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THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL
IS PUBLISHED
EVERY THURSDAY MORNING,
BY
T. LOMAX &, CO.
TEXXL’XT LOMAX, Phincifai. Editor.
Office on Randolph street.
L’ilcuarij Dq> a vim rnt.
CoHDUCTED 8Y... CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. |
1 WRITTEN’ FOR THE SEN’TIN'EL.J
A Wis to her Absent Husband.
Why does my spirit now, so oft,
In fancy backward rove,
As beautiful in mist appears
Tha* golden year of love 1
Why do I love to live again
My first year’s wedded life ?
Oh ! I was then so young and glad—
A child-like, happy wife.
Swiftly those few short years have fled,
And I am happy yet,
But oh! those bright and sunny days
My heart will not forget :
No care had I, to make me look
Beyond th<‘.~o hours of bliss.
No griefs, that only mothers have,
No moments uch as this.
And these dear little ones, that bind
Nly heart so near to earth,
So twine around me, that I bless
The hour that gave them birth:
Ai.d thou, my husband, thou hast been
Kind, gentle, true to me,
And these bright, living links have drawn
Me nearer unto thee.
This happiness is sweet and pure,
But then, so much of pain
Is mingled with our love and joy,
In this domestic chain,
That I am wont to wander
To those bright, sunny hours.
When life was joyous, and my path
Was ever strewn with flowers.
Bat, thick not that I would again
My girlhood’s hours recall;
Id rather bear life’s ills, with thee,
Than to be freed from all,
And be without thy watchful care,
Thy fond, protecting arm—
Thine ever constant, anxious wLh
To shelter nrj from harm.
And tiien I sometimes dwell upon
Oi'.e dark, my-terious hour,
When God in wi. doin bore away
A cherub from our bower:
Bat now 1 think of her with joy,
As ’neath His guardian care,
In Heaven. Oh! may my life be such,
That I can meet her there.
JULIE.
Quincy, Aug. Bth, 1852.
~ =
P E R C Y:
OR, THE BANISHED SON.
BY CAIIOMXK LBE IIKNTZ.
CII APT E R 111.
Late* the next morning, the surgeon arriv
ed. The inflammation, caused by such pro
tracted suffering, made it a very dangerous j
case, and for many days Mr. Montague lin
gered oil the borders of the grave. Claude ‘
would have written to his friends, but the
speechless lips of the sufferer could give no |
directions; and all that the young man could
do was to watch by his couch, and await the
issues of life and death. At length the in
flammation subsided, and the patient was
pronounced out of immediate danger. Then
Claude, at his request, wrote to Mr. Vane,
his son-in-law, who resided with him, near
one of the large towns of the Old Dominion,
several days’ journey from the mountain- j
cabin. A week must elapse, at the shortest
possible calculation, before any of his family
could arrive. In the meantime, though help- I
less and suffering from his broken limb, he
gradually revived, and seemed to derive much
pleasure from the conversation of his youth- \
fill friend. Claude, with the ingenuousness of
youth, told him all his histpry.
“Poor boy ! poor boy !” cried Mr. Mon
tague, moved even to tears; “so young and in
experienced ! I will be a father to you ; I have
no son of iny own; and you shall be the son
of my adoption. I owe my life to your care,
and am seliish enough to rejoice that Provi
dence lias opened a way in which I can show
mi’ gratitude, and pay, though but in a small
degree, a debt so large. Oh, my dear hoy, 1
will carry you to a happy home, where ali is
Jove, and peace, and joy. You shall have a
sister, too, in my grand-daughter—my sweet
sweet Mary. How happy she will be to have
a companion, whom she will love as a
brother!”
Claude bent his head on the old man’s
hand, and a tear moister ed the dry and fe
verish skin.
“Think me not ungrateful, sir—but I can
not eat the bread of dependence.”
“Fear not; I will only put you in the way
<of earning an independent subsistence. You
shall study law with Mr. Yane, if you like
the profession. In the meantime, you can
give mv Mary lessons in French and draw
ing, and thus make a comprohiise with pride.
Deny me not, my son, for m v heart clings to
thee, and refuses to be separated from thee.
