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THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL
IS PUBLISHED
EVERY FRIDAY MORNING,
BV
T. LOMAX &. CO.
TENNENT LOMAX, principal editor.
Office on Randolph street.
Citcrnn} Pep ailment.
Coudvctkl ey CAROLINE LEE IIENTZ.
[written for the sentinel.]
TO IRENE.
I’ve seen (he B-iles of many lands,
Pure penis of living light,
Their native vales illumining,
As stars illumine night;
And yet in beauty’s gorgeous sky,
No planet have I seen,
With Georgia’.- sparkling gem to vie—
The beautiful Irene.
She is the incarnation bright,
Os some Angelic thought ;
She is the poetry of Heaven,
In human beauty wrought ;
And never yet was writ or read,
So sweet a book, I ween,
As that fair volume of delight—
The beautiful Irene.
Her close alliance to the skies,
Is seen in all her ways ;
We know it by her gentleness—
We feel it in her lays ;
And who can tell, how bright and blest— j
How ever fresh and green,
This world would be, if all were like,
The beautiful Irene.
There is no winter where she smiles—
No darkness where she dwells ;
She is a Morning on the hills—
A May among the dells.
The groves and valleys know their Spring—
The roses know their Queen ;
And all the wild-birds sing in tune,
To beautiful Irene.
I well remember all the songs,
She sang mo at Lanier’s ;
They fell upon my melting heart,
Like music from the spheres ;
And still as sweet as silver bells,
O’er waters heard at e’en,
The siren notes are sounding on,
Os beautiful Irene.
O, let me wander where I may—
From Georgia’s valleys bright,
To where the Brazos rolls its waves,
In muuical delight—
Fond mem’ry still will turn to hail,
Thro’ ev'ry changing scene,
The gem that decks her native land—
The beautiful Irene.
Sweet mistress of the tuneful art.
Bright child of melody,
My Star, my Poem and my Spring—
All happiness to thee !
May sorrow never reach thy heart ;
No shadows intervene,
To dim the Eden blooming there —
Sweet, beautiful Irene.
A nit when thy blight career is o’er,
Os loveliness and grace,
And thou art call'd among the stars,
To take thy shining place,
O, mayst thou to that higher home,
Ascend in all thy sheen,
And be the morning-planet there—
Sweet, beautiful Irene.
[WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.]
ALBUM LEAVES.
BV ERNEST SOLE.
Leaf Third TO EMILIE.
i.
Joy now and joy lor aye,
Through thy happy pilgrim way!
Flowers round thee ever springing !
Wild-wood birds forever singing !
May thy life-time only be
Gladdest sunshine, Emilie!
11.
Sorrows fly thee, sorrows fear thee !
Grief and sadness never near thee!
Ciouds and shadows, darkness, gloom,
Give to brightness gladsome room !
May thy sky forever be
Sunlit, cloudless, Emilie!
111.
Stars, keep shining on above thee !
True and tender bosoms, love thee!
Tears, bedim thy eyelids never !
Smiles, thy face onwreath forever !
Gladness, and not sadness, be
Life-long thine, sweet Emilie!
I WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.]
MAGNOLIA LEAVES.
It is in vain lo speak of other leaves, un
der the shadow of these kingly live oaks —
that give an air of grand solitude to the
place, for they are so large, so far-spreading,
appear so deep-rooted, so strong and endur
ing, they absorb every object around them.
We have spoken of these trees before, but
words are insufficient to describe the impres
sions they make upon the mind. They do
not surprise one so much by their immense
height as their magnificent breadth—their
Amplitude, their glorious sweep of branches.
Mighty eaglets of the forest, they stretch out
their green, sinewy wings, almost to the riv
■er’s edge, and wave their moss-covered plumes
In the twilight breeze. We have a property
in those trees—they are a part of our inheri
tance—and we would mourn for the stroke
that defaced or maimed them, as a personal
injury to ourselves. We feel enriched every
time we gaze upon them, and pity the poor
being who can pass them without a glowing
tribute of praise and admiration.
