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“With Arthur, in his room,’ replied
lio'Hc.
“Why do they not come in here ?
asked Emily. t
Regie hesitated a moment, and then
said :
“Arthur is not well; in fact, he is
threatened with brain fever. I came to
see if you were all well, and now I will
try to find a physician for Arthur.”
“If he is ill, I must go to him,” said
Emily, rising.
“Yes, go to him, dear cousin, you will
find his room more habitable than this one,
and your presence may calm his excite
ment. I will be back as quickly as pos
sible.”
“As lie stepped into the street, what a
scene of desolation met his eye ! On
every side, were heaps of ruins, with,
here and there, a solitary house left stand
ing, as if to guard those lying at its
feet. Soon he found himself in the
square fronting the Ravenna palace, and
involuntarily cast his eyes towards the
house. Naught obstructed his vision;
the magnificent palace lay one vast heap
of ruins. And the gay guests, the
beautiful Magnolia, where are they ?
Did they seek a place of safety, or, are
they buried beneath the ruins ?
Breaking the death-like stillness that
reigned around the spot, there fell upon
his ear piteous sobs and broken ejacula
tions of prayer. He crossed over to the
palace, and "beheld, sitting on a remnant
of the marble steps, £ young girl, sup
porting on her arm the head of an aged
man. A lurid glare, which had accompa
nied the earthquake, still lit up the
heavens, rendering the scene plainly
visible. The young girl seemed not more
than seventeen, and, though she might
have been pretty at any other time, she
certainly was not so now. Her light hair
was in the wildest disorder; her blue
eyes dilated with the extreraest intensity
of terror; her cheeks and lips were
blanched to a marble whiteness; alto
gether, she presented a picture of absolute
despair. The- one who rested on her
arm seemed as though he had seen
scarcely less than eighty years; his long
hair and beard were white as snow ; his
face thin, and very pale. For one mo
ment, Regie hesitated whether to continue
his search for a physician, or to stop and
assist these helpless ones —the one help
less in her youth, the other in his extreme
old ago. His step roused the young
girl, she lifted her eyes from the poor old
face resting on her arm, and saw Regi
nald.
“Oli! sir,” she exclaimed, cntreatingly,
“you will help us, will you not ? Sec, my
uncle is insensible, if not dead, and all
those who were in our house, have either
fled, or arc buried beneath those stones.
Will you help us ?*’
“Willingly !” answered Regie ; “let me
but find the physician I am now in search
of, and I will instantly return to convey
your uncle and yourself to my hotel,
which, fortunately, is still standing.”
He turned from them, and again reach
ing the middle of the street, which af
forded better walking, pursued his search.
Not far had he gone, before he met with
the person, above all others, whom he
most earnestly desired to see—a physi
cian of his acquaintance, accompanied by
three stout porters.
“Where can you be going V' inquired
the physician, as Regie stood before him;
“you can scarcely have come on the same
errand as myself. You sec I have here
three stout men; after the awful calamity
that lias just occurred, it is very likely we
will meet many who stand in need of
their strength and my skill.”
“Well met, Doctor,” replied Regie ;
"I was looking for a physician ; one of
my brothers is very ill; but here is a
young lady, and an aged man; have
them conveyed to my hotel instantly, and
you can attend upon them all.”
A few steps brought them to the side
of the young lady, who was still sitting
on the steps
“What a ruin ! This is the Ravenna
Palace, and the house was crowded last
night,” exclaimed Dr. Salerno, as he
looked at the ruins.
The porters lifted the old man in their
arms, and Reginald drew the young girl’s
handover his arm. whispering, “Y T oumay
have perfect confidence in me, lady ; I
am an Englishman ; my name isßeginald
Sutherland.”
“Reginald Sutherland!” echoed the
Ddy, in a tone of pleased surprise, and
speaking in English, “oh! yes, 1 can
trust Reginald Sutherland
“She seems to know my name,”
thought Regie, “and, yet, I am sure I
.have never seen her before; who cam she
be ?”
