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THE SOOTHERN SENTINEL
IS PUBLI3HKD
EVERY FRIDAY MORNING,
HY
T. LOMAX & CO.
TEXXEXT LOMAX, Principal Editor.
Office on Randolph street.
Citenmj Dcp mlm rnt.
Conducted by... CAROLINE LEE HENTZ.
[written for the sentinel.]
TO MILS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ.
Ido not know thee; I have never seen
Thy face or form ; and I have never heard
The cadence of thy voice. Yet when I muse,
In some loved sunset hour, thine image comes
With Fancy’s visions, and thy bright-winged thoughts
Flit round me, while the merry humming bee
Woos tile sweet blossoms and as softly wakes
My spirit from its dreaming*.
Ar.d I have dwelt
So oft and earnestly upon the high,
The pure and glorious thoughts that flow
From thy heait’s fountain clothed with burning words
That mount on “wingsof flame,” or softly glide
Like moonbeams o’er the lea, or music on the breeze,
Or perfumes round the blossoms—thou dost seem
Familiar to my spiiit in its dreams,
As if it sought companionship with thine
From its young childhood.
Gifted one!
The earth, the universe, to thee is full
Os harmony and beauty. The sunset scenes,
The moonlit cloud-, the green woods and the vales,
Swept by the breath ot thy pure spiiit, glow
\V ith richer hues. Thy bosom is the homo
Os fair and lovely images, that float
On limey's blight and leaping waves through all
The beauteous scenes ofVarth ; or soar
In wild and boundless freedom o’er the blue
And vauhui heavens.
And yet withal,
I cannot tell, if Time’s pale foot hath left
Its prints upon thy brow ; or if thine eye
Hath lost its lustre, or thy cheek its bloom,
Or sorrow paled thy forehead ; yet I ween
That .-ad and holy memories are shrined
‘Within the temple of thy heart—that thou
Hast stood beside the couch of death and wept
The lost and cherished ones. Yet may thy soul
With all its dreams oi blessedness and peace
Grow strong in sorrow. When life’s chilling winds
Sweep o’er thy sky ; and when its waning stieain
Is slowly ebbing out; when its last flame
Is burning faint and dim ; oh ! may the light
Os hopes immortal brighten at its close—
As st irs that wander o’er the welkin glow,
More beautiful and radiant ’midst the deep
Dark gloom of night!
Oakland, Ga. FANNIE.
[WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.]
ALH U M LEAVES.
BY ERNEST SOLE.
LEAF I
fSuggested by a sloe-eyed beauty, with locks flung I
breezeward, eyes gleaming with inspiration, and fingers 1
sweeping “iniriyvej
* J * I. g- .... .
1jOO?c on the light breeze auburn locks flowing,
Brightly with love-fires fla-hing eyes glowing,
L’p through the ether-waves heavenward going,
Music ol Lyre!
Note now the snowy breast heaving and swelling,
Melody up from its pu est depths welling,
Faint in the tranced air harmonies dwelling,
Quiver like fire!
11.
Hark! now the magical seraph-soft singing,
Out on the calm air love-pukes ringing,
Maiden with sloe-eyes fairy arms flinging.
To Heaven's dome!
Thus through thy life days music be stray'.ug,
Around thee, my sweet-heart, angel hands playing,
Spirit tongues sweetly to thy soul saying,
.Mary, come home!
P E E C Y :
OR, THE BANISHED SON.
HY CAROLINE LEE IIENTZ.
C H A P TE R I.
“Oli! that Uncle would forgive him.”
Thus ejaculated a young girl, as she sat,
with her hands folded over her knees, by the
side of a waning fire.
“What a sail, sad evening this has been to
me, though all the while I have been com
pelled to smile and look happy!”
There was certainly nothing i.i the apart
ment, in which she was seated, that seemed
congenial with sadness. It was a large and
splendidly illuminated room, richly carpeted
and furnished, and from the flowers which
Mot only decorated the vases, but hung in gay
festoons around the walls, it had evidently
been adorned for some festive occasion,
lime and beautiful flowers they were, mostly
green-house blossoms, relieved by the dark
evergreens with which they were entwined,
for the flowers of summer were long since
faded and gone.