I see the hand of Providence in this. Dis
owned by him who gave you birth, God has
sent you to watch, with ail a son’s devotion,
by my lonely pillow, and to be cherished in
a bosom that feels for you, already, all a
lather s tenderness and love.”
lie opened his arms with a benign smile,
and Claude felt as it he were, indeed, clasped
to the bosom of a father. That night he
wrote to Ella that he had found a home—a
lather; he had no longer a dark and aimless
existence, but a future illumined by hope
and promise; she must no longer mourn for
the banished Romeo; bright days were yet
in store, when love, and faith, and constan
cy, would meet their reward.
V, hat a change was made in that log
cabin bv the arrival of Mr. Montague’s
family! He was a rich Southern plan
ter, and had all the appliances of wealth
and the refinements of luxury to grace
h-s home. Downy beds, soft cushions,
and rich curtains, were ell brought for the
VOL. 111.
comfort of the invalid, as well as every deli
cacy that could please the taste and tempt
the appetite. Mr. Vane was a noble speci
men of a Virginia gentleman—his wife a
fair, gentle, interesting looking lady; but
Mary—sweet Mary—how lovely she looked,
clinging, like a fair garland, round the neck
of her aged grand-father! How angelic the
expression of her soft, dark eyes! how deli
cate the lilies of her cheek! Not even the
faintest tint.of red was visible on that beau
teous cheek: it seemed too pure, too holy,
for the breath of human passion to pass
over it.
“Ah, dear grand father!” she cried, smooth
ing away his long, silky hair, and kissing liis ;
pale forehead, “you should not have crossed
the mountains alone; you know how hard I
pleaded to bear you company.”
“These young arms could hardly have
checked the fiery horses,” cried he, fondly j
returning her affectionate caresses. “I be
-1
lieve i was wrong; but when we are very
young, or very old, we are apt to be too self
relying and independent. Had not my dri
ver fallen sick, so that 1 had to leave him and
trust to the guidance of a stranger, this acci- ,
dent would not have overtaken me. But it is
all right, and will prove a blessing to us all.
It has given a dear young son to my old age, |
and a friend and brother to mv gentle Mary.’’
Mary’s dove-like eyes turned to him with j
a look of unutterable softness. They seem
ed to say, “My heart yearns for a brother; |
have I found one in thee?”
Claude was welcomed into this interest- j
mg family with expressions of the most cor- j
dial affection. His filial cares to the beloved
father of the household were repaid with un
bounded gratitude. Claude thought that nev
er was kindness, that cost so little, so richly
remunerated. It was no sacrifice to him to
linger by the way-side, and, while he admin
istered comfort and assistance, drink in words 1
of heavenly wisdom, that strengthened and
renovated his soul. This he repeated again
and again ; hut Mr. Vane would thank him
—his gentle wife would bless him—and Ma
ry’s melting glance would express a thousand
grateful meanings. The sunny spirit of
Claude began to sparkle once more, for the
cloud which had gathered so darkly over him
had “turned a silver lining to the night.”
Mr. and Mrs. Vane returned home in a
few days, fur she had young children that re
quired her care; but Mary remained with
her grand-father, and shared with Claude the
office of nurse. It would be weeks before!
his broken limb would be healed so as to ad
mit of travelling; and, during that time, the
mountain-cabin seemed changed to a fairy
grotto, and Mary the presiding sylph, who
breathed a spell on every thing around her.
Mr. Montague was so much better, that he
could sit, propped up in bed, for hours, read
ing—and then Claude and Mary would ram
ble about the woods, in search of evergreens
to decorate the walls, or moss from the grey
old rocks. It was winter, and no gay, sweet
flower peeped forth from the green underwood ;
but Mary was such a lover of Nature, that
she would wander abroad, if there was noth
ing to look upon hut the clear blue heavens,
and “the grand old woods.” She had brought
her guitar, for Mr. Montague loved Mary’s
singing better than any music in the world,
and Mary did not like to sing without an ac
companiment. But she had an accompani
ment, now, sweeter than any instrument, and
that was the voice of Claude—the clearest,
richest, most melodious voice, that ever war
bled from human lips. It was astonishing to
hear such music as they made, gushing
through the chinks of that old log-cabin.
When Mr. Montague was tired of sitting
up and reading himself, lie would lean back
on his couch, and Mary and Claude would
take turns in reading aloud. Every night
before be fell asleep, they would read a chap
ter in the Bible ; and Claude thought the
poetry of Shakspeare less beautiful than the
minstrelsy of David, breathed from the
sweet lips of Mary A ane.
