Newspaper Page Text
THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL
IS PUBLISHED
EVERY FRIDAY MORNIJIG,
BY
T. LOMAX &, CO.
TENSEST LOMAX, Pkucip.l el.it™.
Office on Randolph street.
Citcrari) D cpovlmcnt.
Conducted by CAROLINE LEE HENTZ.
[WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.]
MAGNOLIA LEAVES.
ANOTHER LETTER FROM TIIE HANKS OF THE TENNESSEE, j
The silver crescent of the honey-moon has ;
waxed into the full-orbed mellow lustre of j
wedded tenderness. Our sweet enthusiast i
lias tasted a mingled cup since last we met
her by the Magnolia’s blossoms. She has
felt the joy and sorrow of a mother’s heart.
.She has been supremely blest and severely
smitten, and she has known the
‘'Soothing; thoughts which spring
From the depths of human suflering.”
tier feet no longer turn, at the sunset hour,
towards the Indian mound. There is a
smaller, newer mound, covered with fresh,
green turf, to which her footsteps bend.—
There she carries her offerings of flowers,
gemmed with other dew than the tears of
night. There she sits, beneath the muiber
, tv’s shade, by the side of her husband, hold
ing sweet communion with the spirit of her
infant, in the hush of the balmy twilight.
“One month ago,” she writes, “I felt as if
my hand were paralyzed and my heart turn
ed to stone. I would willingly have lain
down in the cold ground by my baby’s side
and died, had it pleased God to seal my eye
lids with the last great sleep. But now, if
not glad, I am happy; if not joyous, I am
resigned. I will go back and tell you mv
life’s experience since last I wrote- It is
what thousands and tens of thousands of my
sex have experienced before, and yet it seems
as if there was no joy like unto my joy; no
sorrow, like unto my sorrow; no submission, ;
like what I now feel. Strange! we are less,
far less in the great mass of human life, than
tjie fallen leaf of the forest, or the sand grain
of the sea-shore; and yet, we are such vast
worlds to ourselves—all infinitude sinks into
insignificance in comparison to ourselves.
Am I more selfish than others? Tell me, for
I shudder to think how the whole universe
was darkened by the veil that was draw n
over my single, sorrowing heart.
“About a year ago, God placed a little
blue-eyed cherub in my arms, and baptized
me by the sacred name of mother. I felt the
consecration in my inmost soul, and mad? a
vow unto the Lord, to dedicate myself anew
to his service, that I might offer my child
with unpolluted hands—the firstling of the :
Hock—a lamb without spot or blemish, on
his holy altar. What capacities of happiness
and usefulness were horn within me! How
enlarged seemed my sphere of action ! How
sublime the career opening to my view!
“ l W hatacousequential little body you have
become,’said my husband, smilingly, after lis- i
toning patiently to a long oration of mine, on j
a mother’s duties and cares. ‘But alas! for;
poor me—l see lam dwindling away into a
nonentity. If I have any positive existence, j
it is only as the father of this child.’
“‘lngrate!’ I exclaimed, while my spirit j
literally basked in the tender light of those j
daik, brilliant eyes. ‘Have you not told me j
a hundred times, that my only fault was lev- j
ing you too well ? that you were obliged to j
repress your own love, to check the idolatry j
of mine? If I adore this child, it is because !
it is yours—a heavenly link, drawing me j
closer, nearer to your heart.’
“But why weary you with a description of i
scenes which may seem very foolish to all !
save ourselves? For six months, I was the
happiest of human beings. I cannot give you !
the faintest idea of the exceeding beauty of
our little darling. So exquisitely fair, such
dove-like eyes, shaded by such long lashes,
and such a. sweet, rose-bud mouth. Everv
* l
day she grew more lovely, every hour I j
loved her more. et I trembled all the time
in the midst of 1113’ new-born happiness.—
There was something about her so different j
from other children,--so gentle, so quiet, j
and dream-like, —she would look up in my
face so wistfully, and with such startling in- ;
telligeiice,—the tears would spring into my i
eyes as I would press her closer to my heart,
that ached with its excess of tenderness. ■
Something w hispered, ‘She is only lent thee, j
for a little while. Think her not thine own. i
Be ready to resign her, when He who gave
iier, calls her hack to himself.’
