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THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL
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“[WRITTEN FOR TIIE SENTINEL. J
ALBUM LEAVES.
BT ERNEST SOLE.
LEAF SECOND.
Gayly and gladly, and often e’en madly,
The murmuring brooks ever sing ;
While breezes and showers enliven the flowers,
Round their white pebbled margins that spring.
Thus smoothly may glide thy life’s even tide ;
Thus gayjy thy frail bark its light billows ride.
The lily lifts up its dew-sprinkled cup,
And laughs iri the glad sunny beam,
Where, glinting and glancing, the bright waters dancing,
Reflect its irradiant gleam.
May life anile on thee, in gladness and glee,
Like sun-rays on lilies, where’er thou mayst be.
-
[WRITTEN FOR TIIE SENTINEL.!
MAGNOLIA LEAVES.
In opening the leaves of an Album, a beau
♦tiful picture meets the eye —colored with the
•warm hues of nature —and, on the following
’.pages, there is a poem descriptive of that
(charming spot. Ten thousand recollections
come gushing up as from a living fountain,
at the sight of this fair image. There it is—
that modest, yet elegant mansion—situated
on the brow of a swelling bill, bite a peaily
gemot) a monarch’s forehead. With its 1
walls and pillars of snov*y white— its spread
ing wings and ample yard—surrounded by a
white railing—its luxuriant shade trees and ‘
handsome out-buildings—it looks down on j
the harbor of Boston and witnesses llte ebb
ing and flowing of the tide—the coming and
going of the white-uinged eagles ol the
ocean—and all the changes and wonders of
the deep blue sea. Crowning that long flight
of steps, find at the base of those white col
umns, are vases of blossoming plants, re
sembling Corinthian ornaments to the Do.
,ric pillars. Those two tall trees directly j
“in front of! the building, with the branches
sweeping upward, tire larches, and by their j
side stands the graceful sycamore. The gate j
is openyas if some guest had just arrived, i
One catt almost h.car the rolling of the car- j
riage wheels over the circular gravel walk— ;
the letting down of the steps —the glad
sounds of greeting—for that is the palace ol
hospitality, and every day is a gala-day of
Jife.
When we first entered that mansion, there
•was a figure standing by one <>i tiiose col
umns, which made an ineffaceable impression;
there was some tiling so remaikable in its j
whole appearance. It was a gentleman,
dressed in black, who would lmve seemed in
the meridian of life, were it not that his hair
was as white as flakes ol new-fallen snow. It
was not thin and weak like the hair of age,
but thick, waving and silky as the locks of
youth. It looked like snow, fallen, by chance,
,ot) a green hill, for his form was erect and
complexion wore a ruddy glow. A be
nignant smile of welcome lighted up his face,
made so beautiful by that rich silvery crown!
We never remember experiencing a more
■sudden and intense feeling of admiration, for.
from our earliest childhood, we have paid
homage to the hoary honors of age, and con
sidered them indeed a crown of glory, when
found in the way of righteousness. But here
was the beauty of age and manhood com
bined—the softness of one and the strength
of the other. We have seen magnificent hair
of every gradation of tolar, from the purplish
or raven black, the deep auburn and golden
brown, to the pale, lint-white tresses, but nev
er have we beheld anything so exquisitely
beautiful as these locks of living snotc. As
we gaze upon the picture open before us, we
imagine we see them softly waving in the sea
born breeze that eomes flow ing towards them;
we can see the smile of radiant kindness that
greets the coming guest. There are other
figures, too, walking on that pillared piazza
—happy, joyous ones—and some that never
could be forgotten. Seated at the open win
dow of the saloon, and leaning against a
(ijtaiufi of Pallas, which is placed in the cor
ner, there is the loveliest young female we
ever saw. It is a face such as is very seldom
iseen, save in the dreams of imagination—so
fair, so bright, so soft, so languishingly beau
tiful. The Parian marble against which she
leans is scarcely whiter or smoother than her
brow; nor are the features of the Goddess
more symmetrical or expressive than her own
Fhe has one of those winning, heart-attract
ing faces, which inspire love at first sight,
and it is indicative of all those qualities which
retain it while existence lasts. That face had
a history, and we will relate it in a few words.
It is not strange that such exquisite beau
ty and sweetness should attract admiration, or
that those who were its guardians should
watch with jealousy over such rare attrac
tions. There was one, a young and gallant
soldier, who, like Edwin in the Ballad, had
nothing but a noble, constant heart to offer,
and that was “all to her.” People who saw
them together, said they were formed for
each other. They were indeed a
“Matchless pair,
With equal virtue formed, and equal grace,
1 he same distinguished for their sex alone—
Hers, the mild lustre of the blooming mom,
And his, the radiance of the risen day.”
