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had forgotten it.’’ Oh! grief, oh! temp
tation, to forget! He sinks on his knees;
oovers his face with his hands, and weeps!
he prayed for strength, and an inner
voice, not to be misunderstood, whispers:
“Thy vow !” Yes, it must be fulfilled to
the letter, cost what it may! It will
wring his heart; but a vow is sacred !
Slowly lie arose from his kdees, with
happiness crushed, and a swelling heaj’t.
He casts one longing look towards the
cottages ; then, with a firm resolve, turns
from them, and descends the hill on the
other side.
He remembered an elm tree, hollowed
out by age, which stood in a secluded
place, not far from the sea-shore, and, by
the foot of which, a clear fountain took its
source. Thither lie directed his steps,
and determined to spend his year of dire
trial.
During his slavery, his beard and hair
bad grown to a great length, and his
face had been bronzed and furrowed by
exposure and care ; and now, having ar
ranged a hermit’s cowl and robe, which
mostly concealed his features and his
youthful form, he felt that he was safe
from recognition. A cord around his
waist, and a small cross, carved from a
bit of bone, and hung around his neck,
completed his attire. His small cell was
as easily furnished; his bed was an arm
ful of dried leaves, a large rock for a seat,
aud above the entrance of his cell a rough
cross, from two limbs of the tree tied to
gether with a cord ; this constituted all
he had. Very few minutes sufficed to
complete the arrangements for his house
keeping; and, for his first meal, muscles
from the seashore, and a handful of ehes
nuts, afforded better food than he had
often had. It was not long before he was
seen, and the report was rapidly and joy
fully spread, that a holy Hermit had
fixed his abode close by the village, and
had selected the old traditional Elm tree
for his dwelling place. Offerings were
soon brought to him, but he refused all,
save a few chesnuts, or some fruit; and
this enhanced his sanctity in the eyes of
the people, and great and many were the
things related of him, especially as he
spoke but little. For a long time he
was the sole subject of conversation among
the old crones, and, indeed, among the
younger ones too. Who was he? whence
had he come ? was he a man or a spirit ?
was lie a Saint, allowed to revisit the
Earth for their own special benefit? Some
had seen his likeness painted in some dis
tant Church, and knew him to be an old
Saint, who had been martyred centuries
ago! Others had his picture in their
prayer-book ' But, all agreed that he
must be a very holy man, for he spoke
so little.
Poor Jerome ! how often he recognised
old acquaintances among his visitors,
and turned his head, or disguised his
voice, not to be known. Fishermen, his
former companions and friends, whose
hands he longed to grasp, came, with a
modest offering of shell-fish, to propitiate
the holy man; to consult him as to the
best time for going out; or to ask his
prayers for their success. They all went
off with a few kind words of advice and
promise of prayers ; and, be it chance or
not, they usually came back "with boats
well laden with fish. Was it Jerome’s
skillful advice, or the Hermit’s holy
prayers, which filled the boats ? Who
can doubt this ? Indeed, ’twere sinful to
doubt, for hundreds could testify to the
miracles he had performed, and to the ful
filment of one or two wonderful prophe
cies ! But, Jerome’s heart was too pure
and too humble to appropriate any share
of these, and when he was told that his
touch had cured a sick child, or had
made a limping woman limp a little less,
or that his prophecy that a certain miss
ing vessel would return, if not lost, had
just been fulfilled, by the safe arrival of
the identical vessel, he meekly bowed
his head, and thanked the good old Saint,
whose intercession in bis favor had given
him that power.
One day, while seated in his cell, he
had, for the time, weaned his heart
from all earthly thought, and laid it hare
at the foot of the Heavenly throne, a voice
from without called him tice: “ Father?
good Father!” Good Heavens! that
voice, as sweet as angels’ music ! how it
brought' back his heart; his thoughts roll
ing, tumbling from Heaven to Earth!
He had recognized Marianne’s voice ;
that voice forever ringing its silver notes
in his ear. His strength failed him; his
limbs refused to support him ; words he
could not utter.
