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VOLUME 11. |
BY C. B. HANLEITER.
F> © E r K Y„
GOOD NIGHT.
Good night to nil the world ! there’* none,
Beneath the “ over-going” sun,
To whom I feel or hate or spite-’
And so to all a fair good night!
Would I could say good night to pnin,
Good night to oonsoience and her train,
To cheerless poverty, nnd shame
That I am yet unknown to fame !
Would I could say good night to dreams,
That haunt me with delusive gleams,
That through the sable future's veil
Like meteors glimmer, but to fail!
Would I could say a long good night
To halting between wrong and right,
And, tike a giant with new force,
Awake prepared to run my course !
But Time o’er goqd and ill sweeps on.
And when few years arc come and gone.
The ptsl will he to me as naught,
Wlieilier remembered or forgot.
Yet let me hope one faithful friend
O'er my last couch shall tearful bend;
And,though no day for me was bright,
Shall bid me then a Jong good night!
;i ! 1 1
TALE®.
THE WIFE.
BV MRS. ANN 8. STEPHEN'S.
Like ivy, woman’s love will cling
Too often round a worthless thing.
It was midnight in London, (lie theatres
were closed, the houseless wanderer sought
the dark alley which had sheltered his
wretchedness many a miserable night, and
lay crouching to the wall as the watchman
paced heavily hy, least he might he drag
ged forth from his hilling place and deprived
of hi* sole remaining possession, personal
liberty. Laboring men and honest trades
people had been long asleep, thes'de walks
were deserted, save by !he midnight revel
er, the ahject and the vicious, but through
the fa*lii,nabl<* thoumgkfurag nan-iagp uti-* ,
cuniaae, laden with manly and beautiful
life, swept by, their splendor hut half revael
od by the blaze of the enameled lamps they
carried.
A fashionable bouse in the West End
was thrown open to the distinguished of
London that night, and, long after the street
lamps had burned themselves out, lordly
equipages rolled to and from the illumina
ted mansion. The rainbow light that stream
ed through the drapery of each tall window
bad fallen on many a beautiful foim gliding
up those steps, hut in no instance had it
touched a being mote lovely than the fair
young girl who paused with modest grace
to gather up her scarf before she followed
her companion, an elderly lady, through
the lyhrinth of statues that lined the btoad
stair-case.
She reached the drawing-room ; music
was swelling through the glittering crowd
assembled there—the strains of a light cheer
ful waltz. A glow rushed over her cheek,
and the folds of azure gauze that covered
Iter bosom rose and fell with its pleasant
throbbing, till the sprig of white jasmine that
gathered them at the throat trembled as if
shaken by the night wind. Lucy Sprague
was seventeen, and this was her first hall,
the first time that she had ever stood an
equal in the gay throng. It seemed like
enchantment to her, the glitter of diamonds,
the swelling music.and the crowd of breath
ing life, bathed in that glowing lamp-light.
It was no marvel that her bosom heaved
and her soft eye sparkled as she gazed up
or. it.
As Lucy Sprague, the orphan heiress,
had descended from hercarriage, two young
men were crossing the street, arm in arm.
They had just come from a neighboring
club house, and, if the light had been suf
ficient, an obseiver might have detected the
glow of wine on their cheeks, and a sparkle
of the eye which betrayed excitement if not
confirmed inebriety. One of them, a dark
haired young man, with midnight eyes and
features such as one dreams of for a revel
ing poet, uttered an exclamation of delight
as his observation was drawn to the your.g
heiress, and springing forward he. stood in
tho shadow, giasping his companion.s aim,
nnd with bis eyes riveted on the girl till
she disappeared from the stair-case.
•• Come! fortunately 1 have an invitation,”
he said, forcing his companion toward the
door.
•• Surely you will not attempt it; remem
ber the wine you have taken. You are al
ready half intoxicated.”