What would poor Ella have thought, who
was mourning in desolation of soul for her
banished cousin, and whom she depicted to
herself as a forlorn and heart-broken wan
| derer, could she have seen him thus closely
domesticated with this angelic young crea
ture, associated in such an endearing task,
and bound by such tender and near-drawing
ties? And was lie in danger of forgetting
Eila—the companion of his childhood—the
generous, devoted, fond and faithful Ella?
No! the presence of Mary only brought her,
by the force of contrast, more vividly and
| constantly to hi3 remembrance. Hers was
the changing cheek and lightning glance that
1 spoke of the quick-flowing blood and the
electric spirit; Mary’s, the pearl-white skin,
and the soft, heavenly, prayerful eye, that
reminded one of a beauty not of this world.
Ella was the loveliest of the daughters of
earth, and he loved her with youth’s first,
warmest passion ; Mary, an image of the an
gels of Heaven, whom he could worship and
adore as a guardian saint. No! in Mary’s
presence, he loved Ella with a holier, deeper
love, for she awoke all that was pure and ho
ly hi his nature. It was only the poetry of
. nursing that devolved on Claude and Mary.
I All the drudgery, if such it could be called,
■ where all seemed a labor of love, was per
formed by a negro servant—an old and
attached slave—who had come to take
care of her old master. It was affecting
to see with what tenderness, reverence and
devotion, she watched over him—what moth
erly kindness and love she manifested for her
sweet young mistress! Mrs. Vane would
hardly have been willing to have left Mary
with her helpless grand-father, and this fas
cinating young stranger, had it not been for
the guardianship of this faithful and intelli
gent creature.
The log-cabin was deserted, and the ever
green wreaths hung withering on the walls.
Mr. Montague returned to his home, still an
invalid, but able to walk, supported by the
arm of a friend. It was a beautiful scene !
The return of the Christian master—the af
fectionate father—the beloved patriarch—to
his own dwelling! To see the rows of ne
groes, with smiling ivory gleaming white
through their sable lips, looking so happy, so
respectful, standing each side of the avenue
that led to the noble mansion, ready to wel
come home their almost worshipped master ;
to see him bending his venerable head, with
such a benign smile, and taking these hum
ble, affectionate creatures so kindly by the ;
hand, asking after their welfare, and blessing
God that he was permitted to return to them
once more! Whoever had witnessed this
scene, would have been convinced that the
bond that hinds the master and the slave is
not always an iron-bond, and that beautiful
flowers of gratitude and affection may be j
made to flourish in the dark bosom of the ne
gro. Warm was the welcome they gave the
“young master,” who was established at once
as an adopted son in this abode of princely
hospitality. He immediately commenced his
studies with Mr. A T ane, and his instructions
to Mary. By day, an indefatigable student;
at night, the teacher of his lovely, adopted
sister.
Days, weeks and months, glided away.
Mr. Montague noticed, with anxiety, that
Claude’s brow wore a saddened expression,
and his cheek a paler hue. Alas! he began
to feel the withering fear that he was forgot
ten by Ella, as well as disowned by his fath
er. He had written again and again to the
first, telling her where to direct her replies;
and once he had written to his father—not to
ask for restoration to favor—not to supplicate
for liis forfeited place in his heart and home
—but to tell lljLfjff the friends he had found,
the protessiof® had chosen, and the sol
* 7
emn resolution lie had formed to make him
self worthy of the name of Percy—so that,
in future years, when his “reformation, glit
tering o’ei his fault,” should efface its
shadow from remembrance, he would dare
to claim his esteem as a man, though he
had alienated his affection as a son. In this
high-toned, manly spirit, wrote the banished
youth ; and yet no reply was vouchsafed by
the inflexible father—no answer came from
the once loving and devoted cousin. Had
not the heart of Claude been shielded by a
prior attachment, that was entwined with
every fibre of his being, he could not have
been insensible to the almost celestial loveli
ness of Mary. Nor was he insensible. She
was to him the incarnation of all that was
pure and holy—the sister of his soul—the star
of his spiritual heaven. But Ella was,
“A creature not too bright nor good
For human nature’s daily food—
For transient sorrow, simple wiles.
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.”
But Mary, though she had the face of an
angel, had the heart of a woman—which,
though it sent no blushing heralds to the
cheek, throbbed wildly and warmly with
newly awakened emotions. In the solitude
of that mountain-cabin, the light of anew
existence had begun to dawn upon her, and
that light, had grown brighter and brighter,
till it enveloped her spirit, as with a glory.