And then the Doctor asked for the
Countess.
“Do you know where the Countess
Guilia is, Sig'nora ?”
“No !” And Regie felt her slight
frame shiver, and she drew more closely
to his side; “many of the guests were
buried in the ruins; do you think she
was among them ?” She looked up
eagerly in his face.
‘Amu were one of the guests ?”
“Oh! no, I was in my own room, with
my uncle, when I felt the first shock ;
then one of the walls of the room fell in,
and we made our escape through the
aperture ; how we got out, I can scarcely
tell ;• I first recollected myself, when
uncle fell against me insensible, that is all
I can tell you. lam very weak!” and
she leaned heavily on Regie’s arm.
By this time, they had reached the
hotel; the old man was taken into a vacant
room, and Dr. Salerno proceeded to ex
amine his injuries. The bruises were
but slight, not sufficient to cause such
entire insensibility, but his frame showed
a degree of emaciation painful to behold.
“Has he been ill ?” asked the Doctor.
“No, sir!” replied the young girl, with
a burst of tears, “he has been starving !”
“Can that be possible ? and, yet, he
looks like it.” Taking a small llask from
liis pocket, the Doctor forced a few drops
of wine into the mouth of the old man.
“Starving, did you say ?—who is he ?”
Reginald had been racking his brain
for something soothing to say to the
weeping girl, and now he said :
“I have a cousin here; I will bring her
to you,” and he hastily left the room.
“Who is this ?” asked the Doctor
again.
“He is my uncle, sir; the Countess is
my—my —aunt, sir.”
“What! is he the Countess’ brother ?
or, her father, perhaps?”
But, now, the returning* animation of
the old gentleman demanded all his care,
and, just at this moment, Regie entered
the room, accompanied by Emily and
Marmaduke. The fair stranger turned
instinctively to one of her own sex, a mo
ment of hesitation, and then the two girls
rushed into each other’s arms.
“Oh! Emily!” she gasped, sobbing
hysterically.
“Why, Ellio! Elbe Montague! is it
possible ? Come with me, dear; Genie is
in my room, and Arthur ; don’t you re
member, Arthur came for me at Mad
ame’s ? Cousin ’Duke, this is a dear
friend of mine. Come to my room,
Ellic.”
Emily was unusually excited, but the
sudden appearance of her schoolmate,
after the exciting events of the past few
hours, was too much even for her usually
steady nerves.
“But, uncle?” objected Elbe.
“Go, my child,” said the Doctor, “your
uncle will do well enough ; lam glad you
are with aid friends,” and Ellie willingly
allowed herself to be led away r by Emily.
“Emily called her Montague, did she
not ?” asked Marmaduke.
“That was the name,” answered the
Doctor.
“Then, indeed, I am not mistaken,”
said Marmaduke, bending over the pros
trate form. The brightening eyes met his
with a questioning look.
“Sir Howard Montague, look at me ;
you are with friends,” said Marmaduke,
“do you know me ?”
A puzzled look overspread the old
man’s face, and then, holding out hh
hand, he said :
“Yes, I know you; you are my old
friend, Sutherland, of Sutherland Hall.”
Marmaduke returned the pressure of
his hand, as he replied :
“Not the Earl, sir ; but, his eldest son,
Marmaduke. I was but a boy when you
left England.”
“His eldest son?” repeated Sir Howard,
dropping Marmaduke’s hand; “tell me
what horrible memory it is that presses
on my brain, as I think of his eldest
son ?”
“Think of nothing, now, dear sir,” said
Regie, drawing Marmaduke aside, “but
that you are with friends. Here, drink
this glass of wine, and I think we will
do well enough without the Doctor.
’Duke, take Dr. Salerno to see Arthur.”
Quietly, Sir Howard obeyed the direc
tions of his youthful nurse, and, in a few
minutes, the narcotic that had been ad
ministered in the wine, threw him into a
peaceful slumber.
[to be continued.]