They loved, but her parents smiled not on
an uuion ungilded with wealth. They did
not openly oppose his addresses, for they did
not wish to be thought mercenary; but when
they parted, after exchanging the vow of be
trothal, they instilled, with insidious hand,
doubts and suspicions in her heart, and sup
pressed the letters which bore, weekly, testi
mony to the love and constancy of both.
VOL 111.
Meanwhile a wealthier suitor bowed the j
knee, and believing herself slighted, neg- j
lected and forsaken, she gave her hand to ,
another, substituting pride for love, as woman
lias been doing for nearly six thousand years,
and will probably do for six thousand 3-ears
to come. She did not pine away, nor brood
with morbid melancholy over the vanished
dream of her 3’outh —for her husband had
many noble, manly qualities, and loved her
with passionate devotion. She, too, was of
that vine-like nature, so affectionate and ca
ressing, that she must cling round some sup
porting object. But she was like the vine
whose guardian tree hasbeen rent from her by
the lightning’s stroke, and is taught to twine
round a frame* work instead. The grace, the
lightness, the winding, linking sportiveness ol
nature, is wanting. There is something stiff
and artificial. And he, whose affections had
been so suddenl)’ wrenched from her—he, too,
| married another lovely and loving woman,
who wreathed around him perennial garlands
of domestic joy. They met—die one a bride,
the other a bridegroom—and smiled on each
■ other as friends, without allusion to the past.
It might have been that disappointment
had cast a blight upon the rose of her youth,
or, perchance, a constitutional delicacy and
fragility, that soon wilted this beautiful flow
er. Perhaps such angelic beauty must be
doomed to an early decay, for there was
something in the languishing lustre of her
eyes that belonged not to this world. All
that love or affection* could do was done to
rekindle the fading beams of life—but in vain.
Tiiev bore her where healing waters flow :
-
“Site bowed to taste the wave, a:id died.”
1 And he, too, is dead—the lover of her youth
| —and they are united, “where there is neither
marrying nor giving in marriage, but where
they are like the angels of God in Heaven.”
And yet there she is fitted, seen by the
spirit’s eye, leaning against the statue of Pal-.
las, smiling with such bewitching sweetness,
that one is involuntarily drawn towards her,
nearer, and still more near. Oh ! how warm,
and living, and loving, she looks! There is
life in the soft rose of her cheek ; life in the
beam of her eve ol Creolian darkness; lile
in the beatings of her gently heaving heart.
Can that heart have ceased to beat? that
cheek to glow ? that eve to kindle and to
shine ? There were other statues in that sa
loon besides the one that supported her grace
ful head. There was the Apollo Belvidere
—his lips quivering with the divine indignation
of a God—and Diana, in all her virgin ma
jesty; and there were pictures, on which
the eye lingered, riveted by the magic spell
of genius. 011 one side was a magnificent
copy of Titian’s adoration of the Magi; on
the other, a landscape of Claude Loraine’s—
so calm, so serene, it diffuses a kind of sun
j set tranquility over tiie soul that gazes upon it.
j You can hardly turn the eye without beliold
j ing a picture or a statue—some embodied fa
! Lie—some realization of the poet’s dream.
Yet almost all those paintings are the work
j of a daughter of the family-, whose fine clas
sic taste, cultivated by European masters, has
embellished her paternal abode.
The owner of the mansion had passed
nine years in Europe, during the youth of
his children, where they had every oppor
! tunity of improvement in mind and man
ners which wealth could furnish. The
court dresses, which were preserved as me
mentoes of this period, were magnificent, and
in looking at the gorgeous folds of silk velvet,
fringed with gold and bordered with ermine,
I one might forget for a moment their republi
! can simplicity. Often, in an evening frolic,
! were tiiose costly robes assumed and the
| drawing room converted into a mimic palace.
; Once, the handsome white-locked gentleman,
on the occasion of a village ball, was per
-1 suaded to wear a court-dress of black silk
velvet by a trio of gay young girls, who con
sidered him their beau-ideal of perfection.
“You have made a fool of me,” he said,
laughingly; “but if I impart pleasure to you,
lam satisfied—l am willing to be laughed at.”