This is a beautiful spot, on the banks of
the Apalachicola, and beautiful is the shrub
bery that adorns it on the opposite side. Last
night, a blind negro stood very near the wa
ter, blowing through a long tin horn, and
making some very melodious strains. After
giving a long continuous blast, he would
pause, apparently listening, when a strain,
softer, fainter, sweeter, came responsive from
the opposite bank, and died away under the
boughs of the live oaks. Again and again,
he wound his shining horn, and again the echo
answered with sweeter and more lingering
melody. W e wondered what the blind ne
gro thought of the voice that sung so charm
ing a second to the notes he played. He cer
tainly never has heard of the maiden, who
dwells among the rocks and the woods, ‘the
mournful victim of unrequited love,’ he
knows nothing of the science of Acoustics—
yet he evidently listens with pleasure to the
YOL. 111.
fairy Ritornella, and probably imagines him- 1
self a great musician.
W hen he quitted the bank, and all was
again still, we turned to the old oaken Druids,
clad in their moss-fringed robes, so grey and
grand, and remembering a tale connected
with a tree, we will try to impress it more
deeply on our own memory, by relating it to
the ears of others. Though the tree to which
we allude was fed by the dews of other
climes, it was associated with feelings which,
like the bugle blast of the blind negro, will
find a responsive echo, that will reach the
heart, however remote.
Not very far (rom the city of Boston, there
is a country village, which o wed its chief ce
lebrity to an elm tree of stupendous growth,
situated just at the foot of a small hill, at the
entrance of the town. The road passed
through the land of a gentleman, who dwelt
on the brow of that hill, and consequently
the tree also was his property. It had been
the property of several generations. Alan
had come forth “like a flower and been cut
down.” Yea, the scythe had fallen many a
time on the blossoms of life, and still that
tree stood unfaded and unblenched, unshorn
of its branching honors or its leafy crown.
Os all his possessions, Mr. Harrington most
prized this old, time-honored elm. It was a
history in itself-—every leaf was a page on
which some family record was written. He
loved to sit under its shade and dwell in spirit
with the souls of other generations. He was
a benevolent man and wanted others to en
joy, likewise, a shadow so liberally spread.
Me had a circular bench constructed all round
ihe tree for the benefit of the weary traveller,
and the task-worn school-child. In the warm
summer season, that seat was seldom vacant.
Travellers, children, and laborers occupied it
by day, and lovers by the moon-light night.
If that tree had a tongue, like Tennyson’s
talking oak, what wondrous tales it could
have told! There would be no need of our
pen, unless to record the fate of this noble
patriarch of nature.
Air. Harrington had one son of the name
of William, who actually grew up beveath
its branches. He had made himself a study
ing place up in one of the forks of the boughs, j
whoie he would perch for hours and look
down on the world below and around—the
world of waving grain, and golden corn, and
blossoming buck-wheat. The boy drank in
inspiration from the scene, and he felt the
wings of his spirit growing like the bird,
whose nest he had stolen. There he would
sit, pelted by the rain—and it was a driving
rain that reached him in his sheltered nook—
beaten by the wind, and it was a stormy wind
that penetrated to his guarded hollow—till 1
the poetry of nature stirred within his bo
som. But he never felt so poetical or inspir
ed as when a little fairy figure of a girl went
tripping below, with her satchel on her arm
and her sun-bonnet on her head, (or rather on
her shoulders, for she seldom suffered it to
cover her face,) or paused to rest awhile on
the seat around the trunk. Her name was
Alary Granite, and her father lived within the
neighborhood of Mr. Harrington. Alary was
the little belle of the school-room, the juve
nile star of the village, as her name carved
on the bark of tree3 and the surface of rocks
declared; and William, though he never
carved her name in sight, had it written all
over his heart. She was indeed one of the
loveliest of the lovely tribe of gentle Marys.
So light and airy of step, that
“The flower she. trod on, dipped and rose,
Then turned to look at her.”
Yet so firm in principle and so excellent in
heart, that one might as well attempt to move
the elm tree from its base, as to divert her
! from the path of duty. What made her love
liness and excellence more conspicuous, was
the contrast between herself and her father,
who was one of the most haughty, disagreea
ble and hard-hearted men, that ever existed.—
Granite by name, and granite by nature, as
was often said of him, he seemed to glory in
those traits of character, of which most men
would be ashamed. He had quarrelled with
almost every body in town, Mr. Harrington
among the number, because he refused to
sell him the field through which the road
passed.