Thus two years had passed away. The
letters of Claude still remained unanswered,
and, with a freezing sense of her heartless
ness and inconstancy, he tried to forget the
Juliet of his boyish imagination. He was as
sisted in this by a solemn scene, in which he
was made an actor.
The aged grand-father lay upon his death
bed. He had never recovered from the ef
fects of the accident, which led to the adop
tion of the banished Claude. Three-score
years-and-ten had left their snows upon bis
head, without withering the bloom of his
heart. But Death was now near, and the
warmest heart grows cold at his touch. Once
—when it was believed he slept, and Mary
and Claude sat by his bed-side, as they had
often done in the mountain-cabin—he opened
his eyes and gazed upon them both so earn
estly and wistfully, that they involuntarily
drew nearer to him, and asked him what he
desired.
“My children,” said he, in feeble accents,
taking a hand of each and clasping them in
his own, “I am going home. The aged pil
grim is about to return to his God. But you,
young travellers, your journey is but just be
gun. It is a weary journey; but, if we go
hand in hand with one that loves us, the way
seems smooth and pleasant to the feet. Ma
ry, my darling, you have been the child of
my old age--the object of many prayers. I
die happy; for I know there’s one—one,
whose hand is even now clasped in mine—
who will make life a sweet pilgrimage to
you. Claude, my dear Claude, I know
you and my sweet Mary love each oth.
er! Both so good—so beautiful! Heaven
has made you for each other! I give her to
you, Claude, as my dying legacy ; and may
the Lord he gracious to you, as you are faith
ful to this holy trust.”
Claude, incapable of utterance, knelt by the
side of the kneeling Mary. Her hand trem
| bled in his—her eyes, swimming in tears, for
; one moment turned towards him, then lifted
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 9, 1852.
to Heaven, were filled with a love so deep,
so pure, yet so impassioned—a love which,
for the first time, she had suffered to rise from
the depths of her heart free and unchecked —
sanctioned and hallowed, as it now was, by
the blessing of a dying saint! Claude would
as soon have disputed the decree of Heaven,
as the wish of his benefactor.
‘The patriarch was gathered to his fathers.
The leaves of autumn fell upon his grave.
With the flowers of May, Mary’s bridal gar
lands \\ ere to be woven.
Thus solemnly betrothed, without any vo
lition of his own, Claude was at first oppress
ed by the most strange and bewildering sen
sations; but honor, gratitude and delicacy,
all urged him to endeavor to transfer to Ma
ry the love he had so long cherished for the
faithless Ella. He would think of her no
more. She belonged to the life that was
past—the life of vanity, self indulgence and
pride; Mary, to that new and spiritual life,
born of suffering and self-humiliation.
Mary’s cheek had always been as color
less as Parian marble. Now a soft, bright
rose-tint began to tinge its snow, and a lus
trous beam was seen playing in the iris of her
soft, dark eye. Claude watched, with deep
ening tenderness, these bright and shifting
hues. They humanized, as it were, her too
spiritual loveliness, and gave her a resem
blance to one, whose image could never be
destroyed. Claude grew happier in the con
sciousness of his increasing love for Mary,
but an unaccountable sadness seemed to op
press her. Often, when he attempted to lead
her mind to sweet thoughts of the future, she
would lean her head in silence on his bosom
and weep;-and all the time her cheek wore
a deeper rose, and her eye a more intense
lustre.
One evening—it was a warm, dewy, moon
lighted April evening—Mary sat with Claude
in the long, pillared piazza. The vine-leaves,
already in full luxuriance, clustered round
the pillars, and cast their shadows on Mary’s
alabaster brow. He held one of her hands
in his, and they both sat in silence, looking
out into the pale, silvery night. A slight shiv
er ran through Mary’s frame.
“The night-air is too damp,” said Claude;
for, though she shuddered, her hand glowed
with feverish heat. “Let us go in, Mary,
lest a mildew fall to wither the blossoms of
my May.”
“It is so lovely, sitting here in the moon
light!” tried Mary, looking upward with a
melanclloly smile; “and when this moon has
waxed and waned, and another comes with
softer, mellower light, who knows if my eyes
will be permitted to gaze upon its beauty ?”