‘• With the beauty of that girl, boy, not
with wine—come !“
“ No ; if you wish to present yourself to
the countess in this condition, 1 will be no
party to the outrage; why man, that hair is
falling over your forehead like an unpruned
grape vine.”
” Confound such comparison! “Vou can
think ot nothing but grapes and the blood
of grapes. I tell you the sight of that heav
enly girl has rendered me sober as a cardi
nal,” and as he spoke the young man dash
ed back the raven curls that had, in truth, ol
most concealed his forehead, gave them a
twist from the temples with his hand, and
turned with a laugh to his friend.
“ There, will that do ? Am I sufficiently
presentable 1”
“As you will be to night,” replied the
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more reasonable companion, smiling in spite
of himself, for there was something so spir
ited in the handsome face turned toward him,
so frank and determined, that he saw no
hopes in contending against his project of
enteiing the house, and could only resolve
not to bear him company.
“ So you will not go ?”
“ Most assuredly I will not!”
“ Good night, then—breakfast with me
to-morrow, and I will tell you all about her.”
“Good night.”
They shook hands. The next minute
young Burke was ascending the stair-case
of that palace dwelling, composedly as if it
had been his own home. He urged his
way through the crowd, and reached the
dancing room. The object of his search
was there, sitting by the tall Imly who had
entered the house with her. Burke took a
position directly opnsite the window they
occupied. Many a smiling look fell on him
from the dancers as they whirled by ; eyes
brighter than the diamonds that flash above
them were turned upon him from the crowd
ed walls, for Burke was the fashion.—
Though a younger son, wild, impulsive, and
prodigal, his great personal beauty, his ac
complishments, and the fascination of his
address, rendered him a favorite even among
the elder ladies, who could not make up
their minds to discountenance him altogeth
er, though terrified every day of their lives
lest he might persuade some of their aris
tocratic daughters to throw themselves
away and share his extravagance and pov
erty, or redeem him from the latter.
“ Hay, Burke, are you here playing the
wallflower ?” said a young guatdsman, as he
turned from escorting his partner to a seat.
“ How is it that I have not seen you among
the daucets ?”
Burke muttered some vague answer to
this address, and did not seem inclined to
become more sociable. The guardsman
was passing on, but that instant lie caught a
glimps of Lucy Sprague, where she sat half
concealed by her protectress. An expres
sion of pleasant surprise came over his face,
and, after convincing himself hy a quick
elunce that it was impossible to cross the
room, he bowed. Burk was looking at tbe
young girl; he saw the smile accompanied
by a gentle bend of the head with which she
acknowledged his frind’s recognition, and
turned eagerly toward him.
“ Uo yon know the lady ?” he said.
“Know her? of course I do; how beau
tiful she lias grown ! Shall I present you?”
“ Certainly.”
The guardsman looked up. It was not
usual that the fastidious young man before
him permitted an introduction, now lie
seemed eager for it.
“ But you must dance, I can see hy her
face that she is dying for a partner —unfor-
tunately I am engaged.”
“ With all my heart,” replied Burke; “but
who is she ?”
“ An orphan of good descent, and heiress
to a neat fortune. Stewart, the great hank
er, is her guardian and that is his wife, sir.
How her diamonds light up the beauty of
my own sweet friend us 6he leans over her!
There is no fear of losing cast in that quar
ter, she will set half the town crazy in a
month.”
When the next quadrille struck up, Lucy
Sprague stood in the circle with young
Burke; her small feet tremblingto the music
as she waited her turn to dance, and her
cheek glowing with blushes called forth
from the admiring eyes that fell upon her
from every direction, now that her beauty
was rendered very conspicious by the atten
tion of a partner so distinguished.
The dance was over and Burke still lin
gered hy the side of his partner; the wine
which he had drank, the brilliant beauty
that he gazed upon, music and the volup
tuous breath of flowers, all served to excite
his wondrous powers of pleasing. The
warm, wild poetry of his natutc was arous
ed, it burned upon his lips, and gave ex
piession to his eyes. The young girl lis
tened, and it was enough. The ticli tones
of that voice seldom found their way to a
bcait which was not subdued hy their elo
quence and earnestness, for though way
ward and dissipated, Burke was always sin
cere. His faults were the more dangerous
that there was a dash of chivalry and much
that was noble always mingled with them.