As there was no intercourse between the
families, William never met Mary at her fath
er’s house, but they were always meeting in
their walks, perhaps not always accidentally,
till their young hearts so grew together, noth
ing but death could separate them. It is a well
known fact, that where there is a William,
there must be a Alary near—the twin-born
soul created for him. It is as certain that
j our \\ illiam and Mary believed they were
created for each other, and every one else
believed so, but her granite-hearted father,
who, as Alary grew into womanhood, forbade
her having the slightest intercourse with the
son of his enemy, as he called Mr. Harrinjr
ton, because he presumed to keep his proper
ty in his own hands, in preference to selling it.
; Mary thought it her duty to obey her fath
er’s commands, and she no longer sat with
William under the great elm tree, when the
moonbeams beyond its circumference made
the shadow which embosomed them almost
impervious to the eye, but if she accidentally
met him and he caught her trembling hand
one moment in his, or gave her a glance of
undying love, she could not help it, and it
made her happy long days afterwards.
At length Air. Harrington died, and to the
astonishment of every one, left his widow
and only son absolutely poor. His heart
was too large for his purse, and its demands
®!)c Soivttycoi Sentinel
were always encroaching on his prudence, j
William was left with nothing but his own
energies to depend upon, and they were ‘
strong enough for an anchor, sure and stead
fast. His widowed mother resolved to sell
the house which they occupied, and reside in
a small cottage, better suited to the reduction
of her fortunes. Air. Granite appeared
among the purchasers, and as his offers were
the most liberal, she did not allow any past
animosity on his part to interfere with the
advantage of his proposal. William’s pride
chafed at what might seem like submission to
an enemy, but he was the father of Alary,
and he caught a golden gleam of reconcilia
tion through the opening door of opportunity.
Having made arrangements for his depart
ure to another State, where a broader field
of enterprise was spread out before his young
ambition, and having resolved upon what he
considered the most honorable course of ac
tion, he called on Mr. Granite, and in the
most respectful but independent terms, de
clared his immutable love for Mary, his con
viction that he was worthy of her, and his
determination never to resign the hope of
calling her his. Mr. Granite listened with
out the movement of a single muscle, or
deigning the least reply. When William,
waxing into warmth and indignation, again
urged his suit, his words were clipped in two
by this sarcastic,jeering remark:
“When you are a member of Congress,
you may marry my daughter, and not till
then.”
“I will be a member of Congress, and
then I shall call upon you to fulfill your
promise,” replied William, with emphasis.
“If she is not a wife before that time, her
chances will be very poor afterwards.”
“I should sooner expect yon tree to fall
from its base, than Alary’s constancy to
waver,” exclaimed William, pointing to the
elm tree, whose summit seen from the brow
of the hill, looked like an amphitheatre of
verdure.
A cold sneer passed over the hard features
of Mr. Granite, and withered away amid the
wrinkles. ‘W‘ shall see, we shall see,” he
, Davv
muttered; “1-ty yavill settle all these things.”
,
XWilliam t tr U v c evaway to leave the apart
ment, “wftW- 1 -1° ‘'Aklen impulse drew him
back. He could not help saying what he
did, though a choking sensation in his throat
impeded his utterance.
“I have one favor to ask, sir, before I
quit mv native village. That tree, sir, is a
sacred thing—l pray you to guard it as such.
Let it still be the shelter of weariness, inno
cence, and age. Someone said that you
intended to have the seat removed and a ban
issued against the public use of its shade.—
But I do not believe it! I do not believe it
possible for you or any man to give existence
or utterance to such a decree.”
“Why not?” exclaimed Air. Granite. “Is
not the tree mine? Have I not a right to do
what 1 please with it?’’
“No, sir! That tree was not my father’s
nor mine, nor is it yours. The mere accident
of its growing on that soil did not, does not,
make it ours or yours. Heaven never de
signed such wealth of shade for individual
use. It was placed at the foot of that hill
that the way-faring man might rest thereun
der, after panting under the burden of life.—
Sir, my father loved that tree and blessed
God for creating it. I love it; every leaf is
sacred to my memory, and has a story of its
own to tell. I trust you will hold it sacred
also, and never allow a sacrilegious touch to
deface its ancient majesty.”