Etiquette requires, in the Chinese con
versation, that each should compliment
the other and everybody belonging to
him in the most laudatory style, and de
preciate himself, with all pertaining to
him, to the lowest possible point. The
following is no exaggeration, though not
the precise words :
“What is your honorable name?”
“My insignificant appellation is
Chang.”
“Where is your magnificent palace ?”
“My contemptible hut is at Luchan.”
“How many are your illustrious chil
dren ?”
“My vile, worthless brats are five.”
“How is the ahealth of your distin
guished spouse ?”
“My mean, good-for-nothing woman is
well.”
■Mini of mar sews;
From the New Orleans Picayune.
Woman’s Work.
Darning little Stockings
For restless little feet;
Washing little faces,
To keep them fresh and sweet;
Hearing Bible lessons,
Teaching catechism,
Praying for salvation
From heresy and schism,
Woman’s work!
Sewing on the buttons,
Overseeing rations,
Soothing, with a kind word,
Others’ lamentations;
Guiding clumsy servants,
Coaxing sullen cooks,
Entertaining company,
And reading recent books,
Woman’s work!
Burying out of sight
Her own unhealing smarts;
Letting in the sunshine
On other clouded hearts;
• Binding up the wounded,
Healing of the sick,
Bravely marching onward
Through dangers dark and thick,
Woman’s work !
Leading little children,
And blessing manhood’s years;
Showing to the sinful
How God’s forgiveness cheers;
Scattering sweet roses
Along another’s path;
Smiling by the wayside,
Content with what she hath,
Woman’s work!
Letting fall her own tears
Where only God can see;
Wiping off another’s
With tender sympathy;
Learning by experience,
Teaching by example;
Yearning for the gateway,
Golden, pearly, ample,
Woman’s work I
At last cometh silence—
A day of deep repose;
Her locks smoothly braided,
Upon her breast a rose;
Lashes resting gently
Upon the marble cheek;
A look of blessed peace
Upon the forehead meek.
The hands softly folded;
The kindly pulses still;
The cold lips know no smile,
The noble heart no thrill;
Her pillow needs no smoothing,
She craveth for no care—
Love’s tenderest entreaty
Wakes no responses there.
A grave in the valley;
Tears, bitter sobs, regret;
Another lesson taught,
That life may not forget;
A face forever hidden,
A race forever run;
“Dust to dust,’’ the Preacher saitli,
And woman’s work is done.
X.vuirTA.
New Orleans, September, 1868.
. THE FROZEN HEART
• -
A FRONTIER SKETCH.
In the western part of the State of
lowa there is a ridge of sharp biutfs,
which, for some distance, flanks the,Mis
souri River. It was here the Indians
met in treaty several years ago, and from
that fact a city has taken its name:
Council Bluffs.
Among the early settlers of this section
of the country there was a family by the
name of Denver, consisting of father and
mother, one son and two daughters, the
eldest of whom was some sixteen years
of age. She was a young creature—
lovely in her innocent goodness, and she
was beloved by a young man named
Edwin Hobart.
Hobart had formed this attachment
for the young creature while she yet
resided in the East; and, when her father
removed to the West, the young man
followed. But he had never been an
especial favorite of the father, and now
he appeared to be less than ever.
Mary Denver had formerly received
the address of the young man with some
degree of favor, but she saw the dislike
her father entertained towards the young
man, and, although she could not give
any’ reason for it, she felt that it could
not be without foundation. So she
frankly informed Hobart that he must
cease to address her, until her father
should feel differently in the matter.
To this Hobart replied :
“ Mary*, I have loved you long and
tenderly—even from my earliest recol
lection. I have carefully examined every
act of my life, and I cannot find an in
tentional dishonest one. I believe your
father’s dislike to myself to be entirely
without foundation. But you know your
own feelings. If you will love me, and
consent to be mine, your father will soon
learn that he hated without a cause. If
y r ou reject me, y’on will send me upon
the world with a frozen heart; and God
only knows, in my impulsiveness, what I
might do, or what would become of me.”
“ This sounds something like a threat,”
returned the girl proudly, and turned
away.