“ Shall we dance again,” lie murmured,
“or would you prefer the air of this balco
ny, it overlooks the garden.”
“ The balcony,” she said, with girlish
eagerness, then checking herself she added,
blushing, “the heat is oppressive here.”
Burke lifted the mass of crimson drapery
that fell behind the seat they occupied, and,
flinging open a sash, the young pair step
ped forth to a full view of the moonlight
garden, its shrubbery and the flowers thut
greeted them with their gentle breath. The
music came softly from within, and all
around lay the quiet moonlight. It was a
dangerous hour for the heart of that guile
less creature —dangerous for them both,
for with him love was salvation, or injustice
—with her, life or death ; she was a woman,
and to her love was but the beginning of im
mortality.
Lucy Sprague was alone in her chamber,
her palm yet warm with the clasp of her
partner’s hand when he had whispered
“good night” at the cariage door. There
was music hovering about her senses—not
that which had made her feet tremble on
MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, OCTOBER 28, 1843.
the chalked floor with child-like eagerness
for the dance, hut the heart thrilling music
of a human voice—his voice who bed con
versed with her in the balcony. When she
sunk to sleep that night a smile lay upon
those lips as she dreamed ; it broke over
her whole face like sunlight on a magnolia
flower. It was a dream, a wild sweet vis
ion, and when the sunshine stole through the
cur tains of her hed-chamber, the young girl
awoke smiling, and with a blush on her
cheek, a blush brought there by the memo
ry of visions that had haunted her slumber
—visions of a village church with their
strong light shut out by creeping ivy, and
two persons kneeling together in the holv
calm thus created. She arose and hurried
on her diess,for it seemed late and she was
not certain at what hour young Burke would
call.
“ Lady, Mr. Stewart desires your pres
ence in the library.”
Lucy bent her head to the footman who
had delivered his message, and he turned
away without observing the pallor whirh it
brought to her face. She arose, put aside
the drawing she had been employed upon,
and made several other self-deluding excu
ses for remaining in the room, though her
hand trembled more and more every object
she touched, and her face became absolute
ly pale with apptehension. At length, she
made a despeiate effort and went down,
more nervous and unpleasantly agitated
than she had ever been iti the whole course
of her life. Mr. Stewart was a grave, gen
tlemanly person, who had outlived every
thing like impulsive feeling years before he
became the guardian of that orphan girl.—
She came to him blushing as if she had
done something to be ashamed of. The
banker received his ward conrleously as
ever, though an anxious and stern expres
sion lowered on his forehead, and sat evi
dently pondering some unpleasant subject
in his mind. She knew what it was, and
placed herself in the daikest corner of the
loom, musteiing what courage she might
for an interview which under any circum
stances would have been embarrassing, and
w as now pecunaity so.
For sotne moments the man of business
sat in his easy-chair looking askance at the
changing features of his ward, while he
toyed with the pages of a volume which lay
on a table where his right hand rested, ev
idently wishing to seem occupied with it
alone.
“ I wish to converse with you, Miss
Sprague, on a subject which is far from a
pleasant one to me at least. Mr. Burke lias
just left me.”
He paused as if expecting some reply,
hut Lucy sat with her eyes fixed on the car
pet, and hut for the mutations of her cheek
might not have seemed conscious of his ad
dress.
“ Your silence convinces me of what I
before suspected,” he ssid, more quickly,
“ that the young spendthrift was not author
ized by you to make the assertion which lie
did make.”
Lucy looked up now, and the color star
tled to a red crimson on her cheek.
“Mr. Bmke had my permission to speak
with you,” she said with gentle firmness ;
“my full permission; you would not have
been troubled else.”
The banker turned in his chair and look
ed keenly in her face.