“‘I can hardly tell when I noticed the first
symptoms of disease—it came on so gradual
ly, so insidiously—giving a touching languor
(to the blue eye. a waxen whiteness to the
.delicate skin, and a sinking and relaxation to
the late bounding limbs. At first, she only
languished and faded like a vernal flower—
beautiful, 0I1! so beautiful still! hut then
came emaciation and suffering—suffering,
that agonized me to behold. Never, till this
moment, had l realized the awful nature of
•in, for it was for sin, that my innocent babe
was thus doomed to suffer. I pray God to
forgive me the impious thoughts that strug
gled for the mastery in my liosom. I dared
to question His justice as well as His mercy.
1 said it was right that I should suffer, for I
had sinned, hut ‘What,’ I exclaimed, lifting up
my streaming ex’es and deprecating hands to
Heaven, ‘what has this sinless being done,
that lliou shouldst thus heavily lay thy chas
tening hand on her ? on me, on me, let the
burden fall.*
“How exquisitely she suffered, you may
know, since I tell you I prayed that she
might die—that she might only he at rest.
When they told me that she was dead, I
would not have called her back for the uni-
VOL. HI.
verse—the world seemed a wide graveyard
to me; hut I rejoiced that the feet of my lit
tle one were not doomed to walk among the
gloomy memorials of buried hearts. She
was happy, though I was forever wretched.
So I then felt, but now 1 can bless God not
only for the gift, hut the withdrawal. I need
ed the chastisement—l deserved the stroke.
From the moment when I saw her in her
white muslin shroud, with white rose-buds
and geranium leaves scattered .among its
transparent folds, and saw the mysterious,
solemn signs of death upon her face, the
smile ot more than earthly placidity and
peace upon her cherub lips, [ felt as sure that
she was gone to Heaven, as though I saw its
golden portals opened and she admitted into
its celestial mansions. I know that she is in
the bosom of her Saviour and her God, and
I can rejoice that I was permitted to give an
other cherub, to swell the orchestra of
Heaven. Death is now divested of all its ter
ror. I love to meditate upon it. 1 love to
visit the grave of my darling, and there I re
alize the truth of that beautiful saving, ‘that
the graves of infants are the footprints of
angels.’ Do you remember Mrs. llemails’
sweet lines On the death of an infant ? Some
of them steal over me as I write :
‘Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine,
Adorned with nature’s brightest wreath;
Each glowing season shall combine
Its incen. * there to breathe.
And oi’t upon the midnight air,
Shall viewless harps be murmuring there ;
And oh! sometimes in visions blc.-t,
Sweet spirit! visit our repose,
And bear from thine own world of rest
Some balm lor human woes.
What form more lovely could be given
Than thine, to messenger of Heaven V
“Oh! what a friend, what a comforter do
I possess in my husband. Never till now,
did 1 know the full measure of his immeasu
rable worth, if 1 may thus speak. While he
is spared, I must he happy. Even in the hour j
of deepest agony, I felt grateful to Heaven j
that 1 had his heart to lean upon, his arm to
enfold me. Great is the mystery of love. It
is the halcyon of the tempests of life, and x’et
the power that lashes its billows into the
wildest commotion.”
After an interval of a year, she again
takes up the pen, and see how lightly, how
playfully it moves!