“I assure you, young man, I shall not for
get that tree/’
And so they parted. He went to mark
out his destiny for himself. Air. Granite re
mained at home, and true to his words, did
not for gel the tree.
Two or three years passed away, and Wil
liam, struggling upward all the time, was fast
pressing on to the goal of fame and fortune.
He had two of the most powerful motives in
the world to urge him on—love, and—what
shall we name it—that other strong, unsleep
ing principle, which wrought such wonders
within him? If it was revenge, it was of a
noble kind ; the desire to triumph over preju
dice and wrong, to attain a social height
from which he could look down on his enemy
and force him to capitulation on his own
terms.
At length,after three years’ absence, cr >wn
ed with unprecedented success, he returned
to his native town, assured of the constancy
of Alary bv the unwavering fidelity of his
own nature.
His heart throbbed violently as he ap
proached the shrine of his childhood and
youth, the altar where the purest obla
tions of his spirit had been offered. He look
ed, but he beheld it not; he rubbed his eyes,
thinking a sudden mist had obscured his vis
ion ; but where that princely tree had stood,
making a grand pavilion, reaching from fence
to fence, on each side of the way, there was
nothing but a dreary blank. Had the earth
given way beneath his feet, he could not
have felt more appalled. The sacred memo
ries of years were uprooted, the glory of the
past forever defaced.
Dashing his spurs into his weary horse, he
galloped to the spot and looked steadily on
what seemed a grave, where the forest patri
arch once stood. It had been cut down root
and branch—the chasm it had left filled op
with earth—not a leaf remaining to tell of the
rich garniture once woven there. How long
fie sat gazing on the desolation of the scene,
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, FRIDAY MORNING, AUGUST 27, 1852.
he knew not, but seeing a man walking by
the wayside, he accosted him:
“Who cut down this tree ?” asked he, in a
hoarse, agitated voice.
“Air. Granite had it done, sir, two years
ago,” answered the stranger, “and brought
down curses on his head, enough to wither
his soul up. I wouldn’t be in his place for
millions.’’
“Does he still live on the brow of the hill ?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And his daughter ?”
“She lives with him.”
“Unmarried?”
“Yes, sir. And if it were not for that
daughter, he would have had his house burn
ed down over his head, and himself burned
in effigy. But she is such an angel of good
ness, she stands between her father and the
curses of the poor whom hegrinds into dust.”
William scarcely waited to hear the con
cluding words of the man, but shot up the
hill like an arrow. There was that burning
within him which must find vent—a volcanic
passion, in which judgment, and prudence,
and self-consideration were all fused and
merged in the lava of indignation. Mr.
Granite was seated in a broad passage run
ning through the house, reading a Newspa
per, when a young man, all on fire, suddenly
stood before him. His face was embrowned
by the rays of a warmer sun, and soiled by
the dust of travel, but he recognized the no
ble brow and falcon glance of William Har
rington.
“Sir,’’ said the young man, “you are a
murderer, a cold-blooded, deliberate murder
er. You are worse than a murderer, for
man in a moment of passion may lift his
hand against his fellow man with unpremed
itated violence, and remorse rushes in to
weep out the stains which crimson his con
science. But you, in spilling the life-blood of
that tree, cut into the heart of the living, who
would have died to defend it. It was a base,
cowardly act, for the victim could not lift up
one of its hundred arms to parry the blow. —
It was a deed worthy of a Nero, more wan
ton than the burning of Rome. It rose
again from its ashes; but the pride of centu
ries is laid low, and never, never can be re
vived again.”
By this time, Mr. Granite had recovered
from the paralysis of amazement, and his
wrath burst forth in torrents. He used lan
guage we would blush to record.
“Yes,” added he, “I bought this place
merely that I might lay the axe to the root
of that tree, on which your ancestors have
climbed to the height of popularity. I hated
it as if it were a living being, and in every
blow laid upon its trunk, I shouted as if an
enemy had fallen. Leave my house, 3’oung
man, and never dare to set foot in it again.