“It pains me to hear it,” he said, “for I
can never consent to a union which must
bring you to certain poverty, pet haps to a
worse fate”
Lucy turned pale, but met his eyes firmly,
as one who had made up her mind and was
not capable of abandoning a position once
resolved on. The hanker arose, sat down
on the fatcvil she occupied, and took her
hand with a degree of parental kindness
never exhibited to her before,
“ Let me entreat you,” he said, “recon
sider this matter ; you cannot know the
character ol this young man.”
“ I knnvf it hettei than his detractors ; he
acknowledges Ills faults, he conceals noth
ing,” said the young girl, gaining power of
voice and confidence with each word ; “you
judge him harshly, sir.”
“ 1 judge him as the world judges, with
the expeiieneeof sixty years to aid my ob
servation. 1 know that he will never become
a good man, or a kind husband to any rea
sonable woman, much less to one beautiful,
wurm-hearted and gently nurtured as you
have been.”
Lucy felt the tears start to her eyes, for
some paits of the banker’s speech had
brought to her mind the memory of those
who had indeed nurtured her infancy with
such affection as young parents sometimes
weave about an only child. She fell how
beautiful a feeling domestic love was ; how
much of heaven might be gathered under
our roof, and these reflections did not aid
the banker in his attempt to dissuade her
from the heart-dream which had in truth be
wildered her better judgement.
“ He is poor and extravagaut,” presisted
the banker, mistaking the source of her
emotion.
“ I have money enough for both ; his fine
taste need not be thwarted,” was the gen
erous reply.
The hanker pressed lils lips together,
for her firmness disturbed even his philoso
phy.
** A wine drinker, a heartless profligate
u> every thing.”
“Nj, heartless he is not —it is unjust,
cruel, he does not deserve it—if he weie all
this, 1 have one firm defence to make for
what I intend to do !” she broke off and
her cheek became ciimson beneath the tears
that flowed over it.
“ May I inquire what that reason is ?”
said the banker.
“ 1 love him !”
“ And are doubtless persuaded that he
seeks you from love in teturn, and not for
the thousands left hy your father.”
There was a touch of sarcasm in the bank
er’s voice, and it fell harshly on the snug
gling heart of his ward.
“ I know that he loves me for myself alone.
T am as certain of it ns lhat my pulse beats,
or my voice is now filling your ear—-I want
no belter proof than beats in my own bosom
—heart answers to heart in this !”
There W'as something beautiful in the
confidence which filled that young heait—
beautiful but dangerous ; for a moment the
coltl eye of her guardian lighted up with ad
miration, but heßaw the precipice on which
she was standing, and proved how deeply his
inteiest was enlisted in her welfare by the
trouble which he took to diag her away.
“ I cannot consent to this sacrifice— will
not consent.”
“ I grieve that this is yourdetermination,”
said Lucy, with meak dignity, “butmyword
—my soul is pledged, 1 cannot war forever
against his pleading and my own heart.—
He has faults—l acknowledge he has—no
one can admit that moie frankly than
himself, but he will amend them. You do
not know how warm and true his nature is!”
The banker shook his head.
“ Let it be so, then,” she added, smiling
through her tears, “ I can love him spite of
his faults.”
“ This is sheer infatuation,” muttered the
hanker, pacing up and down the library af
ter his ward had left him, “but if she will
fling herself away I am exonerated—there
is no legal power by which it can be preven
ted.
That dream was accomplished in the
estate.’
that dangerous man. The good pastor who
had held her at the baptismal fount pronoun
ced the words of union, but his voice broke
and he looked compassionately on the young
cirature kneeling at his feet, as if the task
w hich he was performing was painful to his
goou heart. The ivy that crept over the lit
tle porch, and the tall windows were filled
with a dirge-like wind, and the tablet sutik
in the wall to her parents seemed like a
scroll written over with reproaches.