“Friend of my heart, I greet thee. Flow
er that 1 have planted in the garden of my
affections. I have not suffered one petal
to fade, one hue to grow dim through neg
lect. You do not know what an admirable
house-keeper lam becoming to he. Behold
a sketch illustrative of my new accomplish
ments :
“The other evening I was thrown entirely
on my own resources, for my servants were
all sick, and cook and waiter, I had none to
assist me. The supper hour drew nigh, and
l knew there was neither bread nor cake in
the pantry. There was plenty of flour and
butter, eggs and lard,and I resolved ‘to screw
m3’ courage to the sticking place,’ and
plunge at once into the mysteries of knead
ing, rolling and baking. I determined to im
mortalize im’self, and make a repast for m3’
husband, such as his imagination had never
even conceived. I went into the kitchen,
and after obtaining some minute directions
from the sick cook, I took possession of a
large wooden tray, into which I sifted the
flour, giving myself a fine powdering during
the process. Just as l had rolled up my
sleeves above m3’ elbows, and pinned up the
skirt of my silk dress behind, to keep it
ont of the way of the pots and kettles, I saw
throe or four elegantly dressed ladies sweep
ing up the front steps, one of whom I knew
must he the fashionable stranger, of whom 1
had heard very much said. Oh dear! what
was Ito do? The spider was heating over
the fire, the dough was sticking to my un
practiced hands, the flour was adhering to
the flounces of my dress, which 1 had too
late thought of tucking up. But as there was
no one else to play the lad3*, I drew 1113’
hands out of the tra3', washed them till they
looked as red as lobsters, smoothed ni3 T rum
pled flounces, hut as there was no looking
glass in the kitchen, 1 was not aware that m3’
dark hair was powdered in the fashion of the
last centum, giving me quite a Lady Wash
ington semblance. I observed that the la
dies looked very frequentty at my head, hut
alas! for human vanity, I thought they were
admiring the glossiness and tasteful arrange
ment of my hair. The moment m3’ guests
departed, 1 flew into the kitchen and eagerly
spatting out my dough, put it at once into
the spider, without thinking how immensely
hot it must be, remaining so long over the
burning coals. I had made the paste so short
with butter, I could not turn it, so I placed
the utensil in a perpendicular position, hv
putting a smoothing iron behind it, and soon
saw with rapture, its surface become a glow
ing brown. It was in vain, however, that I
tried to take out the cake, when I supposed it
j sufficiently baked. It would stick, and I
was obliged to rend it from the spider, leav
ing a goodl3’ portion behind. I was just
ready to burst into tears of vexation, when
m3* husband, not finding me in the parlor,
sought me in m3’ new province, and patting
me affectionately on the shoulder, praised
me into perfect good humor. He even pass
ed many eulogiums on my short cake, which
proved very long, as no one could eat more
than a mouthful, telling me he intended send
ing a receipt to Miss Leslie, to insert in her
Cookery book. I laughed as heartily as he
did over m3* failure, and when he began to
sing, in his own sweet, winning voice, ‘Hop
light, lady, your cake’s all dough,’ I joined
merrily in the song.
“Since then I have been taking daily les
sons in cookery, and am really becoming an
adept in the art. I have a linen apron, with
long sleeves, which m3* husband declares is
the most becoming thing I ever donned. I
can make light rolls that foam, and batter
cakes that melt. I wish I could enclose some
specimens in my letter, lest you should think
me guilty of vain boasting. Perhaps 3’ou
may think I am degenerating into a mere
household drudge. No, indeed. I never en
joyed reading and music so much in my life.
An hour or two in the morning devoted to
active duties, gives a glow to the spirits that
does not fade away the live long day. The
consciousness that if the hour of emergency
again arrives, I shall not he obliged to give
m3'dear,kind, uncomplaining husband, such a
horrible dough-cake as I once placed before
him, exalts me in my own estimation. I feel
that I have buckled on my armor, and am
ready for the conflict of circumstances, how
ever hostile they may he.
“Think not because I thus lightly skim
over the paper, that I have forgotten the past
and its solemn teachings. There is not a
day—scarcely an hour—that the memory of
m3’ angel child does not come to me, impart
ing a glory to my thoughts and lifting them
up to Heaven, her dwelling place. Sorrow
never leaves us as it found us. It either in
durates or softens the heart; either crushes
it to the uust, or exalts it to the skies. 1
trust its influence on mine, has been salatary
and ennobling.”
Yes, it lias been ennobling. The light
hearted, loving girl, is now the thoughtful,
Christian woman. Tapper, in his great
thought-book, Proverbial Philosophy, sa3 r s,
“that it is impossible for one to he both glad
and good.” This is a wide, sweeping asser
tion, hut there is much truth in it. Pearls are
found under the waves, gold in the dark
mine, and diamonds in the buying sand.
The treasures of earth lie not on the surface.
‘Phe soul that travaileth in tribulation and
sorrow, finds these hidden, buried gems, re
served for the co-laborer with God, in the
sublime work for which wo were created.
But it is growing late. The brief but
beautiful twilight of Southern climes is deep
ening into night-shades. Let us tie up the
packet and close the trunk. A delicious
breeze is fanning the Magnolia’s houghs and
shaking out fragrance from its dewy blos
soms; one has fallen, and the gale is hearing
it on its wings—a missionary of the heart—to
the place where it is destined to lest.
C. L. 11.
Quincy, June 27//;.
[WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL. J
THE FATE OF
THOMAS GILES & GO.,
Wholesale and Retail Grocers.
CHAPTER I.
“It is just so, and I knew it would be!”