Though the fire, by which the young girl
was seated, was now nothing more than a
Leap of glowing embers, it had lately burn
ed with intense heat, so that every corner of
that large apartment was filled with the gen
ial warmth of the tropic latitudes. The dress
of the young girl, who sat so lonely and de
jected, in the midst of those gay garlands,
was in keeping with the festive character of
the scene. A robe of white gauze, falling in I
transparent folds over a rich under-dress of
satin, gave that gossamer grace to her figure,
which airy drapery alone can impart. A
wreath of white roses—mimic, it is true, but
sA exquisitely natural, one could almost see
the petals curl and tremble, amidst the tresses
they adorned—was bound around her brow,
confining the light brown ringlets which fell,
unshorn and untutored, even to her waist.
AVhat a contrast her gala dress and mourn
ful attitude presented ! That floral garland,
and those sad, dark blue eyes, all swimming
in tears! She looked wistfully at the clock.
Its solemn, continuous ticking sounded
mournfully in the solitude. It was a ma
chine of elegant workmanship, representing,
on its gilded pedestal, one of the most inter
esting scenes in the history of the Horatii and
Curatii. Directly in the foreground, the
father of the Horatii was standing with an
air of stern majesty, the swords of his three
sons grasped in his right hand, which he was
elevating towards Heaven. He seemed to
be consecrating those warlike weapons to
a b.olv purpose, and calling down the bles
sing of the gods, on the enterprise to which
VOL 111.
he had devoted his sons. The dignity, the
inflexibility of the Roman, spoke in every lin
eament. One could read on those firm
and nobly formed lips, the spirit that dic
tated the magnanimous expression, “ Qu'il
tnouruf,'’ when he believed his last surviving
son a fugitive and a coward. There was a
fascination in that figure to her, whose eyes
were now gazing upon it. The light of the
lamps glittered on its surface, and it came
out resplendently in its lustre. She thought
of Roman fathers—how stern and inflexible
they were—of Brutus, the avenging judge of
his own sons—of Manlius, condemning to an
ignominious death, the brave and gallant
youth who had come to lay the trophies of
his valor at his father’s feet.
“Oh! that fathers should be so stern and
unforgiving,” she exclaimed, the image of an
unrelenting American father resting darkly
on her remembrance.
The door opened very slowly and gently
—so slowly that it seemed turning on invisi
ble binges—and a young man, wrapped in a
dark travelling cloak, with his hat deeply
shading his brows, stood on the threshold.
“Ella,” uttered he, in a low voice; and the
young girl started as if touched with electric
lire.
“Oh ! Claude, Claude, is it you ?” she cried,
and the next moment, regardless of the roses
she was crushing, the beautiful gauze folds she
was disordering, she was weeping on his |
shoulder, half-enveloped in the folds of that
dark, heavy cloak.
“How pale you are, dear Claude,” she at !
length exclaimed, “and how cold!” and
drawing him gently to the fire, she assisted
him to unclasp his cloak ; and then stirring
the dying embers, till they glowed with cheer
ing redness, she sat down by bis side, and
taking his chilled hand in hers, gazed earn
estly in his face.
“How beautiful you are to-night, Ella,”
said lie ; “and bow adorned !” he added, in a
tone of bitterness.
“This is all mockery, nothing hut mocke
ry,” cried she, pulling off the roses from her
..hair nndjinstiiig them at her feet.
~ - ~'N A*^^*^*****~- y ' fr ~"*'*'^** < ’ a few l.
“ I hey dressed me for my birth-day ball,
and I was compelled to submit. Uncle would
have it so, and I could not help hoping he in
tended to make tnio .. >-r
and joy. Oil! that lie were less kind to me,
or less cruel to you. I want to hate him and
he will not let me.”
“I have deserved punish lent for folly and
disobedience—sin, if they will have it so —
but banishment (rom home, banishment from
you, Ella—oh! it is hard. lam not a sec
ond Cain, that l should be driven, an alien,
from my father’s house.”
And the youth rose up suddenly, and
walked about the room, struggling with his
wretchedness.
“Yes, I must go, never to return. In lit
tle more than hour from this, 1 shall be wend
ing mv way, I know not, care not, whither.
Disowned, banished, threatened with male
diction, if I remain longer near the home I
have disgraced, I care not what becomes of
me. Foul, maniac, that I have been, I might
have anticipated all this—l might have known
that I had a Roman father to deal with. But,
thoughtless of the past, reckless of the fu
ture, I have rushed on to ruin. Ella, my
cousin, my sister, my more than sister, can I,
must I, part from you ?”
“No, no, no,” she cried, clinging to him,
ns if her arms had power to shield him from
the doom that hung over him, “you shall not
go. Your father cannot mean it. He does
not will it. 1 will go to him this moment,
and rousing him from his night sleep, I will
kneel, weep, pray be lore him, till he relent
and forgive. How dare he think of sleep,
when he has made us both so wretched ?
