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a jFamils AlcUJl).ijiri': BcGotcs to JUteraturc, tftc arts, Science, agriculture, J*UrtiHulr, EUucntion, jForcign n Bosucctfc XutelUgewcr, ®uiuour, fct.
BY C. R. HANLEITER.
From the Augusta Mirror.
ELLEN,
A TALE OF THE FRONTIER SETTLEMENTS.
BY E . L . W .
Chapter I.
On the western bank of the Apalachee
river, beside the road leadiug from Greens
borough to Madison, by what is known at
the present day as Jordain’s Ferry, are the
ruins of an old wooden house. As long as
the writer can remember it has had the ap
pearance of an ancient and weatherbeaten
building. It was situated on an eminence
overlooking the valley of the river, and com
manding an extensive prospect beyond it.
About a quarter of a mile farther west, a
small creek winds its way along the base of
several rocky eminences, that rise abruptly
on either side, and silently finds its way to
the river, a few hundred yards above the
Ferry. South of the ruins and in their rear
there comes suddenly up from the immedi
ate bluff of the river a deep ravine, now
washed by the rains into short deep gullies.
But at the time of which 1 write, it was
dark with nature’s covering, the forest, un
cut and fresh in its primeval vigour, over
arched it from above and lent to it its deep
est shade, while from beneath, the tangled
vines and underbrush gave to it a quiet but
gloomy aspect. About midway between the
house and river, gushing out boldly from be
neath a lock, there is a fine spring of deli
cious water. The general aspect of the coun
try around, as seen from the bill on which
the house was placed, is broken and undu
lating—and now since the axe and plough
have done their work, many a hill, shorn of
its trees and robbed ofits soil, may be seen
rising one above another and stretching far
out to the south and east, until the eye is
tired of the prospect, and the heart saddens
with the reflection that this is a faithful pic
ture of the myriads of acres of the fertile
lands of Middle Georgia, that have been
causelessly sacrificed to the culture of our
great southern staple. But to our story..
It was about nine o’clock on the morning
of a bright and sunny day, in the early part
of May, in the year eighteen hundred and
four, that two men were to be seen sitting
in front of the house I have mentioned, un
der the shade of alarge mulberry tree. They
had evidently been communing upon some
subject of deep interest to both. I iiey were
conversing in and under tone, and apparent
ly with great caution. Ihe eldest, a man
about fifty years of age, of low stature, yet
with a strong and vigorous frame and adark
and frowning brow, and an eye, peering
from beneath his shaggy frontlet—quick pen
etrating aril restless —that gave to his coun
tenance a sinister and murderous express
ion, seemed the principal speaker of the two.
He was addressing his companion at the
time our story opens. A few words spoken
in the higher tone, and with less reserve,
gave a clue to the subject.
“ She cannot refuse —she will accept —
why should she not ? Come, go in at once,
and broach the subject. You tell me you
love her ... . land in Virginia negroes
and cash by this time .... I hold the secret
iti my own keeping, and she shall remain in
ignorance until”
A cautious whisper revealed to his hearer
alone the concluding sentence, and a reply
in the same low tone upon the part of his
companion, closed the conference, and both
rising they separated—the young man cn->
tering the house, the other descending the
hill to the Ferry.
The interior arrangements of the house,
though common were neat and comfortable,
and gave evidence to the presence of those
whose care it is to smootlie the current of
domestic life. The individual on entering,
found himself in the presence of two fe
males, and addressing himself to the eldest,
remarked that Mr. Darnell (her husband)
desired him to ask her to step down to the
Ferry a moment. She left the house im
mediately. The other, who was a young
exceedingly pretty girl, of not more
(than eighteen years of age, rose to follow,
when she was gently detained by the man
‘before her.
“ Miss Ellen I trust will not think me too
Tude,” he remarked, “ when she hears the
reasons I have for detaining her. I have
“often determined to address you upon a sub
ject deeply interesting to my own feelings,
but have as often faltered in my purpose;
and even now, though I am accounted ahold
and daring man in some respects, I can
scarcely bring myself to do it.”