Miss Malinda was a very pretty 3*oung
milliner’s apprentice; and she looked even
more enchantingly than usual, with her flash
ing 03’es, and her little hand clenched, and
her passionate utterance, as she directed this
speech to a companion who worked with her
in the shop, whom she met on the landing of
the second story. “It is just so, and I knew
it would be!”
“What is just so ?”
“Why, how stupid 3*ou are! What else
could it be, hut that that old Giles, the hard
hearted wretch! has turned poor dear Mrs.
Bedloe out of doors,because she couldn’t pav
him right off the pitiful little sum of rent she
owed him? O! hut don’t I wish I had the
villain tied to a post; wouldn’t I beat him
soundly, and wouldn’t lie beg and cry to be
let off! 1 think I see him now, holding up
his hands and saying, ‘lndeed! indeed! Miss
Malinda, 1 won’t do so no more—indeed I
won’t!’ and then I would strike him again
right hard, and say, ‘I hope sincerely that
you won’t act so scandalously any more, Mr.
Giles, hut I am punishing you now for the
wickedness 3*oo did to darling Mrs. Bedloe !’
And only to think! when I was so sick, and
the doctor thought 1 wouldn’t live through
the night, how she came and sat up with me,
and tended on me, just like a mother; and
saved m3’ life, Ido believe; and then, when
I was getting well, she bought ever so many
nice things for me, all with her own mone3*,
and without me asking her a bit! It is too
bad, the old monster! isn't it?”
Yes, it was too bad. Miss Malinda was
right; and the young lady she met on the
landing, and into whose sj'mpathetic ear she
had just poured her indignant exclamations,
thought precisely as she did about it. It
was too bad !
At this moment, Mr. Giles, “the old mon
ster” of their mutual acquiescence, came from
above, treading heavily down the stairs; and
the girls hurriedly separated.
Giles was a portly gentleman; and he car
ried in his hand a gold-headed cane. His
face was quite red ; much redder than usual.
He had just lost seven dollars twelve and a
hall cents; and it had put him in a passion,
enough to suffuse an3* man’s face. But at all
times it was remarkably red. His waggish
I friends—the rich always have friends—used
I to laugh and tell him, when he came into a
dark room, that the moon was rising. But he
didn’t seem to mind it at all. He was jolly,
1 himself, sometimes; after making
1 a good trade; and so he laughed off'the joke
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, FRIDAY MORNING, JULY 0, 1852.
with the rest. His e3*es were little gre3* eyes;
“pig eyes,” his friends jocularly called them ;
hut he managed to see a great deal with
them, notwithstanding. He managed always
to see where the best of a bargain la3 7 . lie
managed to see how to get more rent out of
tenants than an3’ other landlord did. He had
managed to see his way out of “poverty’s
low vale,” with them; which is considerably
more than most people manage to do with
their eyes : and he had managed to see him
self into a lucrative business, and to see how
to keep in it, when other men couldn’t. He
was, moreover, a man of “solid acquire
ments,” as lie used to say of himself, when
anybody talked in his hearing, about the ad
vantages of a liberal education; “none of
your flimsy, insubstantial possessions,”—and
then lie would slap his pantaloons pocket
energetically, and wink knowingly, as much
as to sa3*, “that’s the sort.” Mr. Giles
was dressed in a suit of rust y black. A glimpse
at his boots, showed he would soon need
another pair. He had large feet; never wore
lower than number twelve; and he prided
himself upon the fact. ‘ I always like,” he
would exclaim, with a sort of electrical en
thusiasm, glancing at his pedal extremities
with visible satisfaction, “to stand on a solid
foundation.” In fact, lie was partial to solids,
generally speaking. He always ate them for
dinner, partaking sparingly of the liquids.
He stopped a minute, with his eyes fixed
thoughtfully down, upon the landing which
the girls had just deserted—boring his cane
pertinaciously into a stray bit of rubbish on
the floor—a way lie had of helping himself to
a conclusion.
“Now, if 1 don’t,” lie muttered to himself,
“may be I shall lose my money ; and if 1 do,
may he I won’t; so I’ll do it.”
lie rapped loudly with his cane at the door
immediately in front of him. It was present
ly opened by a pale, sickl3’ looking woman,
who dropped him a low courtesy, and re
quested him to walk in.