Come with me, Claude—kneel and pray with
me. He cannot resist our united prayers.”
“It is in vain, Ella,” he answered, a dark
shadow gathering over his face, “I have al
ready humbled myself in the dust before him,
and he spurned me. Never again, even to
my own father, w ill I degrade myself thus.
I would meet banishment, poverty, suffering!
even death itself, before I would expose my
self a second time to such humiliation. Nay,
Ella, put down that lamp; you cannot avert
my doom.”
Bat Ella would not hear. With the lamp
glimmering in her hand, and her white sil
very looking robes fluttering like the wings
of a snowy bird, she flew rather than ran up
j the long winding stairs, that led to the cham.
her of Mr. Percy. In her excitement, she for
got to open the door sofllv, and it swung
heavily on the hinges. Mr. Percy was not
asleep. How could lie sleep, when he had
doomed his only son to banishment ? No !
his was the restless couch and the thorny pil
low : but his was also the unconquerable
will—the proud, unyielding temper. The
decree had gone forth, and he would not
change it, though his heart-strings should
snap in the struggle.
Raising himself on his elbow, be gazed
with a bewildered countenance on the youth
ful intruder. A strange apparition in the
chamber of that stern, dark man! Rich cur
tains of crimson damask shaded the bed, and
threw a kind of glow on the pale and hag
gard countenance of the occupant. His
complexion looked still more sallow in con
trast with the snowy white of the pillow,
and under the shadow of the sable hair, as
i yet only partially threaded with silver, that
j hung over his temples. Ella threw herself on
her knees by the bed-side, and burst into a
i passionate fit of weeping. * His conscience
JJj I
told him her errand, and he spoke to her in
1 a harsh, hurried tone:
“What is the meaning of this ? I like not j
to be disturbed. I have tried to make you !
happy to-night. Go away, child, and let j
me sleep.” Sleep! she could have said :
“There’s a voice in all the house]
Cries, ‘Sleep no more—Macbeth has murdered sleep.’ ”
“Oh! Uncle, forgive Claude and let him
stay; I cannot see him go; I shall die of
! grief, if 3’ou cast him away from you. You !
cannot be in earnest, Uncle; you are only 1
trying him. Say so, and I will bless you on
my knees, till the latest day of my life.”
“Do I look like a jesting man ?” cried he, ‘
drawing away the hand she had grasped in
the energy of speaking. “I am indeed in
earnest, as that unhappy boy will soon know
to bis cost.”
“Dh! Uncle, he lias suffered enough al
ready ; you know he has. Had he committed
murder, forgery, any crime, you might have
disowned him; but ”
“Crime!” repeated the indignant father,
sweeping back the curtain with one hand, and
with the other pushing away the heavy locks
from his brow, while his eyes flashed luridly,
“Had he committed murder in the madness
of passion, I could have forgiven him, and
kept him near my heart, though his hand
were reddened with blood. Had he commit
ted forgery in a moment of temptation, I
could have forgiven even that. But to go
against warning and command —to herd with
a company of vile vagabonds—to follow them
to their haunts of wickedness—to adopt their
profession—to become one among them,
heart and soul—to suffer his name, my name
—the name of Percy—to be placarded in eve
ry corner of the street, for the vulgar to gaze
upon, and the wise to sneer at—the author of
such a disgrace never shall be forgiven.
Away, and disturb me no more.’’
Ella rose from her knees. The tears
seemed frozen in her heart. She had enter- j
ed the chamber with a wrestling spirit—the
spirit that spoke through Jacob, when he |
said unto the angel, “1 will not let thee go,
unless tli<\iii V aj^ Is’Vne*” 1 s ’V ne *” Alas! she had no
1 ~1 isfi’ V —But a proud, uncon
arlgei 10 contend witX 1 ’
.1 \ whose family pride
querable man—a j ‘
had
w;K n look dejection, of sullen,
passive endurance, she turned from that j
sleepless bed of down, and descended the
winding stairs. She was no longer the bird, j
winging its upward flight. She was the snail, |
dragging itself wearily along. The spring
of hope was gone, and a leaden weight held
back her steps.
“I told you so,” said Claude, turning of
ashy paleness; tor, in spite of his assertion
to the contrary, he had cherished a secret
hope from her intercession. “I told 3’ou, you
’ would plead in vain.”
I Ella, overpowered by disappointment and
sorrow, leaned in tearless anguish on the
shoulder of Claude, who pressed her in si
lence to his breast. She felt that deadly’ sick
! ness of soul, which precedes the final sep
aration from the object most loved on earth.