“ Father! good Father!” again repeat
ed the sweet voice—the same which had
so often told him the soft tales of love.
V ith a great effort he found utter
ance for the words, “Come in.’’ But. his
voice was hoarse with emotion, and his
tone rough. Marianne appeared at the
the entrance of the cell. One rapid, un
perceived glance—the first of an idolized
object iti two long years—showed him
the same beautiful Marianne; but, so sad!
Oh! what a trial for the poor heart!
What a temptation to press her to his
heart.
“ Good Hermit ,” she commenced,
and then hesitated.
*• Speak, my daughter,” he replied, in a
hoarse voice, without, however, turning
his head, lest his emotion should betray
him.
‘‘Good Hermit, forgive me for disturb
ing the quietnde of your retreat; but you
are so good, and your sanctity is so great,
and I am so unhappy!”
Scarcely able to contain himself, he
spoke again, in a tone which his very
effort to control rendered hoarse and
severe:
“ Speak quickly.”
Marianne trembled from head to foot.
“ Oh! good Hermit,, how can I ever
dare tell one so holy a.s you the cause of
all my misery and grief. Two years ago
there lived in our village a young fisher
man, named Jerome, the son of my
father’s venerable friend; he was so good!
so * * and * * and he loved
me * * and * * I loved him,
too, for he was so good. Our fathers
smiled on our love, and we were soon to
have been married ; but, this cruel war
commenced, and Jerome went off as a
sailor, and, since then, Father, we have
never heard of him! Oh! how I prayed
for his safety—for his return! How [
pray every day to our good Mother, the
patroness of all seamen, to bring him
back to me! Oh! good Hermit, you are
so holy, pray, oh! pray for him, for your
prayers will be heard.”
St. Jerome! St. Jerome! good old
Saint, strengthen thy protege! for love is
fearfully struggling against religion!”
But, St. Jerome is there, and religion
triumphs.
“I will,” curtly replies the Hermit.
‘‘One word, good Father. You, who
know everything, tell me! oh! tell me,
will he come back ?”
“Hope in Heaven!”
Marianne left the cell. How little of
an Hermit was there now ! With eyes
filled with tears, he watched her retreat
ing form until it disappeared behind the
hill. What strength of mind—what
power of faith—it required to come out
triumphant from such a trial! But, alas!
the struggle left a lacerated heart and a
bewildered mind, and that evening his
prayers were as often addressed to Ma
rianne as to God. How sad aud dreary
his cell appeared to him after that Heaven
ly visit. Often, after that, he would take
his seat outside of his cell, in the shade of
the old Elm, -with his eyes rivetted on the
path which led over the hill, towards the
village, hoping always, and yet dreading,
to see her again, for he feared his
strength might fail him.
Many others came to him; and, even,
one day, his own old gray-haired father
came to ask the Hermit of the Elm
whether ac should again see his son, ere
he sank to his grave ? This was another
struggle, scarcely less trying than the
first, but Jerome came out triumphant.
One afternoon, while thus seated be
neath the old Elm, he espied the well
form of Marianne coming down the
pathway. His heart leapt with joy and
fear, and beat as though it would burst
through flesh and bones, hut he had suffi
cient presence of mind to say an “Ave,"
and to call on St. Jerome for aid, and
when she spoke to him he was strength
ened. Marianne was even sadder than
the first time, and her cheeks were pale
and her eyes red from continued weep
ing. Oh ! why could lie not press a warm
kiss on those cheeks, and bring back to
them their wonted bloom ! But, this was
scarcely a fit thought for a holy Ccnobite.
“Good Hermit,” she commenced, “par
don me for again turning your pious mind
from thoughts of Heaven to things of this
world, but, you are so good, you will
have pity on the unhappiness ot a poor
girl like me, though foolish it may seem
to you. Oh! good Father, I am so un
happy! Jerome, the young sailor, of
whom I spoke to you, has not yet returned,
and we cannot hear from him, nor from
the ship on which he served. I know lie
is alive, for you have told me to hope.