Leave it, I say, and if ever my daughter ”
“Oh! Father!” exclaimed a sweet, entreat
ing voice, and a fair, fairy form stood in the
door, with pale cheeks and tearful eyes,
repeating the simple, pathetic adjuration,
“Oh! Father!”
William sprang forward and clasped her
joined hands in his.
“Mary,’’ said he, “has he laid the axe too
to the root of your affection ? Has it been
destroyed like that noble tree?”
“Mary,” cried Air. Granite, “he has insult
ed me. He is an insolent wretch. I forbid
your speaking to him. I forbid his ever dark
ening my door again. I forbid both, on the
penalty of my everlasting curse.”
Alary uttered a faint shriek, and would
have fallen had not William thrown one
arm around her, and pressed her to his side.
“Let her go!” cried the exasperated fath
er, “let her go, or, by Heaven, I will level
you to the ground.”
“Strike me if you dare!” exclaimed Wil
liam, “yea, cut off this right arm, if you dare,
and I will sustain her with the other. I am
not a passive tree, that you can hew down
with impunity.”
By this time the white railing in front of
the house was darkened by human figures
leaning over it. The man whom William
had accosted, followed him, and others re
turning homeward from their daily work, at
tracted by the indignant tones of William,
and the wrathful accents of Air. Granite,
gathered round the house, hoping that the
day of vengeance was come. They only
wanted someone to give them a momentum,
to roll upon him the accumulated burden of
their wrongs and crush him beneath their
weight.
William, as soon as he became aware of
their vicinity, dreading some scene of vio
lence, released his arm from Alary, whose
strength was now partially restored, breathed
into her ear a few low, emphatic words, and
left the house. Thank Heaven ! There was
one heart and home open to receive him,
where the storms of passion were lulled to
rest, and temptations entered not.
About a week after this incident, Mr. Gran
ite left town on urgent business, and did not
return till a late hour. It was nearly mid
night, but as there was a full moon, the night
was like another day, to the traveller. He
rode leisurely along, in his one horse carriage,
indulging in some very comfortable naps,
while rolling over the smooth, safe road.—
There was a piece of woods, just before the
entrance into town, where it was always
twilight, in sunshine or moonlight. As he
was passing the wood, luxuriating in a
light, downy slumber, he was roused by a
blast, as of a thousand furies; sounds so fierce
and discordant, rushing pell-mell upon each
other, were enough to chase the sleep of the
dead. For a moment he thought he had
awaked in a lower world, so hideous and un
earthly was the noise, when a band of mar
shal figures emerged from the thicket and
surrounded the carriage, each one bearing
some peculiar and original instrument.—
Horns, tin pans, drums, joints of stove pipes,
wooden tubes, all served as vehicles for their
wrathful spirits. The horse, frightened by
the tumult,reared and plunged; but one, who
seemed to be the leader, seized him by the
bridle and threw him back on his haunches.
“Come on,” he cried, in a voice of thunder,
“we are ready.”
Two tall men, in masks like the rest, here
rushed out of the woods, bearing a rail be
tween them.
“We’ll give you a better carriage to ride
on,” they cried; “make haste and we’ll help
you to mount.”
Mr. Granite saw himself at the mercy of
an exasperated mob, exposed to the most de
grading insult that can be inflicted on a gen
tleman, and he turned cold as ice. He
knew of no means of escape, and gave him
self up to despair. He had so long exercised
supreme power in the village, by the despo
tism of an iron will, that he was terrified by
this sudden aud powerful insurgency, and
cried out in the impotence of fear and rage.
“On with him,” cried the leader; “let him
ride by the light of the moon, and the way
we’ll serenade him shall put life into his wood
en horse.”
“William Harrington,” cried the wretched
man, “I know you; lam in your power;
spare me, and my daughter is yours.”
“I am not William Harrington,” answered
the man, indignantly: “but I am his friend,
and the man who insults and wrongs him,
is my enemy, now and forever. Yes! he
shall have your daughter, but not until you
are humbled and punished as you deserve to
be. He knows nothing of this. It is for us
to avenge his wrong and ours —and we will
do it.”
Struggling and calling aloud in frenzied
accents for help, the victim was torn from
the carriage, and another moment would have
seen him elevated on the seat of disgrace,
when there was a crashing among the branch
es, and a young man, without hat or coat,
leaped into the road right before them.