They 7 had been brought up under the same
roof, protected by the same guardian—both j
were brotherless and sisterless—how could
they help loving each other ?
“Ob ! that 1 u'ere a boy,” she cried ; “then
I would go with you, Claude, preferring pov
erty and exile with you, to alf you leave be
hind. I would share all y'our trials; and
heavy ones will they be, poor Claude! Whith- j
er will you go? What will you do? But
promise me, Claude, whatever y'ou do, you !
will never go back to scenes my Uncle so
much abhors. He will yet pardon and re
call y'ou —I feel, I know, he will.”
1 “No, Ella, there is no hope of that; but
; be assured, to whatever extremities I may be
| driven, I shall never resort to that expedient,
i If you ever hear of me again, it shall be with
j honorable mention. Whither I shall go, j
what I shall do, I know not. I shall just float i
along the tide of circumstances, and per
; chance the wanderer may find some green
spot to rest upon. I do not fear want, for !
* my father’s son has not been sent away en- j
tirely destitute. 1 shall work out my own
destiny', and something tells me, that in man- j
hood, I shall redeem the faults and follies
of my youth. Ella, dear Ella, do not
I weep so bitterly ! 1 am not worthy such
tears. In this moment, I feel all the mad
ness of which I have been guilty. I do not
wonder that my father disowns me. I de
serve to be an outcast.”
The clock struck one. Claude started, as
if a knell tolled on his ear. It was the signal i
j for his departure—for the stage that was to j
bear him away, must even then he wait- 1
ing at the hotel, where his trunks were al
! ready carried.
“You will write to me, Claude; wherever
! you may be, you will write and tell me of
your welfare ? Remember, it will be all I
shall live for now.”
“Y es, Ella, as soon as I find a home.” His
voice faltered with deep emotion. “One
promise, Ella: be kind, be loving still to my
father. Do not resent my banishment; and
should Nature resume its empire in his heart,
and he remember with sorrow his alien son,
1 then comfort him, Ella, for my sake. Tell
him that I love him still, and that my life’s
struggle shall be to prove myself worthy of
the name I bear. Farewell, Ella! sister,
cousin, friend, dearer, a thousand times dear
er, than all these precious names to my heart
—but how dear, I never knew till this bit
; ter moment.”
. Incapable of speaking, Ella lay sobbing
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, FRIDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 3, 1852.
in his arms. Stooping down, he kissed the
pale cheek that rested almost unconsciously
on his breast, while hot, scalding tears, that
could no longer be repressed, gushed from
his ey'es. To leave the home of his father,
the companion of his childhood, to go out in
to the cold world, friendless and alone, not
knowing whatjlls he must endure, with what
storms he must battle, with what enemies he
must contend —and to feel, too, that all this
was the consequence of his own disobedience
and folly—it was a bitter, bitter thought.
With a desperate effort, he released himself
from the clasp of those fair, clinging arms,
placed her gently on the sofa, and rushed
from the house. The faint light of the night
lamp in his father’s chamber, glimmered
through the window and streamed across his
path. The unhappy youth paused. It seem
ed that all beyond that ray was darkness and
desolation ; and yet, it threw a solitary gleam
of brightness 011 the parting hour. It might
be an omen of futuf* forgiveness. Softened,
melted into even womanly tenderness, and
filled with remorse at the memory of his dis
obedience, he knelt on that illuminated spot,
and bowed his head in penitence and humili
ty, even as if he were prostrated at his father’s
feet.
“Father, Ella, farewell,” he cried, and
starting up, dashed the tears from his eyes,
and became a wanderer from his native home.
And what was the offence for which he
was thus suffering so severe a penalty? To
explain this, we must go back to Claude’s
earlier youth.
CHAPTER 11.
Mr. Percy was a man of sovereign aristae
racy. He had the three-fold aristocracy of
birth, wealth and talents. The very name of
Percy had an ancestral sound, and breathed
of noble blood. Called to sit in the high
places of the land, and to act a conspicuous
part in his country’s capital, he had but little
leisure to devote to the education of his son,
who was the object of his pride, even more
than his affection. He was an only son, and
consequently the futuie representative of his
name and fame ; and, as if Nature, in this in
stance, was determined to gratify, to the ut
most, a father’s pride, she had endowed the
youth with her most splendid gifts. Os ex
traordinary personal beauty, brilliant talents,
the most graceful and engaging manners, in
thebrightness of life’s morning hours, lie gave
promise of a glorious noon. At college, he
was called the admirable Crichton, so won
derful was the versatility of his talents, the
ease with which he could master the most dif
ficult and abstruse sciences.