“I don’t want to come in,” lie replied, gruff-
I3'. “I knocked to let you know that day af
ter to-morrow, youi rent, comes due ; and I
shall be round at ten o’clock to get it. I
reckon 3’ou'll have it ready?”
“Why, I don’t know, Mr. Giles; but Til
try all I can. Poor Sammy lias been so sick
lately; and medicine costs so high; and I
have had to sit up with him so much, that l
liavn’t been able to do a great deal of work;
and our slender means have had to suffer for
it. But I will try and see what I can do.”
“Now, Mrs. Winsby, m v mind is made up,”
he exclaimed fierceh*, striking his cane vio
lently upon the floor, “you had better try.
I have lost seven dollars twelve and a half
cents this morning, for my foolish kindness;
and I am resolved not to lose any more in
that way. If’ 3*olll* husband is so had off’,
why donH lie go to the Hospital ? That’s
just the place for him. But a debt is a debt,
if he is sick; and I won’t be diddled out of
my rent for anybody. So you must just ex
pect to pay it when the time conies.”
A half incredulous, half perplexed sort of
smile, flitted across the wan features of the
woman, as he uttered these words; and she
stood hesitatingly in the door wav, while he
turned angrily from her to go down the stairs,
as if she expected him to contradict them and
reassure her; but when he was out of sight,
the full appreciation of all he had said stole
gradually upon her mind; her face suddenly
flushed, and then became, as suddenly, paler
than before; the tears started into her eyes;
and like one reviving into life and reality out
of some hideous dream, she drew a deep
sigh, turned languidly into the apartment, and
closed the door.
It was a chill da3 r in November, and as
Giles emerged into the street, lie buttoned up
his over-coat to the chin, and turned up the
collar carefully about his throat, a precaution
against the weather that was unusual to him.
But he had recently had a few admonitory
twinges of the rheumatism ; and sundry re
collections of the severity of the disease in
past winters, forewarned him to he cautious
how he exposed himself in this. The wind
was moaning and rustling down the street;
tossing every hit of paper and of light rub
bish into the air; and swinging the old signs
to and fro, creakinglv. The sk v looked grey,
cold, monotonous and dismal. The day was
declining rapidly into twilight ; and as Giles
hurried along the pavement, the sound of
coffee-mills and of culinary preparations,
came up to his ears out of cheerfully lighted
kitchens; and looking down the gratings as
he passed, he could see through the windows
glowing fires and tables spread for supper:
and could snuff with a whetted appetite, the
fragrance of the preparing meals. One by
one, the lamps began to blaze at the street
corners, and the shops to glare with light.
His walk was a long one ; but by the time it
was fairly dark, he had reached his destina
tion. He entered a goodly sized brick build
ing on a corner, upon whose front hung, in
unmistakable legibility, two signs, the coun
terpart ot one another, each facing a street,
briefly informing the public that that locality
was the place of business of “Thomas Giles
Cos., \V HOLESALE & RETAIL GROCERS.”
In due strictness of speech, however, tiie
wholesale dealings of the concern, as well
as the Cos., was a spectral abstraction on the
part of Mr. Giles; a mere figment of the
imagination. Not that he would not have
been willing to have done something in the
wholesale line, but that imperative circumstan
i ces had always chained down his aspiring
genius to the retail—to doing things by the
small. The high-sounding word on the sign,
stood, in his mind, as the exponent of the ten
dency of his ambition ; it was the great would
be, of his hopes ; the inamorato of his affec
tions. As to the Cos., when anybody wanted
to see that, it was invariably out of the city,
on important business of the firm, and
wouldn’t be back until next week.
As Giles entered the door, he could not
refrain from glancing around with compla
cent elevation of manner, to notice the
crowded shelves and the business air of the
place; and to think that it was his—all his;
and to look out into the street at the shadows
that lay across the pavement and far over
the curbstone; and to think that they came
from his store; and to wonder within him
self whether the man that was going bv with
a parcel under his arm, thought he was the
owner or only a customer, lie then ad
vanced with portly carriage and commanding
steps into the interior of the shop where his
clerk was occupying some odd moments in
posting the daily account. Here he stopped
to ask some pithy questions about the extent
of sales during his absence, and to get into
an ill humor because they were not larger,
just as if that fact were of a blameable na
ture; then making a predatory incursion up
on the money drawer in search of counter
feits, without success, he retreated summarily
into an apartment which lie occupied as a
bed-room. It might have been made quite
a cosy little Eden if a woman’s hand had
been suffered to brush away the dust and the
‘cobwebs and adjust the furniture, and make
a thousand other changes which no one but
a woman knows how to make. But, at pres
sent, it looked very old-bachelor like, with
the exception of the comfortable fire glowing
in the grate. He warmed his chill hands
over the genial flame, and then went out to
supper.
