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