Mr. Percy exulted in the reputation of his
son, but he knew nothing of ins heart. He
bad not time for that. Proud, cold, dignified
and reserved, his demeanor repelled the sun
ny spirit of Claude. It played over the cold,
polished surface of his father’s character, like
sunbeams on steel. The heart was repelled
—the light only received. The only person
who really knew the heart of Claude, was
his young cousin, Ella, the orphan child of
Mr. Percy’s youngest and favorite sister.
The young Ella, too, was the only one who
had found the avenue to the warm corner
of Mr. Percy’s pride-mailed bosom. She,
alone, dared to sport with this august person
age. As the young vine, frolicking round
the ancient oak—the bright, tender moss
enamelling the cold, dark rock—she twined
herself round the pillar of his pride, and made
it beautiful with the garland of innocence
and youth. She was so confiding, so loving
and so gay, she must have something to love
and play about; and when Claude was ab
sent at college, and her Uncle resting from
his official duties, it was a necessity of her
ardent nature to lavish upon him the tender
ness that was welling in her heart. But, dur
ing the long vacations, when Claude was re
stored to his home, what a paradise it was to
her! To say that she loved her cousin,
would convey but a faint idea of the feelings
she cherished for liim. It was more than
love ; it was worship—idolatry'—which,
though indulged with all the innocence and
unconsciousness of childhood, and expressed
with all the ingenuousness of a sister’s affec
tion, had, nevertheless, all the strength and
intensity of passion.
During the long holidays, Claude, whose
spirits often wildly effervesced, “sought out
many inventions” to wing away the hours.
One of his favorite amusements was to get up
private theatricals, in which Ella and himself
acted very distinguished parts. He was a
passionate lover of the drama, and, with a
wonderful power of imitation, could catch the
tones, looks and gestures of the heroes of the
stage. It is not to be supposed that these
scenes were enacted in the presence of the
stately Mr. Percy—but, after supper, he gen
erally went abroad, and they had ample scope
for their dramatic taste. All the old family
trunks were ransacked for their stage cos
tume, and most ancestral looking garments
were brought forth, and, with a little modifi-
I calion, converted into royal robes, and the
proper paraphernalia of Melpomene and
Thalia. Their young friends delighted to
gather on these occasions, and never did
more spontaneous applause shake with thun
dering echoes the walls of Drury or Park,
than resounded through the hall they had se
lected for their theatrical exhibitions.
Ella sometimes objected to Claude’s choice
of characters, and, though he was rather
despotic, he was obliged to submit to her ca
price or judgment. He must not take the
1 part of King Lear, as it made him look too
’ old and crazy; lie must not be Othello, for
it would be too horrible to blacken and dis
figure his beautiful lace; but Romeo—the
handsome, youthful and impassioned Romeo
—that was the character which, more than
i all others, she loved to see him perform.
With his cap, shaded with long, white feath
ers drooping over his classic brow, his dark
brown waving hair so romantically arranged,
and his eyes beaming with all the poetry of
love, nothing could he so graceful and beau
! tiful as Claude.
Ella made a bewitching little Juliet, but
she often forgot her character in admiration
of Claude; and even in the vaults of the
Capulets, when her ej-es should have seemed
j sealed in everlasting slumber, the dark blue
! orbs would furtively open to gaze upon her
; Romeo. Little did they think that these
gala evenings of their youth were to change
the whole color of their destiny.
Once—when Claude was representing Mac
beth in all his majesty, and the servants,
dressed like witches, with long brooms, were
I dancing round a large marble basin, which
was supposed to be a boiling cauldron, where
j many an “e ve of gnat and tongue of toad”
’ were simmering and cooking; and Ella, with
a regal-looking turban surmounting her child
| ish head, was peeping behind a long, green
curtain—the door opened, and Mr. Percy en
tered. The Ghost of Banquo, with his gory
; locks and blood-stained brow, rising up at the
royal banquet, was not more appalling than
this unexpected apparition. The crimson
turban of Lady Macbeth plunged into the
darkness of the curtain, the servants scam
■ pered away, dropping their brooms as they
ran. Claude alone stood his ground, like a
King, and confronted, with undaunted mien,
his father’s wrathful glance.
Wh at a scene for the ultra-majestic states
man ! who never deviated from the perpen
dicular line of formality in the most common
affairs of life—whose household concerns
were always conducted with the severest ac
; curacy and the most rigid discipline—and
who, above all, had the most sovereign con
tempt and aversion for theatrical exhibitions.