But, my father wishes me to marry an
other one, whom I cannot love. How
could I love him after having known
Jerome ? (Holy St. Jerome, strengthen
the lan. How else can he resist?) My
father thinks Jerome is dead, or, if
alive, cares no more for me. Alas! is
it so ? Holy Hermit, you whom Heaven
inspires, oh! tell me if lie still loves
me!”
“ He does! he does ! better than life !”
cried the holy Hermit, forgetting for a
second his cowl and gown, with a vehe
mence which might have betrayed him.
Then, he added in his usual tone: “He
loves thee, and will return.”
Marianne, bursting into tears, cried
out: “Oh! thanks! thanks, good Father!
I am so happy now, for you would not
deceive me.”
A few days after this trying conver-
Mills ®S Tis B®TOL
sation, the poor Marianne again returned,
sadder than ever. She confided to the
holy man that her father would not be
lieve that Jerome was alive and loved
her, whatever she could tell him to the
contrary —for she felt, in her heart, that
it was so—and he insisted and com
manded that she should marry the rich
farmer who sought her hand, and that he
had even appointed a day for the wedding.
“Oh! good Hermit, what am I to do ?
Must I obey my father ? Must I be
untrue to Jerome ? What must Ido ?”
Poor Hermit, what is he to do ? Two
months must elapse ere his cruel term
expires. If he persevere in his Hermit
age, in that time Marianne will be for
ever lost to him; if he discloses himself,
he breaks his vow, and fearful would
be the consequences. What a terrible
dilemma! But his dear old Patron did
not abandon him; he whispered advice
into his ear, and the Hermit spoke :
“Tell thy father to postpone thy mar
riage until the day of St. Martha. I
shall pray, and Jerome will return.”
Marianne returned to her home, and
with the aid of Jerome’s father, she at
last drew from her father a reluctant
consent that her marriage should be
postponed until the day of St. Martha,
but not a day later.
Marianne had faith in the promise
of the old Hermit, and her heart was
lightened; but, old Anselm shrugged his
shoulders, and called her foolish.
One month had passed over, and Je
rome had not arrived. Each day Ma
rianna looked for him, and each day added
its weight of disappointment upon her
heart. Each night, as she cried herself
to sleep, she would say : “ He will come
to-morrow.” But, to-morrow came, and
brought no Jerome.
Six weeks have gone ! Seven weeks!
St. Martha’s dav is next week, and her
father is inexorable! Not another day
will he allow ; indeed, he said he was a
fool to have waited so long.
Marianne’s cheeks are deathly pale;
her checks are red ! “ Hermit! Hermit!
hast thou deceived me ?”
St. Martha’s is only two days oft*. One
more visit of despair to the old Hermit.
“ Hope !” said he, “my daughter ;
hope and have faith.”
The eve of St. Martha has come, and
gone ! that night Marianne spent in
prayer. The morning dawns, and Je
rome has not come !
“Hermit! Hermit! thou hast deceived
me !” was the cry of the poor breaking
heart.
The preparation for a gay wedding had
been made; all the young folks of the vil
lage and neighborhood had assembled;
they formed a long procession to escort
the bride and groom to the Church. Poor
Marianne, more dead than alive, scarcely
conscious of what was going on, ‘hoping
against hope’ to the last moment.
They reached the Church —Anselm
and the groom supporting the tottering
form of the poor victim. The kneel be
fore the Altar, and the crowd collects
around. The venerable old Cure, in his
vestments of office, advances to perform
the ceremony. The deepest silence pre
vails in the Church, a pin could have been
heard to drop, for the anguish in the
bride’sdieart is no secret, and all sympa
thize with her. Marianne feels a death
like faintness coming over her—she hopes
it is death about, to relieve her from her
misery. But, her ear catches a sound
at the door of the Church—a rapid step
—a few words pass from mouth to mouth,
and reach her car : “ The Hermit of the
Elm.”
She springs up, to find herself in the
arms of the Holy Hermit, who cries out:
“ Marianne! my own Marianne!”