She stood up, with the golden ciiclet on
her finger, lire veil of Mechlin lace swept to
her feet, and the peails on her neck lay mo
tionless in the dim light. But when the
bridegroom pressed his lips upon her hand
and whispered a few words unheared by the
rest—the pearls heaved upon the rosy swell
of her throat, a happy blush shone through
the gossamer veil, and when she went forth,
when the hells pealed a welcome and chil
dren scattered a carpet of blossoms under
her feet from the church dooi to the car
riage; when the horses crushed them as
they dashed off, a happier bride could never
have breathed than Lucy Burke. And if
love— true, warm-hearted, ill-regulated love
—could render a heart happy hers might
well be so; for if ever a human being doted
on another, with the whole strength of his
manhood, that being was Thomas Burke.-
She did him no move than justice there;
his thoughts were all on the young and love
ly woman he had w edded ; not on her pos
sessions—possessions which had now be
come his own, save a trifling settlement pre
pared without her knowledge hy the guar
dian, and signed unread hy the husband.
No, no, Thomas Burke cared nothing for
the money ; it would have been better, per
haps, if he had indeed possessed more of
the mercenary character imputed to him.
“My wife—my own sweet wife !’’ How
stiongly though musical the words fell up
on her ear—how full of brooding tender
ness were the soft eyes that dared not look
upon the face of llat manly made husband
—so young, so gloriously beautiful—turned
upon her with all that wealth of tenderness
beaming through ! They sat in silence, for
the full tranquility which brooded in theii
hearts was unfitted for any eflbrt at conver
sation, save the fragmentary symbols so
gently endearing which now nnd then broke
from ihe lips as with linked hands llie hus
band nnd wife looked forth ou the'dewy
morning together.
How changed every thing seems here,”
murmured the bride : “ 1 did not know that
our own home was so full of pleasant ob
jects ; the garden smiles like an Eden this
morning.”
“It is an Eden, and here,” said the young
husband, kissing the forehead uplifted to his
face, “ here is my Eve—Adam never fell
for one more lovely.”
“ But may not the tempter creep in ?”
It was a vague question, brought on by
thoughts of her guardian’s caution, nnd Lu
cy repented having spoken it before the
words had left her lips, but he only kissed
her again, nnd observed,
” Not while we love each other thus.”
They went into the house together, and
sat down to breakfast, happy and confident
in the future.
A year went by, Lucy Butke was in town
once more, the most flattered beauty of a
season. Her husband, too, was there ;
thoughtful manhood and happiness, pure
and deep, had given new dignity to his per
son and a more finished grace In his manner.
No man about town was more popular.—
There was none who gave such suppers, or
entertained his friends so lavishly. His es
tablishment was kept up on the most ex-
Censive scale ; his horses were unrivalled,
is equipage remarkable for its costliness,
its splendor and the exquisite taste which
even in magnificence avoided gotgeousness.
Lucy’s fortune had not been enormous at
first, though fully sufficient for splendor and
occasional piodigalitv, but the style kept up
in her home was princely, and could only
have been warranted by the most abundant
supply of money. Still the generous wo
man was happy; she knew herself to have
been rich, and with no idea of the relative
value of money and that which it purchases,
never dreamed that her possessions were
melting away like snow in llie warm sun
shine. She was flattered in the world, fol
lowed after and caressed to a degree that
could not fail to excite her self love, espe
cially as she sow it gratified her husband.
He was still toberlhe first and dearest ob
ject in existence ; no music came to her ear
so sweetly ns his footfall on the stairs, when
she could retire to her dressing-room and
think of him in peace ; no sight gladden
her eye so surely as a glimpse of his fine
pet son as she rode through the Paik or pass
ed him in her carriage while standing on
club-house steps. Amid all her triumphs,
all her splendor, the well spring of her young
heart was kept pine and free. The little
hour spent with her husband over the break
fast table, in her pretty morning-gown and
her delicate, face shaded by a deeply bor
dered cap of cosily lace, was the most pre
cious hour of the twenty-four to her. She
hud not yet repented the choice she had
made, and wrote her guaidian so.