“What is all this?” he cried, imperatively.
“What are you doing, waking the silence of
midnight by such a horrible tumult?”
“We are going to give old Granite a
moon light ride—that is all,” exclaimed a
rough voice.
“Shame!” cried William, “to attack a de
fenceless man. It is cowardly—base. Let
him go, my friends. Believe me, you will all
blush for this by to-morrow’s sun.”
“Let him swear to give you Mary, then,”
said the leader, who was distinguished by a
tall black plume, waving above his mask.
“It is for your sake we have done this, not
our own.”
“Thank you,” replied William, “but I de
sire no extorted promises. I have his word
already, that as soon as I am a member of
Congress she shall be mine. Will you give
me your votes, my friends?’’
Three hearty, vociferous cheers echoed
through the woods, and then three times
three.
“Will you release this man, unconditional
ly, for my sake ?” he asked, with dignity, turn
ing from one to the other of the masked fig
ures. “For my father’s sake?” he added, in a
softer tone, “for my grand-father’s ? for the
sake of the old elm tree ?”
“Yes, we will,’’ they answered ; “but un
less he gives you his daughter, he had better
never go three yards from his own door
again.”
Thus saying, they blew another blast of
deafening power, and disappeared in the
thicket. William was left alone with his ene
my, with the moonbeams playing brightly on
his uncovered brow.
“Let me assist you into your carriage, sir,”
said William, with more respect of manner
than he had ever assumed before. He pitied
him for the degradation from which he had
rescued him.
There is, in every nature, some traces of
the original brightness left. However long it
may be darkened and obscured, it will some
times break forth like the sunbeam at the
close of a fierce, stormy day. The sudden
interposition of William in his behalf, his
magnanimous appeal and respectful manner,
touched the one place in his heart that was
capable of feeling. It is true, he was afraid
of the mob, and must have yielded through
fear of future outrage; but for the first time
a glimpse of William’s noble qualities beamed
on his vision—and a contrasted view of his
own meanness and vindictiveness rose to en
hance their beauty.
“Take my daughter, William,” said he, ex
tending his hand, “and let us forget the past.”
William and Mary were wedded and were
happy, but it was not possible to forget the
past. It was not possible to forget the no
ble tree, associated with all the sweet memo
ries of childhood and the springing aspira
tions of youth. “But though cast down, it
was not destroyed.” It lived in the energies
of William’s noble heart—lived in his pure
and holy love of the beautiful and the good.
The thoughts born and nurtured within its
sheltering boughs were immortal and could
not die. They branched out, like the rami
fications of its giant strength, and became
protection to the weak and shelter to the op
pressed. They rose up to heaven like its
topmost leaflets, and sunned themselves in a
brighter sky and revelled in a purer atmos
phere. No—the noble elm tree was not de
stroyed—it could not die, for its vitality was
infused into another being, and through that
being, imparted to a thousand others.
Mr. Granite lived to see his son-in-law a
member of Congress, and his eloquence the
pride of his native State. When he was
elected, the citizens gave him a dinner in the
shade of the thicket from which he had rushed
to the rescue of Granite, and again three
cheers rent the heavens.
May heaven spare these noble live-oaks
from the axe of the tyrant and the hand of
the assassin ; and may some youth, with the
spirit of William, be nurtured ’neath their
shades, who shall make the banks of the Apa
lachicola immortal with his renown !
C. L. 11.
Ochesee, August 10, 1852.
I WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.]
THE INTERCEPTED LETTER.
(concluded.)
Eva entered the drawing room of her spa
cious mansion one gloomy evening, in Feb
ruary, as twilight threw her veil over the
earth. Feeling unusually depressed, she plac
ed herself before the piano, hoping to soothe
her feelings, by relating her sorrows, without
the intervention of words, to the silent
shadows of evening. Gradually, under her
touch, the chords gave forth sounds of wail
ing and lamentation—the expression of a soul
overwhelmed with grief. She was interrupt
ed by the entrance of Mrs. Ormond.
“Always sad, Eva ! Your piano has done
nothing but complain for the last hour.”
“Always sad, mother?” sighed Eva.