■“ Perhaps then, you had better leave it
■undone,” responded the lady.
A shade of doubt and uncertainty passed
quickly over the face of the speaker, as he
replied—
“ I would not even now have presumed
to trouble you with that in winch you may
feel but little concern, but my own feelings
are so deeply involved that I must not, nay,
I dare not longer refrain from their expres
sion.”
He approached her person, and would
have taken her hand in his, but she shrunk
away from his approach, as she replied :
“ Away, sir! I have heard enough to sa
tisfy me of the tenor of your thoughts. I
pray you, leave me.”
“ What! leave you now, with all the full
weight of untold passion resting upon my
feelings ? Never!” And grasping her hand,
he continued : “ Hear me ! I imploro you
—while I disclose to you the workings of a
heart full of love—deep, unalterable love !
I stand before you as I have never stood be
fore another, either in heaven or on earth—
a suppliant! Do not turn away, but hear me
to the end. 1 came to these wilds a Wan
derer, to seek a refuge from the shackles of
civilized life, that my free spirit might rove
untrammelled amidst its quiet woodland
scenes. Mine has been a life of anxiety and
vexation. My parents, rich and influential,
gave me an education commensurate with
my future expectations and their own fond
hopes : but an unfortunate affair in which I
was involved, blasted their hopes and my ex
pectations. The tie was sundered that
bound me to my kind, and I have been a
lone and homeless wanderer until now.
You remember when two years ago I found
a refuge it) this neighborhood. Here I saw
you. My heart watched with glowing rap
ture and eager delight, the opening charms
that invested your person. You, too, seem
ed alone in the world, and the fond hope
sprung up in my bosom that you would one
day consent to link your fortunes with my
own—that you would become the instrument
to reclaim me from a life of peril and of dan
ger, to one of quiet and domestic peace.
This hope has been the brightest of my life.
For some timod would not indulge it, fear
ing that a stern disappointment awaited me,
and in that event I dared not trust myself.
But all resistance was vain, and every ef
fort to oppose it has given a sterner impulse
to my feelings, until now I stand before you,
your ardent and impassioned lover. And
shall I now abandon my hopes, and lose the
prize to which I have looked with such de
light, without an effort ? Never! Tell me,
Ellen, do I plead in vain—is there no re
sponse from your heart in unison with my
own I”
A tide of deep and conflicting feeling
swelled the bosom of the maiden, as strug
gling to free her hand fromthebuming grasp
of her bold and lawless suitor, she answer
ed—“ Release me, sir! you surely could
not force me to answer against my will.”
Her hand, crushed and reddened by the
pressure, was dropped, and the young man,
drawing himself up to his greatest height,
stood before herin stern silence, to await her
reply.
“ I have listened, sir, with anxiety and
alarm, to the impassioned declaration you
have made. I think I need not tell you I
have been deeply pained, not to say insult
ed, by your avowal. I have never given
you the least cause to hope, as you express
it, that I would listen to your addresses, and
link my destiny with yours. Sir, a gulf as
wide as virtue and innocence are remote
from crime and guilt, lies between us—to
me it shall ever remain impassable. I nev
er can consent to become the bride of a
robber—a hunted, homeless robber.”
“ Well, be it so,” responded the young
man. “ Another web in the history of my
life is woven. Farewell—when we meet
again, the scene will be changed. I shall
not then be the suppliant.”
He departed, and Eiien was left alone, to
reflect upon tire strange and exciting events
that had just transpired. The declaration
of love, only astonished her; but the impas
sioned language, the heaving bosom, the
firm grasp, and the daring eye of the speak
er greatly alarmed her—and for the first
time in her life, she felt the danger to which
one so young and inexperienced was ex
posed, living as she was, apart from the
world, and relying as she feared she must
do, upon herself alone for guidance and di
rection.