Late at night he was there again, alone in
his chair before the rusted grate, with his
chin upon his hand, gazing fixedly into the
ebbing fire. The glare of unsteady lights
had gone out in shop windows; and shutters
and doors had been locked and bolted and
barred against dishonesty. Only here and
there, in underground saloons and in solitary
shops, kept open a little longer than their
neighbors in the forlorn hope of a customer,
and where the public lamps stood on the
corners of streets, gleamed isolated spots of
light. The weary world had sunk into
sleep and forgetfulness, and all was still, save
whcie the impertinent wind moaned and
chattered at loose casements, or whistled in
merry wnntonness through keyholes, or
mumbled mysteriously in chimneys, or where
the footsteps ot some belated pedestrian hur
rying home woke deep-toned echoes out of
the quiet pavements and died gradually away
in the distance, or where a cab full of pas
sengers rumbled along some distant thor
oughfare from the steamboat landing or the
cars.
There was silence in the little room, too,
save where the old-fashioned clock in the
corner clicked away the hours, and announc
ed the lapse of time; or where the fire, burn
ing low, tumbled together with a rattle. But
in the heart ot (riles, as he sat there alone,
with his chin resting in his hand, and he
gazing with an abstracted air into the
grate, there was no silence. While other
people would have found strange palace?,
and lions, and fondly familiar faces in
the coals that glowed, he saw only the wan
features of the wretched woman whom lie
had that afternoon insulted with threats.
There they were, with the same mute, itr.plor
ing expression, and timid resignation, which
marked them when the full appreciation of
ms harsh words dawning upon her mind, he
withdraw his parting glance at the head of
the stairs. There they were, traced in the
insubstantial material that was perishing
away before Ins eyes, with all the apparent
legibility of a portrait on canvas, or a statue
carved in stone. The sight arrested and
chained his attention until it became an
noying, and even painful. He averted his
gaze for a brief moment, but when he shifted
it back the features were there again. An
alteration, however, had taken place in their
expression. There was an increased ghast
liness, and a sunken outline, and a vacant
stare of the eyeballs, that thrilled him with
the conception of a corpse. To shut out the
vision of so startling an object, he closed his
eyes and sought to banish the thought. But
memory persisted in retaining it. With all
the ardor of his desire to abandon the idea,
there was an unaccountable propensity to
dwell, with tantalizing minuteness, upon it;
and recollection, with a strange perverseness,
began on the instant to recall each individu
al feature of the hideous phantom. Just then
the wind rattled the casement, and he turned
a startled look towards the window. He
thought he saw the curtain move. With a
vague terror stealing over his mind, he bent
upon it a fixed scrutiny. He imagined it
moved again. Filled with this wild phanta
sy, he watched it narrowly and with increns
ing terror. All at once a countenance seem
ed to peer from out its folds. In an agony
of suspense he stretched his neck forward to
see more plainly. It was the face of the wo
man ; not resigned and imploring as before,
but leering and revengeful. He started up
with a shrill cry] and goaded by an intolera
ble thirst to know the truth, he staggered up
to the window and clutched convulsively at
the place where he had seen the phantom
eyes ; but they were gone. At this moment
the clock suddenly ceased to tick, and a ter
rible stillness settled upon the room. Giddy
with the whirl of violent emotions, he made
his way to the corner where it stood, and
dragging open the door found the weight had
run down. But he felt so weak lie had no
courage to wind it up; and wan with ex
citement and helpless with fear, he sank
trembling into his chair by the grate. By
degrees his composure came back to him.
But scarcely had he recovered himself when
a fierce gust swept, moaning and shrieking,
down the street, and shook the window
sharply. He turned his head mechanically
towards the curtain, but detecting nothing
there, his glance wandered to the door, and
at length fastened on the lock, and then on
the latch. Did it move? His heart bound
ed within him, and sent the blood in a flush,
burning hot, to his face. He strained his ea
ger gaze In the dreaded direction. It did
move. With an impulse of desperation, he
darted from his chair and clutched it with all
his might. The door, owing to the violence
of his assault, swung, creakingly, open. The
dank air of the confined room rushed in and
bathed his forehead with coolness. Actuated
by the strangeness of the terror that was up
on him, he leaned forward and tried to pierce
the gloom of the store, but its forms were
enwrapped in blackness which stared him in
the face like a ghostly emblem of the grave.