! “What is the meaning of this vulgar revel
ry—this scene of tumult and chaos?” ex
claimed lie, in a voice like low thunder.
“How dare you, young man, convert your
father’s hall into a scene of theatrical riot?”
Giving the marble basin a violent push,
that, heavy as it was, sent it whizzing across
the floor, he approached his offending son,
but, forgetting the witches’ brooms in the
, way, the stately statesman nearly stum
! hied to the ground. This gave the crown to
: his anger, and it was terrible to behold. But
: Claude’s dauntless spirit quailed not. lie was
not afraid of his father, or of any human being.
He was too ingenuous, brave, self-relying, to
, know aught of “that dark dweller of the
! household,” so thrillingly described in Zanoni.
I As well might the sunbeam fear the rock or
ruin, on which its brightness falls. He stood,
with his royal robes folded over his breast—
his brow, which “the likeness of a kingly
crown had on,’’ proudly elevated—and his
beautiful, resolute, dark eyes, fixed upon his
: father’s face. That look and attitude would
have made the fortune of a professed actor.
Poor little Ella could not listen in silence
to this denunciation against her beloved
Claude. She rushed from behind the cur
tain, pulling it down in her haste, thus dis
playing all the mysteries of their craft, and
falling on her knees before her Uncle, ex- i
| claimed, with true tragic pathos:
“Oh, Uncle, do not be angry with Claude, j
lam more to blame than he is. I urged him j
to it—indeed, I did. But I never dreamed j
of your coming home, dear Uncle—indeed, I j
did not.”
“So it is only in my presence you think of
conducting with propriety, is it? Go to your i
room, Ella, this moment: you are nothing
but a foolish little girl, and may, perhaps, be
pardoned if this prove the last offence. But
remember the condition—the last!”
Lady Macbeth, gathering up her long, I
sweeping train, stole slowly from the room, :
‘casting a piteous-glance at Claude, which
; changed to vivid admiration, as she beheld !
■ the bold beauty of his countenance.
The scene which followed was one in
i which passion and pride struggled for mas
-1 tery ; but pride at length prevailed. Mr. Per
| cy felt that it was undignified to scold, and
when his auger was somewhat abated, he
condescended to reason with his son. Had
| he done it more calmly, more gently, he
might have exercised more influence. But
family pride, the idol he set up for his wor
ship, Claude cared no more for than the im
age of Nebuchadnezzar’s dream, with its legs
of iron and its feet of clay. Mr. Percy com
j mantled him never to enter the walls of a
theatre—never again to turn the leaves of
Shakspeare, or to have anything to do with
dramatic exhibitions, either public or private.
| lie deemed this command sufficient, for the
thought that his positive commands could be
■ disobeyed never glanced into his mind. This
folly had not been anticipated—therefore, not
prohibited; but, once discovered and forbid
-1 den, he felt as if a flaming sword guarded the
majesty of his law. But, unfortunately, the
master passion of Claude only gained strength
from opposition. His love of the drama be
came a monomania, and, in spite of his
stern father’s prohibition, he not only visited
the theatre, but frequented the green-room j
and became acquainted with some very dan
. gerous and fascinating characters. One of
these, who was about to take command of an
i itinerant company, having witnessed a speci-
men of Claude’s astonishing dramatic tal
ents, resolved to secure him as the new star
of the season. It was not without much hesita
tion that young Claude consented to take so
bold a step, but the tempter was eloquent,
and his own misguided imagination was a
more eloquent tempter still. His father was
absent on a long journey; but Eila, his sweet
cousin Ella, should he leave her, without con
fiding to her his secret expedition ? Yes, it must
be done; tor, were she the confidante of his pur
pose, she would be the sharer of his parental
anger, which he well knew would fall upon
his head, but which lie rashly dared to brave.
The sequel is already known. The wrath
of Mr. Percy, when he learned, through the
public papers, that his son, his heir, a Percy,
had come before tiro world as an actor, can
not be described. \\ hen the young prodi
gal, weary of the false glitter of the artificial
life which, in the distance, seemed so allur
ing, dreading reproach and wrath, because
he knew he merited them, yet confident of ill
timate forgiveness, returned to his father’s
house, ii was only to be sent forth again in
banishment and disgrace. The magnificent
ball, given on Ella’s sixteenth birth day, was
celebrated by Mr. Percy’s orders, in contrast
to Claude s degradation. Ella, hoping, be
lieving all things, imagined that her Uncle
had prepared this brilliant festival, that he
might restore his son to favor, without the
embarrassment of a private reconciliation.