Two nights after the conversation, the
alarm of Indians was driven. Mothers
sprang from their couches, and clasped
their little ones to their bosoms in terror.
Strong men seized their weapons, and
prepared to defend their homes to the
last.
One dwelling was already in flames.
A few shots had been heard, a shriek had
arisen upon the still night air, and then
all was still* save the crackling of the fire.
No other house was molested, and the
Savages appeared to have withdrawn
In a short time the daylight dawned,
and the neighbors began to assemble
around the destroyed home, which proved
to be that belonging to Mr. Denver and
his family.
A search for the inmates was at once
instituted. The mother was found hor
ribly mutilated and scalped. The son
had died nobly fighting, as his wounds
attested, and the youngest daughter was
mangled in an equally horrible manner.
A still further search resulted in the
discovery of Mr. Denver. He had been
scalped, but*still alive, and had crawled
in to a ditch for concealment; but he was
insensible.
All search for Mary was in vain ; she
was nowhere to be found.
Among those present was a young
man, who appeared to be deeply atfected
by this terrible deed, and even wept.
But, drying his tears, lie exclaimed:
“ I must leave tears for women. Men
must think of revenge. Where is Edwin
Hobart ? ”
“ He does not appear to be here.”
“Not here ! He must bo found at
once. He is a young man, like myself,
and must become one of the leaders in
this matter. It shall be followed up to
the bitter end.”
Hobart was nowhere to be found; and
Charles Barry, the weeping man, appeared
somewhat uneasy. Then he hinted his
suspicions, and at last declared openly
that if Hobart did not soon return he
should believe that the deed was com
mitted under his directions, by Savages
whom he had employed. Allusion was
then made to the rejection of Hobart by
Mary, and lie was understood to have
made terrible threats at the time.
Mr. Denver was now able to speak a
few words. He told them that the savages
had done the work, but that he believed
them to be headed by a white man dis
guised.
“ Could that white man have been Ed
win Hobart ?” asked Barry.
Mr. Denver remained silent for a time.
It appeared to be a difficult question to
answer. But he finally said :
“ If Hobart had any motive for doing
this, and I could believe him capable of
committing so terrible a deed, I might
fix the guilt upon him ; for certain it is
that the white man is about the size o '
Hobart, and his movements much the
same.”
“He js the guilty one,” .said Barry;
and, by Heavens, he shall sutler ! I’l.
hunt him to the very end of the earth,
but I will find him, and bring him back.”
The day’ passed, and the excitement
increased in the little settlement. Hobart
was still absent. Scouts had been sent
out, however, in search of him ; and, just
as night was coming on, he was brought
back.
By this time the excitement hac.
reached such a high pitch, that the iufuri
ated people could scarcely be restrained,
from rushing upon him and tearing him
to pieces. But Barry assumed the com
mand, and declared that everything must
be done in order.
The trial was a brief one. Hobart
could explain his absence in no other way
than declaring he had merely been away
on a hunt. This was unsatisfactory.
Just before the decision was given,
an Indian came forward, and offered to
give in his testimony. He was permit
ted to do so, and he declared that Hobart
had tried to hire him, some days before,
to engage in the work, but that he had
declined.
This was enough. The Indian was a
drunken, worthless fellow, but his words
were believed—more especially as the
accused had been recently seen in earnest
conversation with him. Hobart was
condemned to be hung at midnight.
Two hours were to elapse before the
execution was to take place ; during
this time preparations for it must be
made.
Barry had resolved that it should be
a grand affair. An example must be
made of Hobart for the benefit of all such
as should be inclined to do wrong in the
future.
The preparations were completed at
half-past eleven. A gallows had been
erected upon an open field. Around this,
on every side, were heaped up quantities
of brush-wood, forming a circle. These
were to be lighted, and the prisoner then
marched to his doom.