Exhausted with the fierce effort, he dropped
back into the apartment and clashed to the
door. Locking and bolting it in eager haste,
he panted a helpless moment against the
wall. But the uniform silence of the room,
broken only by his own efforts at composure,
served partially to reassure him. As his eyes
rested on the various objects before him, he
detected no disarrangement—no visible trace
of a supernatural presence. Gradually the
petrifying sense of impending danger wore
off. With reviving self-possession, he ven
tured, half apprehensively, to lift the valance
of the bed. Re-encouraged, lie narrowly
scrutinized every suspicious nook in the room;
and finally, satisfied of his mistake, he wound
up the clock and resumed his seat by the fire.
It had burned quite low and it was late in the
night; but at the recollection of the startling
events of the evening, he shrank involuntari
ly from the idea of going to sleep in the dark,
lie accordingly replenished the grate, lit a
short piece of candle, and sat down to reflect
on the strange history of the preceding hours-
Cheered by the light and the blazing fire, a re
action in his feelings began to take place.
Leisurely surveying the apartment, he won
dered how he could have made such a fool
of himself. Was not the window barred and
bolted, and the store? Had he not been
there alone, just as he was, many and many
a night, without seeing such sights? And
was he to be frightened now, at his age—with
his experience—by a swarm of silly fancies,
like some ignorant, superstitious old woman ?
He laughed to himself in derision of the idea
of being afraid. To prove to himself that he
was not, he entered the store, and searched
under the counter and among the barrels,
and in every secret hiding-place. Then.he
tried the doors and each window separately,
and in the wild audacity of returning cour
age, undid the fastening of one, uplifted the
sash, and looked out into the night. The lamp
was burning brig! tly on the corner, and lie
could see others far up and down the street.
The wind rustled by him on its eternal er
rand, and he laughed to himself again at the
conception of being frightened by that. Re
closing and refastening the window, he re
turned to his seat before the fire.
He sat there and thought of the past.
Memory told over, circumstance by circum
stance, the history of his struggles—of his in
vincible determination—of his success. It
followed turn hack to the time when, a home
less and houseless orphan, he had been turned
heartlessly adrift upon the world. How well
he recollected it! There was the countenance
of the man ordering him to go, restored to
his imagination with all the vivid distinctness
of reality. And there, too, in his mind’s eye,
strikingly visible, were the bare walls, and
the uncurtained windows, and the carpc-tiess
floor. And there were the three wooden
steps from the floor to the ground, where he
fell and sprained his wrist as he went out.
And there was the alley where he slept the first
night, wearied, bewildered and hung y with
wandering all day through the great streets,
without a purpose and without a word of pity
or a glaru-e of sympathy. lie had visited it
since, many and many a time. How he had
toiled, and suffered, and hoarded his money,
to be able to buy the spot of ground
where it was! It was the first landed estate
he ever owned. It was his property, and O !
the exultation in the thought. How often
he had stolen by it, in the open day—in the
dim twilight—in the dead of night, and re
membered it all over; that he had been a
poor boy and had made the hard bricks his
bed, and was now rich and honored and en
vied ; and what a giddy distance there was
between the starting-point and the present!
And there was the cellar, kept by an old
huckster woman—how plainly he saw it! into
which he found his way on the morrow, ex
hausted and despairing, and bejrged for a
morsel of food. How delicious it was! and
how his benefactress stared, with undis
guised horror, to see him tear it into shreds,
and gulp it down with all the beastly fe
rocity of starvation!
Then he thought of how he had been ap- :
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NO. 28.
prenticed to a trade, and how lie had been
bruised and worried; and how lie
had run away; and how the first sense of
his utter loneliness, and his friendlessness, in
the great wide world, sank into his heart.
And then followed the remembrance of
his opening fyiktle variety shop on his own
account. Wtm what trembling eagerness
he had changed the money that was handed
in for the first purchase! how ho had turned
it over, and looked at it, and played with it,
and kept it till he lost it. just as if it was
wholly unlike every other piece of coin, and
had peculiar virtues of its own!