Alas! she knew not the man.
Let us follow the young exile. Waked
from his feverish dream of excitement, ho
sees, by the cold, grey light of dawning rea
son, the rough realities of the future. Like
our first parents, driven from the garden of
Eden, “all the world before him lay.” But,
had he taken Providence as his guide? In
the sunshine of prosperity, he had forgotten
its guiding cloud, and its pillar of fire went
not before him to illumine the darkness of his
destiny. And very dark that destiny now
looked to him. He was so young and inex
perienced—only nineteen—what could he do?
He never once thought of resorting to the
stage. His mind, by a powerful reaction,
was now as much repelled from that course
of life as it had once been attracted to it. lie
loathed the very thought of it. Where should
he go? Uncaring whither, he decided to di
rect Lis course to Virginia. He had a col
lege friend, who lived beyond the Allegha
nies, and possibly, through him, he might
learn of some employment—a private tutor
ship, perhaps. Poor fellow ! He had never
learned to govern himself—how could he dis
cipline the young minds of others? But
Claude resolved to earn his bread by honor
able industry, or perish. He looked back
with shame upon his life of self-indulgence
and vanity. He felt that he had lived in vain.
High and noble thoughts, born of adversity,
began to spring up and flourish in his bosom.
He felt wiser, better, stronger. Great
trials either elevate and purify, or crush
and sink the character of man. Happy they,
who, like Claude, have an elastic principle
within, that rebounds from the pressure which
threatened to weigh it down to dust.
We will not follow the young and deeply
reflecting wanderer through all the windings
of his way; but we will stop with him, at
the foot of one of the heaven ascending Al
leghanies, and see who lies by that broken,
over turned carriage. Sucli a rough, pre
cipitous, dizzying road—it is no wonder
there should be runaway horses, broken bones
and bruised limbs.
Claude had jumped from the stage, as he
often did, incapable of such long inaction in
his present restless and struggling mood, and
was leaping down the craggy mountain-path.
The sight of the shattered vehicle, the groans
of the man, who was lying partly under the
ruins, arrested his step. The sufferer was an
aged man, with hair of snowy whiteness, and
features which, in repose, must have express
ed benevolence and benignity; but now they
were distorted with pain, and, from his pallid
complexion and ashy lips, it was evident he
was sinking beneath the weight of his suffer
ings. Claude, seeing a silver cup, seized it
and ran to a clear spring, that gurgled with
in a few feet of the travellers. Beautiful
springs there are welling at the foot of these
great mountains. He bathed the forehead
and lips of the aged sufferer, raising his head
gently 7 on his arm, and smoothing back the
white locks, all soiled with dust.
The stranger, restored to consciousness,
opened his eyes, and beholding a counte
nance so young, so beautiful, so compassion
ate, bending over him, he almost imagined
an angel had been sent down to his relief.
Leaning on his elbow, he endeavored to rise,
but fell back again with a deep groan. One
of his limbs was broken, and it was evident
he had received some dreadful internal inju
ry. Claude felt that, alone, he could not as
sist the disabled stranger. A house stood at
a little distance, a log-cabin, where the stage
was accustomed to stop. Ilis first thought
was to run to the cabin, and procure assist
ance —the next to await the coming of the
stage, whose course he had anticipated, and
which, in its thundering passage down the
hill, might overlook the poor, helpless trav
eller, unless warned of his situation. He
acted on this last thought, and, with the as
sistance of the other passengers, the stranger
was removed to the cabin. Pitiable was the
situation of the aged sufferer. lie was un
accompanied by friends; it was impossible
to procure a surgeon, without sending a great
distance, in those lone mountain regions, and
the house to which he was carried could
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NO. 36.
scarcely furnish him the comforts wanting in
health. How much more must he feel the
destitution in lib present helpless, suffering,
almost dying condition!
Claude sat hy the rude couch, on which he
was placed, holding a glass of wine, which
ever and anon, he applied to his lips, trying
to cheer him by kind and encouraging words,
lie told him that a messenger had been dis
patched for a surgeon, and that he would re
main with him till all danger was past.
“But the stage is already at the door,”
said the old man, feebly, ‘tend you must de
part. I cannot take advantage of your kind
ness to a stranger.”