A short time afterwards the party from
the Ferry returned. Ellen was still excit
ed, and Darnell’s quick eye in a moment
read her thoughts, and saw that he must in
terpose his authority to further the object of
her lover. He led her to the open piazza
in front of the house and enquired as to
what had passed between them. She frank
ly told him all. The old man was furious
at the result. He spurned her from him—
threatened her—used every means to force
her to consent; but to no purpose. Final
ly he remarked be would give her longer
time to think upon it—and snatching bis gun
from its rest above the door, plunged into
the woods, and returned no more during the
day.
C hap ter 11.
It was about ten days afterthe occurrences
already noticed, late in the afternoon, that a
small canoe might be seen rapidly stemming
the current of the Apalachee, propelled by
the hand of a single oarsman. The individ
ual himself was a young man, not exceed
ing twenty-five years of age. A short r isle
was suspended by a strap from his shoulder,
and a long knife hung at his belt. He was
a man evidently inured to exposure, and
was well suited to a life in the woods or on
the water; for the frail craft in which he
rode upon the river’s quiet bosom, glided
through its waters, now on this side, and a
gain on the other, or avoided the more rapid
current, where the stream contracted its
width between its projecting hanks, as if in
stinct with life, and apparently without an
effort. After turning a sharp point of land,
around which the river had worn its channel,
the canoe shot across the current into a
miniature bay upon the western side, and
the owner, making it fast to a tree, leaped
upon the land. He stood listening anxious-
MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, JULY 9, 1842.
ly for a moment, as if expecting to catch
some accidental sound or preconcerted sig
jial. But hearing neither, he proceeded up
the ravine, by a narrow though distinctly de
fined trail. A few hundred yards brought
him to the spring I have before mentioned.
Here he paused, and unstrapping his rifle
from his hack, leaned it against a tree, and
seated himself against its root. In person
he was rather below the middle height, not
reaching above five feet eight inches—and
yet by a casual observer he would be reckon
ed taller, for he stood remarkably erect, and
moved with that buoyoncy and lightness of
step which always accompanies great mus
cular strength and an erect carriage. As
he threw himself at the root of the tree
and gave himself to reflection, a fair view of
his striking features revealed the character
of the man. To a forehead rather tall and
broad, with the lines of intellect strongly
marked, and an eye, large and grey—in re-
Cose clear and brilliant, but in excitement,
right and flashing, “ like sunlight upon a
troubled wave,” may be added a complexion
deeply bronzed by exposure to the rays of a
southern sun. At the time I write, there
was fierceness in his eye —a cloud big with
the wrath of the tempest was on his brow,
and a curl of triumph on his lip, and the
whole man lay revealed, intellectual stern,
uncompromising, revengeful, dangerous.
For some time he remained profoundly
silent, yet an occasional quick and rapid
gesture gave evidence that his thoughts were
running upon some exciting subject. Gra
dually an expression of dark and settled
purpose spread over his face, as rising, he
muttered between his clenched teeth, in a
low and choked voice—
“ Yes, by all that’s terrible, she shall be
mine ! My resolution is taken, and no pow
er shall drive me fiom it.” This burst of
feelingpast, he became more calm, and pro
ceeded in a firmer tone. “I have hitherto
been too weak and unsteady in my resolves.
Her unprotected and friendless situation—
her extreme beauty, and her stern rejection
of my suit—have for the time curbed the
devil within me, and the better feelings of
my heart have triumphed. But now, the
spell is broken—she has threatened to fly
from the house of her uncle, and seek from
strangers the protection he refuses her. Can
I sutler this—shall I permit her thus to es
cape me—to become the bearer of my acts
to the ears of others? Never! My own safe
ty is involved in her ruin, and ruined she
shall be. I wooed her as a lover, and de
sired to win her for my bride, and she might
have won me back from a life of crime and
peril. But no! she never could stoop so low,
as to become the wife of a robber—a hun
ted, homeless robber. She has thus added
insult to injury. But mine she shallbe, rob
ber though 1 am, whether she will or not.
Matt Darnell has said it—his own purposes
cannot be accomplished without it. Buthere
he comes at last.”
The man henamed.as the speaker uttered
the last words was descending the hill from
the house, andsoon joined him at the spring.
