face for comfort, won
dering why all was so sad and still. They
had not yet learned the meaning of death.
Who has?
***** •
In a few weeks Frederick Howard sailed
for Europe. His health and his spirits need
ed change of climate—of every thing. The
desolation of his home—the bitterness of the
past—had well nigh crushed his spirit—if
such a spirit can be crushed. But no—a
great soul cannot be conquered by any ills
of mortal birth. When the anguish and the
struggle of a mighty grief have passed away,
Phoenix-like, it will arise from the ashes of
its despair, and go forth stronger in its in
tegrity, and glowing with the radiance ofayet
Jollier virtue, which “shineth more and more
unto the perfect day.”