“Why speak in so sad a strain, my Mary,
when everything around us breathes of hope,
and love, and joy? Ah! you know not the
fear your deepening melancholy awakens, as
the hour approaches that will make you mine
forever—the fear that you love me rio more.”
“Not love you! not love you, Claude!”
repeated she, with impassioned emphasis.
Then suddenly throwing her arms round his
neck, and suffering her head to droop upon
his shoulder: “Oil, it is this love—too strong
—too deep—binding me too elosedy to life
—that makes my misery and despair! Oh !
Claude—Claude—l can not, can not give thee
up!”
“Mary, talk not so wildly. You alarm—
you terrify me—you know not what you
utter.”
“\es, Claude,” raising her head, and fix
ing on him a dark, thrilling glance. “I know
too well what I am uttering; I have wanted
strength to say it; but I could not bear;
you have made life so clear to me. Put your
hand on my heart, Claude, and feel it flutter
like the wings of a dying bird. Thus it flut
ters day and night; I hear it; I feel it; I
know that lam dying. It was thus she died
—my own sweet sister! Oh, Claude, I love
you too well; there is not room in this poor,
weak heart, for such boundless love. It is
breaking—dying!”
Her arms relaxed; her head fell heavy on
his breast; she had fainted. The almost
frantic Claude bore her into the house. The
father and mother hung over her with an an
guish which only those parents know, who
have seen sweet household blossoms wither
thus instantaneously in their arms. Another
lovely daughter of the family, an elder sister,
had been smitten in a similar manner. Thus
insidious had been the approaches of disease
—thus sudden had been the prostration. It
was strange they had not perceived, and
been alarmed by the symptoms —the hectic
flush, the lustrous eye, the quick and panting
breath. But they thought the purple bloom
of love was in her cheek, and its agitation in
her heart. They dreamed not the destroyer
was near.
The anguish of Claude baffled description.
Mary, with the doom of death hanging over
her young life, was loved as she never had
been in the hour of health and joy. He would
willingly have purchased her life with the
sacrifice of his own. Her loveliness, purity
and truth, and above all, the intensity of her
love, were worthy of such a price. That
one so young, so fair, so angel-like and lov
ing, should die in the brilliancy of her bloom,
and lie down beneath the clods of the valley
—it could not be. God, the Almighty,
would stretch out His omnipotent arm, and
save her: God, the All-merciful, would not
inflict so fearful a chastisement.
It was not till near the dawn of morning,
that Claude sunk into a feverish slumber.
Then the shrouded form of his adopted fath
er seemed to stand by his bed-side, and in a
voice deep and solemn as the distant mur
murs of tbe ocean, exclaimed, “Be still, and
know that I am God ; thus saith the Lord.”
Claude trembled in every limb. Again the
voice from the grave spoke: “Return, my son
—return to the home of thy fathers. We,
that love you here, are leaving you, one by
one. You have a mission yet to fulfil, be
fore we meet again.” The vision faded, but
it left a deep and solemn impression on the
mind of Claude.
When ho stood by the couch of Mary, hope
rekindled in his heart. Surely, death never
came in a guise like that. The rose is glow
ing in her cheek with even brighter radiance.
Alas! the blood that dyes that glowing rose
is taken, drop by drop, from the fountain of
life. Mary had been struggling with her des
tiny, silently, darkly—struggling in the
strength of her love—that human love which
had interposed a shadow between her and
her Heavenly Father’s face. But now the
strife was over. She met him with a smile ot
heavenly serenity.
“I am calm, now, my beloved,” she cried.
“God has given me strength to resign thee.
Oh, Claude, I have been an idolater, and my
soul must be torn from the idol I adored. I
have sinned, and deserve the chastisement.
Had I been permitted to live for thee, the
world would have been too clear to me. 1
would have asked no other heaven.”
Thus she continued to speak to him, who
knelt in speechless agony at her side, till her
fluttering breath could no longer utter any
but broken sentences —and then her eyes,
bent upon his face, beamed with unutterable
love.
Mary died—the sweet, holy-minded crea
ture, who seemed lent to earth a little while,
to show what angels are—and the flowers of
May, that were to have decorated her bridal
hours, were strewed upon her shroud. Nev
er had she looked so transcendently lovely,
as when folded in her winding sheet, with
white roses, less white than her “fair and
unpolluted flesh,” scattered over her motion
less breast, her long, soft lashes, resting on
her cheek of snow, and her exquisite features
breathing the stillness of everlasting repose.