Frank Huddleston by long habit, was in
a moment enabled to control his feelings;
and by the time Darnell reached him, al
most all trace of the storm that had agitated
his features had passed away, and he accost
ed Darnell with the familiar title of uncle
Matt, as was his usual custom.
“ Why so slow in your movements, uncle
Matt; has old age gotten the better of
your briskness—orhas the pretty Ellen been
reading you a lecture on morals, and the
great danger of associating with a youngster
so graceless as myself?”
“ Neither, Frank—l am not so old but
that I can yet fill an engagement, when all
that is necessary is to walk a few hundred
yards; neither has Ellen, to-day, at least,
been troubling me with any of her foolish
conceits. But other considerations have
caused me to delay my coming. Since vou
were here, I have hear and of the arrival in
this neighborhood, of a young man from Vir
ginia, and from the name he bears, and the
description given of him, I am inclined to
think that I know him ; and if lam right in
my conjectures, he is about the last man I
should like to meet in this region. Just be
fore I came down here, I put James Guil
ford across the Ferry. He was in Greens
boro’ to-day, and was telling me about him.
He has been there some two weeks—or
rather it is about two weeks since he arriv
ed there first—but he is going and coming
all the time, sometimes be is gone two days
together, at other times, half a day only.
He left town he says this morning, in com
pany with that rascally Indian Chemicko, as
a guide, but what the object of his journey,’
or where they were going, he could not as
certain. But you are ready to ask, what has
the appearence of this young man from Vir
ginia in it of interest, sufficient thus to dis
turb me ? I will briefly tell you, for jou are
as deeply interested a9 myself. I have told
you before that lam a Virginian. That my
brother some eight years ago died, and left
me sole executor of his will, and guardian
of his child. That I left the country with
out getting possession of the estate, which
was large and unencumbered. The reason
why I left that country, I will now tell you.
I was dedected in running some negroes
that were not my own, and was forced to fly
to escape tne vengeance of the law. They
belonged to my nearest neighbors, Colonel
Searcy, a man whom I always hated. But
I had notice in time, and was on the alert,
and WBB enabled to get away with my wife
and Ellen, the daughter of my brother. I
should have left Ellen, who was then but ten
years old, behind, but from the hope that
one day or other, through her I should get
possession of her large estates. We were
pursued into Carolina, by Herbert Searcy,
the Colonel’s son, a youth then but eighteen
years of age, with all the fury of a tiger. 1
escaped, however, as fortune would have it,
and thus far have avoided all detection.
“ The stranger of whom Guilford heard
in Greensboro’, is named Herbert Searcy,
and from my recollection of the youth and
the description given me of this person, I
am morally certain it is the same. What
has brought him to Georgia, and to this part
of it, I cannot guess. He can certainly have
no clew to my retreat, as the name by which
I am now known, is not the same with which
I left Virginia, and I have been careful to
intercept letters which at times Ellen has
written back, knowing that they would ex
pose me to detection. I have never met
with but one person that I formerly knew,
and he shewed no sign of recognition on
his part, so that it is impossible (hat he
should be aware of my hiding place. And
if he was, it will be a fearful settlement I
shall have with him if he attempts to disturb
me here. But enough of this, I shall be on
my guard, and with my knowledge of the
country, shall be able to hold him at bay.
And now to the object of our meeting. I
have promised you Ellen for a wife, and I
intend that promise shall be fulfilled. She
has utterly rejected your suit, and has dis
obeyed my positive commauds. I did think
she would have yielded to my wishes—at
least to my commands ; but she has become
more and more obstinate, and threatens, as
you know, to fly from my protection if I per
sist. That is impossible—it is beyond her
power, unless she is assisted to do so, and
no one to whom she can appeal, dare do
that. But should she escape, you will lose
a wife, and with her all prospect of our ever
securing her fortune. My place of refuge
will be known, and our retreat broken up.