} Laughed at! Who ever thought of asso
! ciatiug the idea of ridicule with one, whose
perfect simplicity and benignity of manners
1 entirely eclipsed the splendor of his dress ?
for it did look splendid, with its crown of
j spotless ermine ! He was the most unosten
tatious of human beings, and every one knew
i that it was to give innocent gratification to
others, not to aggrandize himself, that he de
parted from his usual republican habits. He
had the purest tastes in tiie world. He was
remarkably fond of flowers—which grew in
richest profusion in his garden—and he made
a rule that all the young girls that were
guests of the household, (and there was usual
ly- a band ot them,) should wear a garland
of flowers upon their heads before appearing
at the dinner table. He would often come
1 and sit beside them and assist them in weav
ing their fragrant wreaths, and they would
almost quarrel for the privilege of twisting
j one of these floral crowns on the snow-flakes
: of his brow.
There was a rustic seat at the end of the
garden, under a noble chestnut tree, where
these chaplets were twined, and that tree
was a cynosure, which attracted all that was
lovely and bright around it. Many a gallant
knight would recline on the soft grass, or
tread the green sward, throwing the charm
of chivalry over the rural scene.
Oh! that garden ! What clusters of roses
—what wealth cf fruit adorned and enriched
; it! On one side was a circular brick wall,
; facing the South, against which peach and
pear trees were trained to clamber like vines,!
producing the richest and most delicious I
fruit. Such beds of strawberries—such J
hedges of raspberries—and such arbors of i
grape vines, were enough to tempt the taste ’
of an anchorite. And yet, lovely as the 1
scenery was in the •back-ground, it was
still lovelier in the front of the dwelling house,
for the sea was there; the grey, the grand j
old sea, which, whether sparkling in sun- j
light or silvering in moonlight, reposing in |
tranquility or lashed into billows, was still the
most magnificent imago of the Creator’s in
finitude. There was Fort Independence, with
its star-spangled banner and revolving light
house, and beyond the rocky promontory of j
Xahaut, against whose rugged coast the 1
waves dash themselves into foam.
Oh! thou beautiful picture! thou fair leaf
from the Magnolia tree of memory, un
folded by the hand of accident! how many ex- I
cursive thoughts have received an irresistible j
momentum from thee ? Our eyes glance up- j
011 the poem, and we are tempted to transcribe j
it, as explanatory of the painted sketch. It’
was intended only for the glance of friend
ship; but were it more studied, it might have j
less heart in it, and we \\Hl attempt no cor
rections. As traveller: often paused on the
brow of the bill, arrested by the beauty of the
prospect swelling on the view, the poet has
endeavored to describe the impressions of the
stranger, and imagines the enthusiastic ad
miration that must fill his bosom.
MILTON HILL.
’Twas summer, and the western skies
Were gilt with sunset’s gorgeous dyes,
While every beam of glory given
To gild the sultry brow of Heaven,
Reflected in the waves below,
Lent back a broader, deeper glow.
The traveller cheeked his onward way,
Amid the pomp of closing day—
The voice ol Nature filled the air,
And barle him pau-e and worship there.
Before him the calm ocean rolled,
Now fringed with broad resplendent gold,
Wh e-e many an eagle of the sea
Spreay its proud wings triumphantly,
And seemed to dash with conscious pride,
The glittering foam from either side.
Almost beneath his eye, amid
Wild rocks and clustering foliage hid,
A village rose, with modest charms,
Enclo-ed in Nature’s guaidian arms.
Beyond, be saw the azure shade
Os hills, in robes of
On whose dim fili ; *>.*w-tilTSet beam
Hud east a rich, empurpled gleam.
The stranger long admiring stood,
Gazing on mountain, sea and wood—
On flowery field and sparkling rill,
And moss-crowned lock, till raptures thrill
Contest the charms of Milton Hill —
Where ail that’s fair and wild and sweet,
In une harmonious union meet.
Stranger ! behold that roof appearing
Through trees —their lofty branches rearing,
As if to brave the tempest's wrath,
Or dare the lightning in it; path—
No gaudy pomp, the eye repelling,
Is lavi lied on that lovely dwelling—
But classic elegance and taste
Have every fair proportion graced.
Tiiose pure white columns meet the eye,
In Doric, chaste simplicity,
Around whose base, the fragrant vine
Frolics with many a graceful twine.
But look within. There art displays
Its fairest works to tempt thy praise—
The forms of ancient Gods behold
Imaged in each majestic mould—
The pale translucent marble lives,
And life to vanished glory gives.
Those breathing walls, where beauty beams,
Bright as in fancy’s brightest dreams ;
Those walls no foreign hand adorned,
Its aid creative genius scorned.
