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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 ! TERMS OF PUBLICATION. ! One Copy, per annum, if paid in advance,. ..$2 00 i “ “ “ “ “ in six months, 250 I “ “ “ “ ‘* at end of year, 300 RATES OF ADVERTISING. i One square, first insertion, - - * - -§1 00 “ “ each subsequent insertion, - 50 A liberal deduction made in favor of those wh® ! advertise largely. 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.”