“I had thought, my child, you were grow
ing more cheerful in the society of your nu
merous friends.”
“Friends of the hour,” said Eva, “who
laugh with me, but would vanish should I
weep.”
“You do them injustice, child. There are
many who seem really attached—by the way,
Monsieur De Bellemont promised to call and
tell us the result of the lecture last evening ;
30U must cheer up, or he will not enjoy his
visit.”
The mother listened for the answer, which
came not. Eva slowly played the symphony,
to “Take them, I implore thee.” When the
lights were brought in, she made the arrang
ing her hair an excuse to go out; in fact, to
conceal the tears that stained her pale cheek.
As the door closed behind her, Mr. Ormond
issued from the recess of a window, whose
ample curtain had concealed him from view.
“You here, Harry!” exclaimed his moth
er, with surprise. “What is the matter? Are
you ill ?”
“No, madam,” he replied, throwing himself
on a chaise lounge, and concealing his pale
face with his hands.
“Ah! it is Eva’s music,” said the mother.
“She plays well, does she not ?” A silent nod
was the only’ answer.
“But,” she continued, as if not observing
his pre-occupation, “her pieces are all sad ;
they fill me with an indefinable sorrow.”
“No doubt she repines at her fate,” said
Mr. Ormond, bitterly, raising his head and
displaying his pallid face, and eyes lustreless
with unshed tears.
“You have given her no cause to rejoice
at it,” said his mother, reprovingly.
“Mother,” he said, suddenly, “you should
discourage the visits of that Frenchman; he
is—but it matters not what he is—his visits
are too frequent.”
“Why, if you disapprove, do you not speak
to Eva?” said Mrs. Ormond, coldly.
“I have no right to influence her actions,”
he replied, more calmly; “but you, mother?
you should be doubly careful.”
“I see nothing wrong,” said his mother. “I
am glad Eva finds something to divert her
mind from home sorrows.”
“It would be nothing, I suppose, that she
should love this man and hate me,” replied
Mr. Ormond, rising as he spoke.
“1 had imagined, my son, that Eva’s heart
was a matter of indifference to you. You
have given no sign of wishing or needing it.”
Without replying, he went out. The old la
dy smiled calmly. “It will soon be right, if
—but it is impossible.” The thought, what
ever it was, disturbed her. She replaced the
glasses with which she was preparing to
read, and gazed abstractedly’ into the fire.
She was aroused from her reverie by the en
trance of the subject of her thoughts, follow
ed, almost immediately, by’ Eva. The eve
ning passed in pleasant conversation. The
idea of her son’s unhappiness occasionally
crossed the mind of the mother, making her,
for the moment, indifferent to the conversa
tion of a man, never, even in the salons of
Paris, more brilliant and entertaining; and
Eva was beguiled of her sorrow. At his re
quest she seated herself at the piano.
“Nay, no pieces, Madame,” said Monsieur
Bellemont, “much as I admire your per
formance; “sing—your voice alone ‘would
create a soul within the ribs of death,’ so
says your poet, for I believe you claim all the
poets before the revolution.”
“And let it not be too sad, Eva,’’ said the
old lady, “if you wish me to sleep to-night.’
Thus bidden, Eva sang. There was an
other listener to the rich tones of her melo
dious voice besides those entranced within
the room. Concealed by’ the drawn curtains,
he passed the evening in bitter reverie, watch
ing the waves glistening in the moon’s rays, as
she glanced out occasionally from the dark
flying clouds, listening to their placid murmur.
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NO. 35.
The sound of his wife’s voice, as it rose and
fell in tender and passionate strains, filled
him with bitter regret. He tore a note, on
delicately scented paper, with a delicate de
vice, “come to me,” on the seal, and scatter
ed the pieces on the pavement below. “Curs
ed deceiver,” he muttered between his clench
ed teeth, “had it not been for you, I might have
won her love. Blind fool! to allow myself
to be again ensnared by cunning speeches
and false smiles, and thus to lose the only
woman I have ever truly loved. But this shall
not last,” he added, on Fearing a movement
in the next room, followed immediately by
the closing of a door. “I will seek her, and
if she desires it, as I cannot doubt she does,
she shall be free.”