A female artist, whose fair fame
Has thrown a halo round her name,
Has left her pencil’s magic trace,
Her home, her parent’s halls to grace.
But linger not, for fading light
Will melt ere long in shades of night;
And still, while day’s last splendois burn,
Once more to Nature’s beauties turn ;
She calls thee to her bowers of balm,
More passing sweet in twilight's calm ;
She calls thee, where her roses bloom,
Breathing their soft, divine porfume,
Twining their green and flowering stalks
Round yonder garden’s ample walks.
She calls thee where her fruitage glows,
Hanging upon the weary boughs—
She calls thee to yon shaded seat,
Young love’s and friendship’s sweei retreat.
But vain the eloquence of song,
To paint these scenes beloved so long.
I’ve sat within those sheltered bowers,
I’ve woven in wreaths those blooming flowers;
I’ve stood for hours, c :f my soul
The eternal ocean could control,
And, lost in awe, beheld to ■ surge
Onward its restless waters urge.
But recollections dearer still
Than nature gives my bosom fills ;
Here, oft my heart has found its home,
Nor felt one vagrant wish to roam ;
For kind affection ever prest
Its welcome on tqe grateful guest—
The hours in social pleasures past,
While each seemed happier than the last.
Here have I seen, in union sweet,
The charms of youth and manhood meet;
The smile of mirth and gladness move
O’er features I revere and love,
And rays of feeling warmly glow
On temples crowned with living snow !
How sweet when moonlight had unfurled
Its silver banner o’er the world.
To sit, all bathed in heavenly beams,
And watch the beacon’s fitful gleams!
But sweeter still when music’s power
Gave holier charms to evening’s hour.
The notes themselves were sweet to hear,
And might enchant a stranger’s ear,
But ’twas a friend, whose minstrel art,
Woke the deep echoes of the heart,
And every warbling measure stole
More sweetly in the listening soul.
Fair Milton Hill! the rays that sweep
In trembling brigntness o'er the deep,
Are lovely—but o’er thee, the star
Os memory rises lovelier far.
Strains of harmonious music stealing
Along the viewless chords of feeling,
Thrill on the ear ; but vanished joys
Speak to the heart with sweeter voice.
If, when released front bonds of ciay,
This ardent spirit soars away,
’Tis e’er permitted to explore
‘I his earth, its dwelling-place no more;
And round some favorite spot to hover,
That fond remembrance may discover,
Its airy wings she” linger still
Around thv brow, fair Milton Hill
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, FRIDAY MORNING, AUGUST 20, 1552.
If all I loved shall then have past,
Like leaves driven down by Autumn’s blast,
And time’s oblivious torrent dashed
O’er scenes where joy’s bright sun-beams flashed
Yet pensive echo, lingering still,
Shall softly whisper, “j\lilton Hill.”
The following lines bear a later date, and
are traced beneath a weeping willow, sketch
ed on the leaf:
The galea of sorrow, damp and chill,
Have swept o’er thee, fair Milton Hill—
And in the tomb, now darkly low,
Are laid those locks of living snow.
Still fair the breast of ocean shines,
Gilt by the moonbeams’ trembling lines;
Still Nature, prodigal of bloom,
Undimmed, unmarred by man’s sad doom,
Reigns in her wealth of beauty there ;
But he, in age benignly fair,
Who owned a father’s love for me,
The kind, the gentle —where is he ?
C. L. H.
Quincy, August 1, 1852.
[WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.]
THE INTERCEPTED LETTER.
Henry Ormond was the only son of pa
rents of great wealth, and some distinction,
in one of the middle districts of Carolina.