True, none of our robberies have positively
come within her knowledge, yet she sus
pects enough, if she divulges it, to set the
dogs of the law upon our trail, and then our
plans will all be broken up. This must not
be. She must not escape. But what course
are we to pursue ? I would not proceed to
extremities a: once, and but for the informa
tion received to-day, would delay awhile our
operations, in hope that time may change
her. But new 1 fear no time is to be lost—
strange doub:s hang about my heart. Sup
pose you make one more effort to prevail
upon her to accept your love. If after that
she refuses, we will resort to other means.”
The youngman thus addressed, remained
several minutes in profound silence. From
the visible emotion of his countenance, some
idea might be formed of the violence of the
inward struggle. He stood before Matt
Darnell, a rejected lover—rejected too by
the niece of a robber—the outlaw from his
home and friends. He had been branded
by her too, with that infamous title, and
though truly his by his acts, yet it grated
harshly upon his cars, and settled, with all
that it carries with it of disgrace, deeply up
on his feelings. The cut had pierced to his
soul, a wound deep and incurable, and had
left there a stern and settled purpose of re
venge. Aye, that revenge, which to a young
and unprotected female, is of the most fear
ful sort. At length he replied—
“ I know that all further attempt to pre
vail upon her, will be utterly in vain. I have
done already all that any man, under the in
fluence of a devotion, ardent and impassion
ed, could do, to win her—and yet I have
been repulsed. The affection of a heart,
warm in its love, and sincere iu its purpose,
has been trodden under foot with scorn, and
every offer that I have made lias been treat
ed with, contempt, and rejected—and reject
ed too, in such terms, as to leave me under
the influence of the settled resolve, in the last
resort, to use those other means to which
you alluded—ay, any means, that lie within
the compnss of my power.”
“ But,” said Darnell, “ she may upon the
renewal of your efforts, be less determined
in her opposition, and I would greatly prefer
that another effort be made. Women are
fickle creatures, and Ellen i9 but a woman
—we cannot tell but the result may be favor
able.”
“ There is no hope as to the result. I
have studied the character of your niece,
and its developments assure me that she is
far superior in mind and energy to the girl
we thought her. And but for the scorn and
contempt with which she rejected me, and
the power she may hold over us, in the event
that she chooses to reveal all that she knows
of our past connexion and acts, I would
abandon the pursuit altogether. But now,
the only alternative left is to humble her so
low’ as to make it desirable, nay, absolutely
necessary to her, to link her fate with mine,
or seek the deeper and wilder recesses of
the forest, as a refuge to hide her from the
eyes of a sensorious world. In cither event,
you would be secure from detection, she
only knowing your true name, though igno
rant of the cause of its change; and I
should be revenged of the contempt so un
sparingly heaped upon me, and the wounds
which have been inflicted upon my spirit
would be healed. But as you so anxiously
desire it, I will see her again. In the mean
time, use all the influence you can exert
upon her, and if all else shall fail, as a last
resor% assure her that voluntary compliance
on her part with your wishes can alone se
cure your further protection, and that should
she refuse all, she must abide her fate. I
will see her in a day or two, or it fnay be
longer. Other matters of pressing interest
mqst not be forgotten, for should your sus
picions prove true concerning this young
man Searcy, his knowledge of your “where
about” would greatly mar the game we de
sire to ploy.”
“I shall keep a sharp lookout for the
youngster,” said Matt, “ and fear not, hut
that I shall, if I meet him, be able to give
a good account of him. If he is found pry
ing into my concerns, I’ll learn him a lesson
in border life be will not soon unlearn. If
you can return day after to-morrow, I will
meet you here again, and we can then de
termine further what course will be best to
pursue.”
“ I will meet you by that time if I can.
Yonder comes your niece, and it is best she
does not find us together.”
Snatching his rifle its resting place,
Huddleston dashed into the bushes, and
threaded the ravine to Ithe water’s edge.
He then sprung into the canoe, and catching
the paddle in both hands, gave a long deep
strokein the water, which sent it bounding to
the middle of the stream ; another stroke
on the opposite side turned the bow with the
current, and he was soon lost amidst the wind
ings of the river. But we will return to the
scene he had left.