A smile of more than mortal sweetness rest
ed on her pallid lips, and seemed to mock
their icy coldness. But beautiful as she was,
she was but dust, and she had returned to
dust again. They buried her by the side of
her aged grand-father, and scattered the earth
“over the face of eighteen summers.”
Let us leave Claude awhile to the memory
of the dead. Let us return to that cold, stern
and proud man, whom we left upon his bed
of down.
CHAPTER IV.
Mr. Percy, after having banished his of
fending son, remained, to outward appear
ance, unchanged—but a worm was eating
into his heart; outraged Nature would make
its accusing accents heard. Pride, to whose
stern dictates he had sacrificed his affections,
gave him no consolation. Even Ella, who had
loved him so tenderly that her love cast out
fear, turned coldly away from him the pale
roses of her cheeks, and shrunk from the ca
resses she once sought and returned. A
restless, insatiable desire for change took
possession of him. He could not live sur
rounded by mute remembrances of his son.
A picture, representhui Claude in the brilliant
beauty of boyhood, wWtaken down from the
wall.
“Oh! cruel and hard-hearted,” thought
Ella, “thus to vent his anger on the uncon
scious semblance of his son.”
She knew not the silent workings of his
soul.
The portrait of liis departed wife, the beau
tiful image of the loved and lost, on which he
had been accustomed to gaze for years, and
thus keep alive the remembrance of her
youthful beauty—he turned its face to the
wall. The eyes, following him wherever he
moved, seemed to ask, reproachfully, for her
lost son.
Why did he not seek to recall the young
wanderer? Indomitable pride still forbade.
To recall an act, would be an acknowledg
ment of error, and a stain on the infallibility
of his character. As week after week pass
ed by, without bringing tidings of the exile,
vague fears and dark misgivings haunted and
oppressed him. Perhaps, driven to despair
by a father’s cruel tv, and unable to contend
with the ills that youth and inexperience ever
exaggerate, he had lifted a suicidal hand, or
given his bod} 7 to the secrecy and silence of
the dark rolling stream. He would have
given his pride, his name, yea, life itself, for
one line, assuring him of the safety of his dis
carded boy. It was when his mind was
wrought up almost to madness by this sug
gestion, he saw in the public print, an account
of a young man whose body was washed on
the shores of one of the rivers of the West.
The stranger wa3 young and handsome, but
there was nothing about his person by which
his name could be identified, and “unknown”
was written over his grave. Mr. Percy crush
ed the paper in his bosom, so that no eye but
his own could see the startling paragraph ;
but the image of that wave-washed bod} 7
never forsook him. Floating on the current
of memory, it was forever drifting to the des
olate strand of his thoughts, where sorrow
and remorse hung weeping over it.
“Would you like to go to Paris?” said he,
one morning, to the sad and drooping Ella.
“Oh! yes, Uncle!” she cried, and in her
rapture at the idea of flying away from her
self, she threw her arms rouud his neck aud i
kissed his cheek. It was the first time she
had voluntarily caressed him since Claude’s
banishment, and he was strangely moved.
He pressed her to his heart, and she felt it
throbbing, as she never thought that hard
heart could throb. As he bent his head to
conceal the agitation of his features, she no
ticed that silvery shadows were fast spreading
over his jetty locks. Absorbed in her own
grief, a grief not unmixed with indignation
against its author, she had not observed the
marks of suffering, more bitter and wearing,
because concealed on the loft} 7 lineaments of
Mr. Percy. But that palpitating heart, those
whitening locks, and could it be ! yes—that
tear falling on the cheek that rested on his
bosom—all spoke of the chastisement aveng
ing Nature had inflicted. The sealed foun
tain of Ella’s sorrows gushed forth at this ex
pression of human sympathy, this drop of
moisture, in the arid desert of his heart.
“Oh, Uncle,” she exclaimed, in a burst of
passionate emotion, “you have not forgotten
Claude; you love him still; I knew you
must relent. Let me speak of him, Uncle—
I cannot bear this silence—it seems so like
the silence of death.”
“Ella,” said Mr. Percy, raising his head
with a darkening countenance, “forbear!
have I not commanded you never to breathe
his name?”
“But you love him,” repeated Ella, excited
beyond the power of self-control; “you weep
for him. Oil! my Uncle, talk not of Paris.