His education had been conducted with great
care, by his father, a man of no mean attain
ments, and who desired above all things, to
make of his son an accomplished scholar. On
the completion of his collegiate course, he
had sent him, first, to one of the German uni
versities, in order to give him a thorough
knowledge of the language, and afterwards
to make the grand tour. Before, however,
we proceed farther, we must inform the read
er that the nearest neighbor of Mr. Ormond,
was a widow, in rather limited circumstances,
with two children —Eva, before mentioned and
a wild young man in the army. Harry Or
mond had always been 011 the most intimate
terms with Eva. He thought her by far, the
prettiest little girl of his acquaintance; and
Eva was content, in all her excursions in the
neighborhood, nut gathering in the old forest,
or trout fishing in the limpid river, that divi
ded the two estates, if protected and escor
ted by the gallant little Harry ; who imbibed
from his father, very high ideas of courtesy
towards the gentler sex—ideas which made
his company more attractive, than that of the
neighboring youth, to the gentle and refined
little girl—while the mother threw no obsta
cle in the way of their constant intercourse/
Harry found no occasion to change his mind
as to the superiority of the little Eva, during
his collegiate course, and on his departure for
Europe, claimed not only a tress of her beau
tiful hair, but a promise to abide his return,
before making her choice of a husband, and
laughingly bade his father and Mr. Brandon
take good care of her, for no wife would he
have, save the pretty Eva. As his son was
at this time ‘2O, and Eva 14 years of age,
Mr. O rmond saw no occasion to regard it as
a jest, and though he might have preferred a
wealthier bride for his son, he felt certain he
would obtain none more beautiful and amia
ble. So he assured Mrs. Brandon of his
hearty acquiescence in the proposed arrange
ment.
Harry Ormond remained two years at a
university of Germany ; the remaining two of
his absence were spent in travelling through
the old world. During his sojourn in Italy,
he became acquainted with the widow of an
American officer, herself an Italian, and was
soon numbered among the most devoted in
her train of admirers.
The lady refused, however, to bind herself
to any engagement, until he should have con
sulted his parents; having no particular incli
nation for love in a cottage, the certain re.
suit, she knew, of marrying without the stern
old Southron’s permission.
Harry hastened home for the required con
sent, little doubting of success. His rage and
disappointment were in proportion, when his
father, who had heard through a friend, of
his sou’s infatuation, and the fair lady’s char
acter, at once assured him of his unalterable
resolution, never to consent to the proposed
union, claiming at the same time, the fulfil
ment of his promise to the pretty Eva, whom
he assured him, he knew to be far prettier,
and more loveable, than the artful minx, who
thought only of bis property. Harry appeal
ed to his mother, but her prejudices were as
much aroused against the proposed marriage
as his father’s, and she too thought Eva
would suit him far better. Finding all solic
itation vain, he hurried to Charleston, and
dispatched a letter to his lady love, acquaint
ing her with the result, requesting permis
sion at the same time to return to Paris. i
where he had left her, and claim her hand,
He did not conceal the determination of his j
father, to cast him off in case of disobedience; i
but that, he assured her, need not prevent their i
marriage. He had an education, which, in
this favored country, would soon insure him
independence, if not wealth. If she loved
him, as he hoped, and as he certainly loved
her, poverty would not frighten her. His j
letter breathed all the eloquence of passion,
and he waited impatiently for the welcome j
permission to return. His anger and disap
pointment may be imagined on receiving a
cold, formal letter, assuring him that nothing
would induce her to consent to a marriage, j
without the consent of his father, and declin- j
ing all further intercourse. Wounded by her
coldness, and almost believing the charge j
mercenary, made by his father, he returned !
home, and on the renewal of the subject of,
his promise to Eva, announced his willing
ness to fulfil it. Eva he bad not seen since
his return, she being absent on a visit to a rela
tive in a distant part of the country. He
called on her mother, and the marriage >
had been an understood affair between the
families, he was welcomed by the old lady as
a son. She did not fail to remark his cold
ness; her anxiety for the match, however,
determined her to conceal her suspicions as
much as possible, from her daughter Eva,
who was daily expected home. Eva, who
had grown into a beautiful girl of eighteen,
and had always treasured a warm affection
for her old companion, received the announce
ment of his return with delight, somewhat
modified by the idea of receiving him as a
suitor, ere she should have had time to form
an opinion as to his qualities. As the pene
tration of girls of eighteen is not very re
markable, it is scarcely to be wondered, that j
on finding him dignified and intellectual, as |
well as handsome and noble looking, she
should trust to former acquaintance, and be
quite ready to love him with all her heart,
when he should ask ; which, hurried on by re
sentment, he did, soon after her return.
After which event, Mrs. Brandon took
| good care not to leave many opportunities for
a better understanding, fearing that her
! daughter, inexperienced as she was, might
j notice the coldness and reserve Harry took
little pains to conceal. She was much re
| lieved, therefore, when he received a sum
i mons to attend the death bed of a cousin,
1 an old college friend, who was ill of decline.
He lingered a month after Harry joined him,
| but seemed so much to prize his company,
1 that Harry could not find resolution to leave
him.