Ellen descendod spring—she held
in her hand a pitche ™and without pausing
to notice the presence of Darnall, stooped
to fill it at the fount. She arose and held it
to her uncle, asking him in a sweet and me
lancholy tone, if he would drink. He took
the pitcher from her hand, and raising it to
his mouth, drank a long and hearty draught.
Returning it to her he said : “ Wby do you
look so sad, Ellen—has your aunt been
cross to you to-day ? I have observed that
you have greatly changed, from what you
were.”
“ Yes, uncle, it is true I have changed.
Once I was a thoughtless, light-hearted girl,
pleased only wilh the present, and scarcely
giving a thought to the future; now the
present is joyless, and the future ”
“ May compensate you for the lack of
present enjoyment, if you will hut listen to
my advice, and obey my commands.”
“ If your advice and commands refer to
the subject on which we have before con
versed, and which have for their object my
union with Frank Huddleston, you may
spare yourself the trouble, and me the pain
of its recital.”
“ But, Ellen, what can you promise your
self by this perverse, this obstinate refusal.
I and your auut are growing old, and soon,
very soon may leave you—and shall I leave
you unprotected ? To whom then will you
look for protection ?”
“Tothatßeiug who has said—that he
will be a Father to the orphan.”
“ Ay, but to whom will you turu for pro
tection from hunger, and penury, and insult
all of which must hang upon your path. Be
not so silly, girl—l propose for you a young
and handsome msu, every way your equal,
to be your protector, your husband. But
W’hy turn away from me—why that curling
lip and scornful eye ?”
“ Because the proposition pains and in
sults me. I feel the spirit of an honorable
and virtuous parentage stirring within me—
and though in a wild and savage land, with
no friend to assist, and none to protect and
guide me, but the man who now proposes
to me a union of disgrace with one who is
a traitor to virtue, a robber of the helpless,
and an outlaw from justice—yet I feel that
I have that withiu me, which would prompt
me to any sacrifice, even of life itself, before
I would stoop to so loul a degradation.”
And as she warmed with the excitement of
her feelings, her maiden form stood erect in
its finest proportions—her blue eyes swam
in a bed of tears, the light of conscious puri
ty, and the glow of proud resolve added
new beauties to her lovely features—and
her voice, clear and stern, yet musical in ve
ry sterness, fell itartingly upon the ear of
Darnall. She turned indignantly to leave
him, but he caught her hand and stayed her.
“ But one word more,” and the knit brow,
and the glaring eye, revealed the last re
solve. “ Your purpose is taken, so is mine.
You draw upon your head my heaviest curse,
I leave you to your own choice and your
certain fate. Frank Huddleston may not
be trifled with—he is not the man to hear
without revenge, a personal slight, or inten
tional insult, even from one to whom he has
offered his love. Persevere in your course,
and reject if you like it, his final offers, and
I now warn you that I will never afford you
protection from him under any circumstances
—no matter what he may resolve to do.
With this fearful truth before you—will you
pause in your course—will you not con
sent ?”
“ Never!” was the prompt and energetic
reply. And the noble girl, turning from
her astonished uncle, left him, and ascend
ing the hill emerged from the valley, just as
the setting sun was flinging its last rays of
light upon the bosom of the river and the
forest around.
“ Alas!” said Ellen, as the stern truth of
her utter destitution forced itself upon her
mind, “ how like my own sad history, how
like my present feelings. The sun bending
to her rest, sheds out upon the world a fee
ble, fingering ray, the pioneor of that dark
ness that now sends up its shadows from the
VOLUME 1.--NUMBER 15.
vales around. So the star of my hope, lin
gered but a moment above the horizon—it
threw its blessed fight upon my pathway—
but now, that star has set —set amidst clouds
and darkness; the last ray though- lingering
a moment about my heart, has lost its light
amid the gathering gloom, and I amleft alone,
to contend single-handed with the fate that
seems impending me. And yet with me,
there is still a last resource—the grave—ay,
the deep vault of the dead, will be a secure
retreat from the foul destroyer—and the
grave is preferable to guilt.”
Chapter 111.