And then memory wandered on with him
to the time (and a smile broke over his fea
tures at sight of the familiar picture) when ho
made a small move in the direction of the
tobacco trade. How will he recollected
that, too! With alt the vigor and freshness
of their first experience, came back upon
him the feelings of pride and exalted satis
faction with which he viewed his second
hand Indian, bought at a great bargain,
u here by stood outside the shop door, always
in the same attitude, with -his right leg ad
vanced, and forever in the act of smoking a
cigar and whining the smoke, and holding a
bunch of imitative Havanas in his hand, ex
tended towards an imaginary purchaser, who
was supposed to he on the point oi pulling
ou* his purse to pay for them.
So he wandered on through the history of
his struggles with the world. lie thought
how bravely and successfully he had fought
the battle of life ; how he had won his way
out of starvation and poverty; how. he had
worked, penny by penny, up the rough road
to wealth; how he had risen up against the
obstacles which crush men’s courage; how
he had made even the accidents of life how to
him, because he would not bow to them;
how the world had hated him for his success;
and how he had paid them back in scorn;
and how he owned houses and lands, and
was thriving faster than ever. And (hen he
thought of the future, painting a picture of
it in his mind. He could see a large ware
house that was as familiar to him as the sun
light ; for ho had seen it in the red, bright
coals, many and many a night, as ho sat all
alone—as he was now—by the grate in the lit
tle room, with his chin on his hand, and his
ey’es fixed steadily on the (ire, after the store
was locked and bolted and barred against rob
bers. It was a large warehouse, four stories
high—to be all his own—with carts and
drays before the door to take away tho
boxes and packages, and with a ponderous
sign hung to its front: “Thomas Ginns &
Cos., Wholesale axd Retail Dealers.”
He saw himself sitting in his counting-room,
in his easy chair, leisurely watching the pas
sers by glance up at his sign, then hurry on,
wondering within themselves who Thomas
Giles was; imagining how he looked ; think
ing how rich he must be; what a lucky fel
low the Cos. must be; and envying them
both, when there was only one to envy. Ho
could also see himself standing in the dock,
gazi ig after one of his big ships that was drop
ping down the tide into the wide ocean, to re
turn’again after many days, freighted with
the wealth of other lands, to empty it into
his coffers. However fantastical or improb
able, there was exultation and delirious ec
stacy in these thoughts—these aspirations—
these hopes—this picture of tho future. It,
was the principle of never-ending progress
working within him; that incomprehensible
impulse that will not let us rest, nor permit
us to be satisfied with present acquisitions,
but which is forever urging the soul to re
newed exertions towards a point that is high
er still.
He fell asleep, castle-building, in his seat,
by the grate. The clock clicked away tho
hours, the fire burned low, the candle began
to flicker in its socket. Reclining, as be
was, upon his chair, in an uneasy and awk
ward position, that compressed his lungs, and
obstructed his respiration, he was visited by
a painful dream. He thought it was day—
late in the afternoon. He was standing alone
in tho store, behind the counter. At this mo
ment, stood suddenly confronting him, tho
form of Mrs. Winsby. The features of her
face were haggard and pinched with hunger;
and her unearthly eyes sited, in their sustain
ed gaze into his, the wild arid phosphorescent
light of the sepulchre. He felt stunned by
the hollow voice; he was palsied by the cold
touch of the apparition. Her right hand
held an uplifted dagger. He knew it must
be on the point of descending, but he could
not stir. A spell seemed to be laid upon his
faculties that froze them info inaction. A
shout was on the biink of his lips, but a tor
por of the powers of volition stifled it where
it was. An extremity of terror that made
even existence terrible, stole over him. Tho
incessant, malignant stare of the eyes, made
him superlatively wretched. All at once he
seemed to turn from the sight with a stupen
dous effort of strength. As he did so, the
phantom vanished; the incubus withdrew its
overpowering torture, and he started out of
his sleep into reality, with a shudder.
At the instant of awakening, an obscure,
involuntary cry escaped him. Os his hideous
dream, nothing remained but a vague sense of
impending danger. Yet this very vagueness
of apprehension—this mysterious dread of, he
knew not what—this objectless, though in
tolerable fear—thrilled every fibre of*hisbody,
and pervaded his soul with an intense senti
ment of bewildering but irrepressible alarm.
As he stood rooted to the spot, thoroughly