Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

2 “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.