Let us travel over our own country in search
of him for whom we both are mourning. 1
cannot live in this uncertainty. I sometimes
think, I would be less miserable, if I knew
he were dead, than to live in this state of ago
nizing suspense. And yet,” continued she,
wringing her hands, “whither should we go?
He said he would write as soon as he had
found a home. Perhaps he has found a home
in the grave !”
She paused in her wild utterance, terrified
at the effect of her words. Twice her Un
cle attempted to rise—then, sinking back with
a heavy groan, a dark shade spread beneath
his eyes, giving them such a sunken, hollow
look, the whole contour of his face seemed
altered.
“What have I done ?” she cried, again
throwing her arms around him. “Forgive me,
speak to me, look at me, Uncle.”
Mr. Percy made a powerful effort, and rais
ed his tall form to its usual commanding
height. Ashamed of the weakness he had
exhibited, the stern disciple of the Stoic school
i mastered his emotion, and even assumed a
colder, severer aspect:
i “Retire, Ella, and learn to respect the
\ feelings vou cannot understand. lam sent
7 J
jon a foreign mission. It depends upon your
| self whether I make you my companion.—
! I have pledged m3 7 services to my country,
! and require all my energies for the lofty du
! ties of my station. Never again hazard a
scene like this.”
They went to Paris, and amidst new and
exciting scenes, Ella recovered something
lof the brightness of her youth. The beau
! tii'ul young American was flattered and ca
ressed in the brilliant circles to which her Un
cle’s rank and talents admitted him, an hon
ored member. Unmoved by the adulation
of the gay Parisians, she remained faithful
to Claude, in the widowhood of her young
heart ; and though his name passed not her
lips, it was only the more tenderly and devo
tedly cherished. This secret, fervent attach
ment, spiritualized by absence, and sanctified
; bv sorrow, gave a depth and elevation to her
| character, which softened, while it exalted,
the girlish beauty of her countenance.
The time of Mr. Percy’s public services
expired, and he prepared for his departure.
He never complained of ill health—he was
firm and energetic in the discharge of his du
ties—hut his cheek grew more hollow, and
his tall, majestic figure began to lose its up
right position. The miners, that had so long
been working in secret, had at length shaken
the pillars of the temple, and the stately fab
ric was giving way.
“I will go to Italy,” said the weary states
man, “and breathing awhile its balmy at
mosphere, rest from the turmoil of life.”
The saddened mind of Ella kindled at the
thought of visiting that classic land—the
land of genius and song—of Romeo and
Juliet’s tragic loves. But where was the Ro
meo of her constant heart ? Cold, dreary
silence was the only answer to this oft-repeat
ed interrogation, and it fell with leaden
weight on her sinking hopes. It must be the
silence of death or oblivion.
But Mr. Percy found not the rest he
sought. The bland, delicious gales, the soft,
golden sunsets, the grand and solemn ruins,
the magnificent monuments of departed ge
nius, instilled no balm into his tortured and
remorseful spirit. Where pride once reigned
in regal majesty, the tottering feeling of in
security which haunts the soul, unsupported
by Christian faith, when one by one, the frail
reeds of earthly hope are breaking from be*
neath it, alone remained. He languished to
return once more to the home he had deser
ted, and to feel himself surrounded once more
by the mementoes of life’s happier hours.—
If he must die, let him be in the midst of
those mute remembrancers, from which he
had once impatiently fled. * * *
Returned once more to his native country
and home, he was roused awhile from his
languid and hopeless condition, by the dis
tracted state of his affairs. Ilis young Sec
retary, who bad anticipated his return from
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NO. 37.
Paris, that all things might be in readiness
for the invalid statesman, had absconded,
bearing with him a large portion of the prop
erty entrusted to his care. After having ta
ken the usual measures for the apprehension
of the traitor, in whom he had implicitly
trusted, Mr. Percy sunk again into his state
of restless gloom. At length, after years ot
wavering conflicts with his own passions—
conflicts strong and terrible as they were
dark and silent —he prostrated himself where
the stricken soul alone can find rest, in peni
tence and humility and faith, at the foot of
the Cross. *****
It was a beautiful evening in September,
one of those mild autumnal days of the more
Northern latitudes, when the sun seems to
shine through golden gauze, and shed a rich,
yellow radiance, in harmony with the mellow
ing dyes of the \ 7 ear.