It was here, that, viewing his conduct to
wards Eva as it deserved, he addressed her
a letter, acquainting her with his first love,
and imploring her pardon, for having deceived
her. If, he added, she was willing to grant
him the postponement he desired, he doubted
not, when time should have healed his pres
ent green wound, he would be able to offer
her a heart, worthy of her. If she differed
with him, as to the propriety of breaking ofT
their now public engagement, he would, of
course, defer to her wishes, and in that case
! she need not answer the letter, but let it be
| buried in oblivion.
i Tins letter, good Mrs. Brandon thought it
better to suppress. The match was too
good a one to resign so near the consumma
tion. Eva would be miserable, too, altogether
it was much better to let things go on. For.
1 tunately for her, Harry remained absent till
the week appointed for the marriage, which,
he had hoped, his letter would have prevent
ed altogether. Her willingness to marry
him under the circumstances, inspired him
| with contempt and aversion, he found it dif
j ficult to conceal. He had, therefore, from
the day he conducted her to his home in
Charleston, treated her with the most freez
ing coldness end reserve.
Eva hardly knew of what to complain; she
was, however, soon aware that if she had
counted on Mr. Ormond’s heart, as well as
name, she was bitterly mistaken. Why had
he married her? she murmured again, and
again, since it was evident love had not been
i the motive. She thought she must have dis
pleased him in some way, and was unwearied
in her efforts, by’ gentleness and affection, to
propitiate him; but, as days wore on without
change, she resigned herself, in bitter grief
and despair, to her lot, which soon produced
a marked change in her appearance and
spirits.
She never complained in her letters home,
and this state of affairs had continued during
three or four months, without a suspicion as
to her happiness, having arisen in her family,
when they received a letter from the mother
of Mr. Ormond, announcing her intention of
visiting them, in order to make some purcha
ses. Eva dreaded, yet longed to see her.
She had always regarded her with the affec
tion of a daughter, and made her the confi
dant ,of her childish joys and griefs. What
to do now she hardly knew, but at last re
solved to bury her regrets and griefs in her
own breast.
Mrs. Ormond was, however, not easily de
ceived. The alteration in her daughter was
too striking, not to have been produced by
some cause concealed. She studied her
closely, and soon discovered the estrange
ment between them. She had an explana
tion with her, which relieved Eva of suspense.
It was the doubt and uncertainty that with
ered her. On learning his former attach
ment, she no longer doubted, though she still
thought it strange and unkind—these were the
harshest terms she would permit herself to
use, that, he should visit his anger on her.
Her mother persuaded her to enter into so
ciety, which she had of late altogether aban
doned, promising to remain with her during
the remainder of the winter.
From Augustine De Bellemonf, to Victor
Loraine.
Charleston, Dec. 10.
My Dear Victor: In my last, I notified
you of my arrival in Charleston, one of the
principal cities of South Carolina. The in
habitants of which State, from some old fash
ioned prejudices derived from their French
ancestry, are styled by their neighbors the
chivalry. I certainly have no cause to com
plain of their hospitality, having been received
with open arms. Were it possible to exist out
of Paris, one might live—comfortably—l be
lieve is the word in Charleston.
Last evening at a ball, I encountered the
petite veuve of memory, you recollect. I
cannot imagine what motive can have brought
her over, for the little widow, unlike the rest |
of her sex, has always both motive and rea- j
son, coaid one only cjscover them. She ;
| seems now, however, to be making les beau v
ye ujc at a Mr. Ormond, who possesses the
most perfect gem of a wife I ever encounter
ed, and whom, he, American like, is far from
properly appreciating.
When I assure you that she has eaptivaton j
me, it is at once to convince you, that she |
would create a sensation even in Parts. Even
La Belle Coerisu must succumb to her. I
called this morning to enquire after her;
health, and I fancied Monsieur Le Mari, who
came in during my visit, did not seem over
well pleased. His annoyance seemed to pro
duce no effect on the lady. She continued
the conversation, which was of art and ar
; tists, without apparently observing his be
; clouded countenance.
I assure you, her sketches of scenery are
spirited for one who has not travelled; they
give evidence of talent, which I kindly volun
teered to assist with my greater experience.
| Don’t smile, you dog! as yet, lam an object
j of supreme indifference, for I observed her
. interest to flag perceptibly after the entrance of
! her husband. If she loves him, he is not a man
j easily supplanted. The ancient regime could
j not have furnished a more perfect model of
i a man and gentleman. When you do en
counter a gentleman among these Southern
lords, no men in the world can surpass
them.