There was no place where Hobart
could be imprisoned with safety, and so
he was firmly bound with ropes, and
placed prostrate ifyon the ground. In
addition to this, heavy chains were placed
upon him, and forked limbs cut f rom
trees, the prongs sharpened, and driven
down into the earth over his limbs. I n
this painful position, the poor accused
was kept for two hours, unable to move
lis face and form flat upon the frosty
earth.
The citizens surrounded him, heaping
their curses upon him, while some would
not even refrain from inflicting b)ow<
upon him, though they felt sure that he
would soon pay the penalty of his crimes
with his life.
Everything in readiness, Hobart was
taken to the fatal spot. The chains
clanked fearfully at every step, and he
staggered under their weight, hut his
bearing was that of a man resolved to
suffer bravely, although in silence.
The fatal noose was placed around his
neck, and then the fires were lighted
The flames shot up, throwing their red
glare all around. And the scene , was a
sickly one.
Ihe doomed man stood erect. His
eyes shone like stars as a gazed upon the
burning masses near him, and the crowd
of angry citizens. His face was very
pale, and wore a deathly 7 hue in the light
of the blazing log; but there were no
marks of fear upon it.
“ Have you any thing to say before
you die ? ” asked Barry.
“Only 7 this,” replied the doomed man,
firmly. “If you ever see Mary alive,
tell her that I loved her to the last, and
that I am innocent of this crime.”
“Up with the wretch !” cried Barry.
“Stay! Let the white nian live!"
exclaimed a commanding voice, and a
huge Indian Chief leaped within the
circle.
“ What wants the Chief ?” asked
Barry, evincing some fear.
“ To speak with your people for *
moment.”
Then turning to them, he continued:
“You are children. The guilty die
not like that man. You should know
this.”
“Is he not guilty ? ” asked a hundred
voices.
“No.”
“ Who is the guilty one ? ”
“Listen, for the Chief speaks truly.
A dog of a pale face came to my warriors
He gave them fire water, and made them
mad. Then he bribed them to do that
deed of blocd, and led them on. He toll
them that they should kill all in that
wigwam but the pale maiden. She had
refused to become bis squaw; but lie
would take her to the mountains and
make her his slave.”
Where is the pale maiden V’ cried
several voices.
“I have brought her back. I cannot
give you back your murdered ones, but
I will give you the dead bodies of those
who murdered them, for I have slain the
breakers of our treaty.”
Mary now entered the circle, and was
the warmest greeting.
But the men asked :
“ Have you killed the white man with
the other murderers ? ”
“ There is the pale face dog."
The Chief pointed to Barry, who at
tempted to escape, but was secured, and
in ten minutes was hanging in the place
he had prepared for Hobart!
The blow was a severe one for all.
Poor Hobart suffered au age of agony
in the few short hours of that night, and
he could not readily’ recover from the
shock. His heart had been frozen : but
Mary, as his wife, warmed it into life
again.
Too Much Reading.—l never knew
but one or two fast readers, and readers
of many books, whose know!* ;dge ms
good for anything. Miss Martineau say
of herself that she is the slowest oi
readers, sometimes a in an hour:
but, then, what she reads, she makes her
own. Sir Erskine Perry said that, in
conversation with Comte, who is one 1 •
the most profound thiukers in Euivp
Comte told him that he read an inerediU
small number of books these last twen'v
years— l forget how many--and scarce y
ever a review. But, then, what Comte
reads lies there fructifying, and coiner
out a living tree, with leaves and frtr.:
Multifarious reading weakens the mm
more than doing- nothing; for, it become
a necessity, at last, like smoking, and y
an excuse to lie dormant, while though
is poured in, and runs through a clour
stream, over unproductive graven 1 :
which not even mosses grow. I do n
- myself as a specimen, for ray uervom
energies are shattered by stump oratory •
its excitement and reaction. But I kn° A
what reading is, for I could read om ■
and I did. 1 read hard, or not at am
never turning aside to more invitm
books; and Plato, Aristotle, Butler-
Thucydides, Sterne, and Jonathan Up
wards, have piassed, like iron at mi* • *
blood, into my mental constitution.—
}V. Hebert son.