Calmed by this resolution, he approached
the room, where silence had taken the place
of the late joyous laughter. Supposing that
his wife must have retired, he opened the
door. Eva was standing by a table, on
which was placed a lamp, regarding, with ab
sorbing attention, a miniature fastened to a
small chain encircling her neck. This chain
Mr. Ormond recollected, with a pang, to
have observed, for the first time, the last
week. She was so much absorbed that, it
was not until the door gave way, with a noise,
as he leaned on it for support, that she be
came conscious of the presence of another
within the room. She turned towards the
door, at the same time hastily concealing
the miniature in her bosom. On seeing who
the intruder was, she crimsoned to the tem
ples, which subsided into a death-like pallor
as her husband approached, and in a cairn
voice, requested the pleasure of a few min
utes’ conversation.
“Can you not defer it until to-morrow?”
she replied. “I am fatigued and need rest.”
“As you please, Madame, (then hurried
out of himself by jealousy ;) in the mean
time, will you oblige me with the miniature
you were observing so attentively as I came
in ?”
“I cannot oblige you so far,” she replied
haughtily, blushing in spite of herself. “It
is the miniature of i dearly beloved friend;
I cannot part with it; I ”
“If I insist ?” said Mr. Ormond, with re
pressed vehemence.
“1 shall equally’ refuse.”
“In that case, Madame, you allow me to
conclude that it is one I ought not to see.”
She did not reply. “I must then finish what
I have to say, and relieve you of my pres
ence. Our union has proved an unfortunate
one for both parties. In the letter I ad
dressed you before our marriage, I stated,
candidly, my doubts as to the happiness that
would result if consummated then. You saw
fit to differ with me. You can scarcely blame
me more than I now do myself for my con
duct since. We have botli suffered; and.al
low’ me to believe that I interpret your feel
ings correctly, when 1 suppose you now ro
gret the precipitancy with which it was con
cluded. 1, on my part, am willing, at any
time, to release you from your vows.”
Eva attempted in vain to reply. Over
come by suffering, at his evident anxiety for
a separation, when she had flattered herself, of
late, that he was beginning to take some
slight interest in her, she sank, fainting, at his
feet. Beside himself with alarm, Mr. Or
mond stooped to raise her. In placing her on
the sofa, a button of his coat caught the chain
w hich supported the miniature and dragged it
from its resting place. Forgetful of all but his
anxiety to discover his rival, he turned the face
to the light; with an exclamation of joy, he
dropped it, and kneeling by her side, cover
ed hands, face and neck., with kisses. Be
coming alarmed at her continued insensibili
ty, he went in search of water, W'hich ho
sprinkled in her face. She recovered slow
ly. On opening her eyes and perceiving her
husband bending anxiously over her, she re
closed them with a weary sigh. Affected al
most to tears, Mr. Ormond yet forbore to agi
tate her further at the moment. She soon re
gained sufficient strength to sit up, and the
first object that attracted her attention, was
the miniature, hanging loose by the chain;
she caught it up, glancing at the same time
with flashing eyes at her husband: -I
“You dared?”
“It fell from your dress,” he replied, simply.
She covered her face w'ith her hands, and
wept silently.
“Eva,” he said, kneeling by her side, “do
you w'eep that an accident has revealed to me
a happiness that I dare not even now believe,
unless assured of its truth by your own lips?
Can it be possible that I am not deceived—
that y’ou love me ? Speak to me —spare mo
the misery of further doubt. - If you knew
how’ I have suffered, believing you indiffer
ent!”
Eva listened as though doubting the evi
dence of her senses. He who had just coun
selled separation, pleading his love.
“You love me?” she said, doubtingly.
“Ah!” he said, pressing her hand to his
heart, “if you knew how much, you would
pardon me my doubts, and answer mo at
once.” That she answered, we may readily
believe; and that he was pleased with the an
swer, we may conclude, from the faet of tho
good Mrs. Ormond coming in at a late hour
in search of her daughter, being welcomed
with kisses by Eva, and thanks by’ her son,
and also called on for her opinion as to the
missing letter. “Though,” he added, tender
ly glancing at his wife, “I scarce regret it
now. Eva, had she received it, wmuld doubt
less have completely’ throwm me off.”
“But we might have escaped mu:h miss-