I think I have discovered the cause of the
little widow’s western voyage. She is in
j pursuit of Major Rafton, who spent some
time in Paris. He is an officer in the army,
as well as a man of wealth, and is as yet, un
conscious of the wiles of the fair lady, being
no mean rival of mine, in the good graces of
the charming Mrs. Ormond. I cannot say
which is the preferred, but for the credit of
the nation I have the honor to represent, I
shall spare no pains to surpass him.
These Americans think by far too much of
money', to prove successful lovers with intel
lectual women. In the absorbing pursuit of
j gold, woman becomes a secondary object,
! and the fair creatures never forgive the slight,
j This is, however, not one of the characteris
| tics of the Southrons, who are placed by the
peculiarity of their domestic institutions, above
the necessity of “delving, always delving.”
I accompanied Madame O. to the opera
last night; her toilette would have done hon
ior to the taste of a Parisian. I cannot, of
j course, go into the minutiae, for the benefit of
your sister, who wishes to know how the
American ladies dress, but the effect was
charming. I saw her husband observing her
closely 7, from Madame de Berni’s box. The
malicious little imp is evidently, as a by-plav,
weaving nets, for the handsome planter, in
revenge for the desertion of Major 11., who,
like myself, was playing the agreeable to the
beautiful Eva. Were it not that I had some
what of an interest in the matter, I would
take some pleasure in frustrating her schemes,
deep as they are. It is impossible to be long
with this charming woman, without imbibing
good, and I should not wonder, such is the
effect of her pure brow, at my at last sacrifi
cing la gloria of France, to the pleasure of
making her happy.
From the same, to the same.
Charleston, Feb. 18.
My Dear Friend: In my last I gave
you an account of the Christmas festivities,
and the manner of conducting them on the
plantations. I have returned to the city,
where I shall remain a few weeks or months
longer; you may, therefore, continue to ad
dress your letters to this place. By the way,
I was guilty of a piece of maliciousness last
evening at a ball, of which I must have your
opinion, before I can rest content. I went
late, having been detained by a circumstance
not worth mentioning. On entering the room,
I found the crowd too dense to penetrate. 1
therefore edged my way round the wall, in
order to obtain a better view of the dancers.
I stationed myself near a window, the folds
of the curtain concealing me from a couple
promenading the balcony, and enjoying the
moonlight. They halted occasionally at the
window, to watch the dancers. tythus over
heard their conversation, without being able to
change my position. The gentleman, in a
modulated tone, was expressing his regret at
not seeing the lady, on calling that morning,
which regret she more than reciprocated, ob
serving, as an excuse for her non-appearance,
that an insupportable headache had con
fined her to the sofa, during the entire morn
ing. You know, she said in a playful voice’, a
lady’s beauty is rarely improved by pain, or
I should have admitted you in spite of it. I
did not dare, as it was.
This speech being received by the gentle
man, with proper assurances, that nothing
could possess the power of decreasing her
charms in his eyes, she proceeded to dis
cuss the merit, of the various dancers. She
went into ecstacies, at the grace of the inimi
table Mrs. Ormond. I think, however, she
added, no one except Monsieur De Belle
mont appreciates the beauty of her steps,
while she dances with much more spirit, when
he is her partner. I think, my friend, she
continued, if you had not the happiness of
being the husband of that charming lady, she
would soon be exciting the envy and admira
tion of Pari3, as Madame , the name I
lost, as they moved from the window, though
I doubted not it was mine. When I assure
you, my dear V ictor, that the fair invalid had
been tete a tete, the whole morning, with Ma
jor Rafton, who had amused me on his return,
with an account of some of her maneuvers,
you will properly appreciate her veracity.
Determined to bo revenged for hm infinua- 1
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NO. 34.
tions with regard to myself, I approached
her on her entrance, and enquired politely
after her health. Site had suffered, she replied,
with a bad headache daring the morning, hut
was much better. I expressed my regrets,
but added, I feared she must have suffered in
] that case from the exuberant spirits ot Ma
| jor Rafton, who, I continued, gave as excuse,
1 for keeping me waiting two hours at an ap
[ pointment, that he found you so agreeable
j this morning, he could not tear himselt away.
J The lady bit her lip, and crimsoned to tho
tip of her fingers, while the gentleman, after
seeking in vain for some pretext to fasten a
quarrel on me, released the lady's arm, and
muttering soma indistinct words, withdrew.
I made the best of my wav to the side ot
the beautiful Eva, who received me as ever,
graciously. I was coxcomb enough to be
lieve for a few minutes, that my appearance
had brought the bloom to her cheek, and
light to her eyes, but on glancing around, l
perceived her liege lord regarding her with
dark glances. On his departure the light fa
ded from the eye, and color from the cheek;
i she received my most piquant speeches, with
listless indifference, and a pre-occupation ot
mind far from flattering to my amour propre.