It was the afternoon of the day succeed
ing the events detailed in the last chapter,
that Ellen, oppressed with # the weight of
unuttered grief, sought the retired margin
of the river—that there amidst its quiet
scenes, she might commune more freely
with her own sad heart. Her situation, she
felt, was one of imminent danger. Her
way seemed obstructed with difficulties over
which it was impossible to pass, without a
friend to guide, or a father to protect her.
She stood alone, in a land t of savages—the
object of worse than savage persecution.
Brought up amidst wild and woodland
scenes, since her earlier girlhood, and under
the guidance of those whose tastes and feel
ings were wholly opposite to her own, far
remote from civilized life, and the society of
her equals; yet her days bad not been spent
in vain. Ere she left the home of her child
hood, she had received the rudiments of a
sound and substantial education, and the
few books she had since read, had tended
largely to the development of her reflective
faculties. She had thought much and pro
perly. Until now, however, but little had
occurred to disturb the gentle current of
her existence, or to develope her whole
character, by calling into action, the latent
energies of her strong and vigorous mind.
But the spring was now touched which op
ened up to the eye the long hurried intel
lectual treasures.
I have seen the remark made some where,
that there are points of time in the lives of
most persons, in which we will live longer
in an hour or a day, than we have done for
weeks before—or perchance than we shall
for months to come. And however false in
reference to the actual time, the saying may
be, yet I have no doubt of its truth, as to
the development of character. How fre
quently is it the fact that an unforeseen
event, a single act, or a casual expression
will spring into life and action, powers, eith
er physical or mental, of whose extent and
capacity, we never dreamed; end these ve
ry events, casual as they are, and insignifi
cant as they seem, fix the character for the
present, and give to it an impress, that fu
ture years will not efface. Thus was it with
the sad wanderer upon the banks of the
Apalachee. The last forty-eight hours, had
been to her eventful moments. After the
conversation with her uncle at the spring,
without holding further converse with him
or his wife, she had retired to her room there
to recount the events of the day. She was
astonished at her own firmness, in the prompt
and utter-rejection of her uncle’s proposi
tion. Though she scarcely loved him as a
relation, for there was much in bis charac
ter, as we have seen, to forbid it, yet from
the time she had been placed under his pro
tection, she had learned promptly to obey
his wishes, and yield to his commands. But
since the advances made by Huddleston, and
seconded by Darnell, a rapid aud thorough
change had pressed upon her whole charac
ter ; she felt that the cruel conduct of her
uncle, should release her from all obligation
to love, respect or obey him. To her aunt
she had turned with the fond hope that in
her she would find a friend and counsellor,
but she too had joined the league against
her—she felt indeed that she was alone in
the world, with every former rock of sup
port, rent by the terrible storm that had
swept in fury over the current of her exis
tence.
Desolate, friendless, and persecuted. Rhe
stood ns wc have seen Iter upon the river,
rapt in the intensity of her own sad thoughts.
There were many things in the objects a
round her to allay the fever of her mind—
the deep blue sky above—the quiet waters
bathing in the bright sunlight—the forest
gently bending to the bi*ath of Heaven, as
it sought its passage ’midst the trembling
leaves. ’Twas one of nature’s most lovely
spots—ungarnisbed by the hand of roan.
And there was music too —nature’s music—
the hum of the bee, the whirr of the insect,
the carrol of the bird, the ripple of the cur
rent, and the faint echoes of the eddying
air—all, all blent in one harmonious con
cert, rich in its melody, and soothing in its
influences. The effect was not lost on El
len. The deep expression of sadness gra
dually left her beautiful face, and a ray of
hope lent its light for a moment to her tear
ful eye. She seated herself upon a rock
washed by the river’s tiny wave. She had
evidently been communing with Nature's
God—she felt she was not all alone—one
Being at least had not forsaken her—and
upon His protection she believed aho could
rely. The rock on which Ellen was sitting
jutted boldly out into the stream, and was n
few rods below the point at which the little
creek we mentioned in the beginning of our
story, falls into the river, above the present
Ferry. For a long time she sat with her
face buried in her hands, in profound medi
tation. No sound escaped her lip, save an