But Claude would not leave him. The
stage-horn blew loud and musically—the pas
sengers hurried to their seats —the driver vo
ciferated that all was ready, and still Claude
held the old man’s hand and refused to de
part. The heart of the banished son yearned
towards the venerable stranger. New ieel
ings were awakened within him. It was the
first time he had witnessed human suffering,
and he knew not, till this moment, what a deep
fountain of pity lay in the unexplored regions
of his heart. But the angel had stepped into
the pool, and the waters were troubled. Mr.
Montague, (such was the stranger’s name,)
resisted no longer the generous sacrifice ot
Claude.
“Heaven bless you, my son !” was all he
could utter.
Claude sighed. llow sweet, yet mournful,
sounded that name to his ear! He thought
he had heard it for the last time, and it
awoke ten thousand thrilling remembrances.
All night Claude watched by bis bed-side,
endeavoring to mitigate the excruciating pain
that racked his frame almost to dissolution.
The inmates of the house were kind but rough
people, and Mr. Montague evidently shrunk
from their ministrations. The bed was hard,
the pillows low, and the sheets, though ot
snowy whiteness, of exceedingly coarse linen.
The wintry wind whistled through the log
built walls, and no curtains protected the in
valid from the blast. The windows, destitute
of glass, were nothing but openings, closed
by wooden shutters, which, occasionally loos
ening, flapped to anti lro, with a mournful,
creaking sound. There was nothing cheer
ful in the aspect of the room, but the bright,
all-illuminating pine blaze, that rolled up the
immense chimney, reflecting its glow on a
sable figure that sat nodding on the hearth,
on the pallid face and snowy locks of the
aged, and the bright hair of the young
that mingled with it as it swept against
the pillow. Such was the apartment and
scene, in which the luxuriantly-bred and
self-indulging Claude served his first appren
ticeship at the couch of suffering. Often,
during the stillness of the night, he would
start and tremble with awe, as the sufferer, in
the extremity of his agony, would call upon
his Saviour and his God to help him, in the
time of trouble.
“Forsake me not, O my God 1 Be not
far from me! Make haste to help me, O
Lord, my salvation! In the day of my
trouble, 1 will call upon thee—for thou wilt
answer me. ’
It was the first time that Claude had heard
the voice of prayer, save from the sacred
desk. But then he listened to it as a formula
proper for the Sabbath, and the God thus
addressed seemed very far off’. There was
something awful in being thus made to feel
His presence in that lonely chamber—in be*
ii'g brought so very near Him by the prayer
of faith, mingling with the groans of agony.
Ilis earthly father had cast him off. Had he,
indeed, a Father in Heaven, who would
receive the returning prodigal?
[CONCLUDED NEXT WEEK.]
FEMALE ATTIRE.
The style of ladies’ dress which now pre
vails, has been much spoken against of late.
An English writer defends it, however, de
claring it to he, “upon the whole, in as fa
vorable a state as the most vehement advo
cates for what is called nature and simplicity
could desire. It is a costume in which they
can dress quickly, walk nimbly, eat plenti
fully, stoop easily, 101 l gracefully, and, in
short, perform all the duties of life without
let or hindrance. The head is left to its nat
ural size, (he skin to its native purity, the
waist at its proper region, the heels at their
real level. The dress is one calculated to
bring o:;t the natural beauties of the person,
and each of them has, as far as we see, fair
play. In former days what was known of a
woman’s hair in the cap of Henry the
Eighth’s time ; or of her forehead under her
hair in George the Third’s time; or ot the
fall of her shoulders in a welt or wing in
Queen Elizabeth’s time; or of the slender
ness of her throat in a gorget of Edward the
First’s time; or of the shape of her arm in a
great bishop sleeve even in our own time ?
Now-a-days all these points receive full satis
faction for past neglect, and a woman breaks
upon us in such a plenitude of charms, that
we hardly know where to begin the cata
logue. Hair light as silk, in floating curls, or
massive as marble, in shining coils. Forehead
bright and smooth as mother-of-pearl, and
arched in matchless symmetry by its own |
beautiful drapery. Ear, which for centuries:
had lain concealed, set on the side of the head
like a delicate shell. Throat, a lovely stalk,
leading the eye upward to a lovelier flower,
and downward along a fair, sloping ridge, un
dulating in the true line of beauty, to the pol-1
ished precipice of the shoulder, whence, from
the pendent calyx of the shortest possible
sleeves, hangs a lovely branch, smooth and
glittering like pale pink coral, slightly curved
towards the figure, and terminating in five ta- J
per petals, pinker still, folding and unfolding >
‘at 3 7 our own sweet will,’and especially con
trived by nature to pick your heart clean to
the bone before you know what you are
about.”