If she chooses to love the jealous Don, l can
only pity her taste. You must pardon my
egotistical letters. I can only interest you, I
fancy, bv giving personal details ot myself,
which, after all, I doubt not, produce many a
yawn ; but what shall l do ? you tell mo to
write of myself. Yours,
Augustine.
[ TO BE CONTINUED. ]
VIOLENCE TO WOMAN.
The sentiment ot lobin, put into too
mouth of the Duke Aranza, in tho Honey
Moon”—
“lie who would lay his hand upon a woman,
Save in the way of kindness, is a wretch
Whom ’twere base flattery to call a coward,
has been echoed with applause by all too
civilized world.
Speaking of this passage, a certain actress
was playing Juliana to the Duke Aranza ot
her husband, who was in the habit ot beat
ing her. The lady watched eagerly for her
husband’s delivery of tho passage above
quoted, wishing to hear the condemnation ot
his conduct from his own lips. But on com
ing to the sentence, ho adroitly substituted
the following reading:
“He who can lay his hand upon a woman,
Save in the way of chastisement, is a wretch
Whom ’twere base flattery to call a coward.
It is said that a Russian wife feels very
seriously aggrieved if her husband neglects
to beat her at least once a day, fancying he is
growing indifferent if the diurnal infliction is
discontinued. .
The scandalous chronicle asserts that a
blow was the cause of the separation be
tween Bulwer and his wife. W hen he came
home, after his signal’failure in I arhament,
the lady, instead of sympathizing with Ins
misfortune, taunted him with his want o. suc
cess. In a moment ol passion, lie raised ia.->
hand and struck her.
Very different was the conduct of Lord
Castlereagh—perhaps less generally known
This man, tho Prime Minister of England,
though hated and denounced by the Liberals,
vet stood at the head of tho British Gov
ernment, and enjoyed the full confidence of
his sovereign and the Tory party. His sut?!
cide has generally been attributed to the e-j
spair which the denunciations of his con
duct by the eloquent friends of liberty inspi
red. But it was not. Against the groans
of Ireland, against the anathemas ot fallen
Europe, his heart was steeled and proof. -
VVe must look elsewhere for the solution of
the riddle of his suicide.
In his old age, Lord Castlereagh espoused
a beautiful lady, young enough to be his
daughter. The incongruity of their union
soon inspired him with doubts and suspi
cions. He thought it impossible that she,
could remain insensible to the attentions of
young men. Thinking the Duke of Cam
bridge not indifferent to her, he forbade her
receiving him, an absurd prohibition which
it was impossible for her to obey.
One evening, Lord Castlereagh, on enter
ing his wife’s saloon, felt convinced that she
had not been there entirely alone, and asaed
if she had received no visitor. I errified at
his earnestness, Lady Castlereagh was weak
enough to resort to a falsehood. But, un
luckily, a riding whip, with the arms ot tho
Duke of Cambridge, was tying on an arm
chair.
Castlereagh caught it up and raised it against
his wife. “But here,” says the narrator of tho
occurrence, “his wrath halted. His fury had
carried him so far that he was at once asham
ed of it. It was the hand of the ruffian that
was lifted—the hand of a gentleman descend
ed lightly and opened tremblingly, to drop
the odious weapon, that had menaced a wo
man, on the floor.” Without uttering a word,
Lord Castlereagh drove to the Parliament and
took his seat. A violent invective launened
against the ministry by one of the opposition
members, found him, commonly so prompt
and fiery in debate, silent and motionless.
From the Parliament ho went to the royal
levee, and there the strangeness of his con
duct was noticed. Returning home, his rea
son disordered by remorse for his ungentle
manly action, he seized a sharp penknife, and
the hand which had been raised against a wo
man terminated his own eventful life.
ftCr* School Scene. —“Boy, you seem to
be quite smart; altogether too smart for this
school! Can you tell me how many six black
beans are V’
“Yes, sir: half a dozen.”
“Well, how many are half a dozen white
beans ?”
“Six.”
“Tremendous smart boy! Now, tell me
how many white beans there are in six black
ones?”
“Half a dozen—-if you skin ’em!”
In consequence of this answer, the scholar
came near being skinned himself.
OCT” Tho wives along the Mississippi nev
er blow up their husbands. They leave it all
to the steamboats, which are sure to do it, |
sooner or later.