And Thomas Burke, was he changed in
his love of that generous woman ?
No, no—changed lie might he, hut not in
his love for liet—there lie kept firm, though
his old habits were crcepiner iusiduimsiv
■ ru\ r% O | ..... •** --*•— -“■ -- -’- ~*
meltit.g from his heart beneath the influ
ence of a town life and old associations.
At length ihis alteiation in his habits
forced ilself on the attention of his wife.
A shadow fell upon her heart, and occasion
ally her sweet face took a care-worn ex
pression ; but with the anxiety came a
strength and fervency of affection unknown
in her heart before. She kept her pledge
and did most truly love him in spite of hi?
faults.
Lucy was silting alone in her dressing
mom one night—for she never allowed her
self to retire until he returned home —she
had taken a bonk and turned its leaves
somewhat nervously, for hour after hour
was wearing away and still he came not.
At length, toward daylight, there came a
double knock at the street door, which arous
ed the beautiful watcher, who had fallen
asleep in her chair with her cheek nestled
against the swansdown that lined her dress
ing robe. She started up—a pleasant smile
stole to her before drowsy eyes, and she
hastened to hear the porter unclose the door.
He was too sound asleep in his leathern
chair, and when tbe knock was again re
peated Lucy girded the dressing gown a
round her waist with a silken cord which be
longed to the festal garments she had just
flung off, and taking a lamp hurried down
stair®. She opened the door and there stood
her hiishutul flushed with wine ; his hat ofl
and the masses of raven hair falling over
his brow damp and disheveled. He stoop
ed unsteadily, and mode a random eflbrt to
rescue his beaver from the ground. Lucy
shrunk back, and every vestige of color left
her face ; he came into the ball, stumbling
as be walked, holding out his bend to greet
her with a vague smile which seemed fear
fully out of place on those soulless features.
Lucv glanced hurriedly toward tbe por
ter’s chair. The occupant was sound
asleep, breathing deep end full, like a man
detcimined on his entire measure ot rest,
let circumstances go as they might.
Lucy looked upon bis unconsciousness
with a sense of relief. He need not be a
witness to the degradation of his master ;
this thing could never happen again nnd no
one would have seen it hut herself. Poor
Lucy Buikc! she knew for the first time
how heavily lies the knowledge we would
forget, but have not the power. A world of
suffering passed through that gentle heait
while she was gazing in the face of her hus
band, that face so pule and unnatural in its
expression.
She took his arm soothingly and led him
upstairs to her dressing-mom. He flung
himself into the deep chair which she had
just left, smiled in her face with an expres
sion that made her heart sick, Btid fall
ing heavily hack sunk to sleep on the cush
ion lhat had supported her, with his head
resting on the crimson velvet yet warm from
the pressure of her cheek.
The poor wife stood gazing sorrow fully
upon him, her meek eyes were full of tears,
and after a little she stole away to a corner
of the room, knelt down by a pile of cush
ions, and, smothering her sobs in their silk
en billows, seemed to be prayiug with pain
ful intensity. At length she arose to her
feet, with an air of gentle'resignation, apd
gliding toward her husband, who still slum
bered on in the dull heavy 6leep of inebriety,
WM. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR.
she bent down and removing the damp
hair from his forehead, kissed it. Then
stole away into her bedchamber and remain
ed till morning in its gorgeous gloom watch
ing him through the open door, but herself
concealed all the time lest he might awake
and he nbasbtd in her presence. ,
Alas ! poor wife, this unhappy night was
but the prelude to many more equally wear
ing, equally humiliating to that true heart.
And now the beautiful face of Lucy
Burke grew anxious w ith cat e and suffering.
She no longer fiequented the gay circles
that would have won her foith from the
splendid solitude in which her days were
spent, buther step grew languid in that sump
tuous home, her rneek eyes dim with watch
ing. Almost every night lhat irregular
knock summoned her to he the witness of
her husband’s degradation. But she hop
ed on, whispering to herself, “it will be
better soon, my true love must win him
hack, for I do love him in spite of ius
faults.”