Cruel Jerome!
The cowl is thrown aside, and the well
known features of the lost Jerome are re
vealed to the astounded crowd !
“ Forgive me, Marianne ! forgive me,
Father! all! A vow—a solemn vow!
It expired to-day!”
Is it necessary to say, that the Her
mit’s gown was soon thrown aside to make
place for a groom’s surtout; and the boys
and girls were not disappointed in their,
dances and festivities. It was the hap
piest day ever witnessed in the village,
except for the disappointed farmer, who,
however, joined in with good grace, if not
joy.
.*
“ Dora,” says she has been readiugtwo
volumes of “The Blood-stained Lamp
glass; or, the Kerosene Courser ol the
Koural Mountains,” and it is so horrible
she cannot go on with the third volume,
but wishes us to read it, and tel! her
whether the “ Bounding Baron” marries
the “ White Widow,” or whether she
poisons herself with the Government
Gazette. We will think it over, Dora.
Melbourne Punch.
When does a horse become a landed
estate ? When he is turned into & field.
lT y b l o m e~& c 07,
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The Southern Review. —One of the
ablest conducted Reviews in this or ai.
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Baltimore, Md., published by Messrs. Bled
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ceipt of GO cents. The following is tl;
Table of Contents of the October lim
ber, embraced in about 260 pages :
I. Alexander H. Stephens ou the War.
11. Lettice Knollys.
111. The Northern Church.
IV. Bellearius.
V. Two Recent Poems.
VI. Brownson’s American Republic.
VII. riaten’s Poems.
VIII. Classification in Natural History
IX. Book Notices.
Advertising Pages.
C ON'TENTS OF TUB UNITED STATE
Musical Review. —The October num
ber of this valuable musical monthly,
contains thirteen pages of reading ma
ter, divided as follows:
Poetry: The Harper’s Grave, and a
Day by Day—Gretry’s Childhood, from
“La France Musicale ’ —Anecdote of
Rossini—Our Village Annals—Samuel
Lover—The Hand-Organ—The Aut
grapli of Handel’s “Messiah”—itemini--
cences oi Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdv
—Haydn and Hans Sachs—The Ear’
Years of Meyerbeer—Review of Nov--
Music, etc., etc.
In addition to this, it gives the follow
ing choice selection of new Music : Je
sie Dean , Song and Chorus, by Will.
S. Hays —Smile To-day and, Frow,
To-Morrow, Ballad, by H. P. Danks—a
Beautiful Waltz, by E. Mack, entith u
Perpetual Rose , and the Cinnamon Rm
Polka, by Ch. Kinkel.
Sample copies, 25 cts., or $2 per yea:
Address, J. L‘ Peters, P. O. Box 5329
New York.
Sermons.—Father Ryan commenced,
on Sunday last, a series of Sermon
having for their subject The Blessed
Virgin Mother of God, connecting her
with the history of the world, of our
Saviour, and of the Church. The series
will continue through the month o:
October, and, if not finished then, in ;
the month of November.
The Earls of Sutherland.—We can
still furnish a few copies of the back
numbers with the first chapters of tkk
thrilling and highly interesting story. It
is written by a lady of Georgia express}
fur the Banner, of the South.
A Pamphlet.— “ Fire and Inland M
rine Losses Paid by the Underwriter.
Agency of New York, 1866,1867.” W
have received a copy of a very nea
printed Pamphlet, with the above title.
To Our Readers. —Father Ryan's
disposition during the past week is .
excuse for the paucity of Editorials in f
week's issue.
Jewelry. —We invite attention to "v
I’rontaut’s advertisement in this week
Banner.
KENTUCKY CORRESPONDENCE
OF THE BANNER OF THE SOUTH.
Maysvili.e, Ky., Sept. 25,1868.
Banner of the South:
In your issue of Sept. 19, I find y
desire for regular correspondence, fr
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ance with your wish, I write you, hopi- -
that you will find my communication
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As this is my first appearance be? -
your readers, it may not be inappropriate