Reclining on a sofa, partially raised by
pillows from a recumbent attitude, lay the
emaciated form of Mr. Percy. His once sa
ble hair was now turned to snowy whiteness,
and lines, deeper than those made by the en
graving hand of Time, were traced upon his
lofty brow.
Ella sat on alow seat at his side—the book
in which she had been reading, hanging list
lessly in her hand. Far different was she
from the sunny-tressed, flower-crowned,
blooming being, introduced years before, ini
her birth-day gala robes. Those sunny tres
ses no longer hung in shining ringlets, lice as
the rippling wave, but were confined in clas
sic bands behind. The brilliant beauty of
girlhood was softened into the paler loveli
ness, the intellectual grace and subdued ex
pression of womanhood. The brightness,
the eagerness, the animation of hope, were
exchanged for the shadow, the repose, the*
pensiveness of memory.
“The dark of her eye
Had taken a darker, a heaven tier dye.”
She was no longer the impassioned Juliet;
she was the gentle, self-sacrificing Cordelia,,
watching with filial tenderness over him, on
whom the warring winds of passion had but
too fiercely blown. But the voice, that was
not in the tempest, the earthquake, or the
fire, had breathed upon his spirit, and peace,
if not joy, was there. Ella bent down and
kissed her Uncle’s care-worn and pallid fore
head. He was inexpressibly dear to her in
his weakness, humiliation and dependence.
There seemed a balm in the soft touch of
those caressing lips, for he closed iiis eye3 in
a gentle slumber, and Ella sat and watched
him till the twilight shadows began to steal
in, and mingle with the golden light of the ‘
setting sun. The sound of entering foot
steps roused her from the deep reyery into
which she had fallen, and looking up, she be
held a stranger standing within a few paces
of the threshold. She rose and gazed upon
him with a troubled glance. A wild impulse
led her to compare* the lineaments of tho
stranger, with those of the banished Claude.
Os superior height and more manly propor
tions, there was nothing in his figure that
could remind one of the boyish grace of her
cousin. His hair was of a darker brown, and
the pale oval of his cheek was of a very dif
ferent contour from the glowing cheek of
Claude. His eyes, too—they had the depth
and saddened splendor of night; Claude’s,
the dazzling brightness of the meridian beam.
But those eyes rested not on her face.
They were fixed, as by a fascination, on
the recumbent form which had met his glance
as he crossed the threshold. Ella treaibled.
An icy chill ran through her veins, and cur
dled her blood. The remembered image of
the bright and blooming Claude seemed to
stand side by side with that pale, sad, and
lofty-looking stranger, and mock her with
the contrast.
Mr. Percy, awakened from his light slum
bers, opened his eyes, and met those of the
young man, fixed so mournfully, steadfastly
and thrilling! v upon him. Trembling, he
leaned forward, and shading his brow with
his hand, gazed upon his face. “My father!”
burst from the quivering lips of the stranger.
With a wild, unearthly cry, Mr. Percy sprang
from the sofa, and fell into the arms of his
banished son.
“Let me die, let me die,” he murmured, in
broken accents. “Oh, my God! thou art
great and good. Thou hast heard the pray
ers of a broken heart. Let me die,” he con
tinued, lifting his sunken eyes to Heaven,
with a look of extatic devotion. ®
Claude bowed his face on his father’s bo
som, and wept aloud. That sad, sad wreck!
was that indeed his father ? And Ella—was
that pale, trembling, lovely being, now kneel
ing by them, with clasped hands and stream
ing eyes—was that the radiant Juliet he hud
left behind ? and was she faithful and un
wedded still ? Supporting his father’s feeble
frame to the sofa, and gently withdrawing
from his clinging arms, he turned to Eflu,
and the tide of boyish passion rushed in to”
rents through his heart. But such sceijes
cannot be described. They are foretastes of
re-union in that world, where, the dark glass
of Time being broken, spirits me ?t each other,
face to face, in the cloudless light f Eternity.
There are but few explanations to make.
Claudehad felt it a holy duty 7 to remain with
the mourning parents of hi3 buried Mary,
till time had softened the bitterness of their
grief. Then, faithful to a vow ha had made,
the night, when in dreams he had beheld his
adopted father, and heard from his lips the
solemn words, “Return: you have a mission
to fulfil,” he resolved to seek in person the
forgiveness of his offended parent, and de-