The guardian’s prophecy was accom
plished at length. Ruin,total and irretrieva
ble ruin, swept over the thoughtless hus
band. Ruin that overthrew the household
gods from his hearthstone and left his young
wife standing amid the fragments, astound
ed by the magnitude of difficulties that sur
rounded her ; terrified by a dread of losing
the object dearest to her on earth by some
act of that law which crushes the poor man
as it does tbe fallen, she sat trembling with
in bet desolate home, miserable, but firm in
the deep affection that no prosperity ormis
foi tune could shake for an instant.
1 he last and most cruel blow came—her
husband was in prison. When the young
wife heard this she arose, gathered het man
tle about her, and went forth into the street
on foot and unattended.
There is in the heart of London a huge
building, dark and fearfully gloomy, uprear
ing itself and frowning over the cheerful
dwellings and beautiful specimens of archi
tecture that surround it like a blasted fort
ress cumbering a beautiful country with its
prison-Housers enough to make tbe soul
shudder. Many a wretched heart has with
ered within its walls or broken in the in
teuse agony of its sufferings; many a head
has turned gray while watching those damp,
naked wells, year after year, till hope and “
oven wish for liberty grew feeble with suf
fering. Man’s inhumanity to his fellow
creatures was written on every massive
wall, sunk deep in the cold flags worn by
ti e prisoner’s foot. There Shylnck credi
tors demand their poud of flesh, and there
profligate, the unfortunate and the poverty
stricken herded alike in gloom and misery.
There the villain gloried in his sin; un
blushing voice chuckled over former evil
deeds close by the honest unfortunate, who,
bowed down by thame and sorrow, ate
his scanty poition in tears, longing fora
grave scarcely mote terrible than that which
immured him.
Within these walls, a prisoner, with no
hopes of releuse, lay Thomas Buike. They
had given him a cell to himself, and therein
solitude he lay tossing to and fro on his
straw pallet; evei and anon lie sat up and
looked oponTlie bolted door with bloodshot
eyes anjljifni that trembled as lie gazed.
She'came at last, and the sound of her
footfall on his dungeon floor stole to that fe
verish heart like dew upon a bruited flower.
The young wife sat down by bis couch
and tried to force buck tbe tears that lay so
heavily on her heart, but as she laid her
hand upon bis forehead and gazed into his
face, so changed with ihe midnight revel
nnd his own bitter thoughts that a strang
er had not recognized it, sobs burst from
her bosom, and bending down she kissed
him again and again, as if she feared that
he might deem them a reproach.
He turned away and muttered hoarsely
to himself.
“ Can nothing be done—must we remain
here forever ?” said the wife, couqueriug
her tears.
The young man sat up and made an ef
fort to appear calm.
“ Leave me, Lucy,” he said, “ lenve roc
to the fate 1 have well merited. You are
not quite destitute. Thanks to your guai
dian for that—not to me, wretch that I am
1 never thought of providing for you—l
who loved you so—”
Lucy slatted up and a flood of joy rush
ed over her face.
“ And have we any thing left T where ?
how ? tell me, my husband. 1 thought thaV
all was gone.”
“ There is a settlement of some thousands,.
Ido not know how many, hut enough for
your comfoit. So he told me at tbe time—
I never read it!”
Lucy did not hear him out, she started
up,tiedon her bonnet with hands that trem
bled like aspens, and knocked hurriedly on
the door. They let her out and Burke was
alone again.
“She, too, has left me,” he muttered in a
choked voice, and falling back on his coucht
he wept like a child.
Once more the young w ife stood before
her guardian, not with the warm confidence
which had formei ly strengthened her in that
presence, but trembling like a frightened
bird, and pale with terror lest her suit might
’ he denied.
It was denied, at first sternly and with
woids of calm reproach, but hete waa
| NUMBER 31.