Newspaper Page Text
2
wilt find. Come, let us away. Brennus
is no longer here and the place seems
lonely.”
Returning to the house V lrgiha found
the slaves huddled together, with looks
of wild alarm in their eyes, and her usu
ally stately father, pacing the outer court
with rapid, uneven, footsteps. Hasten
ing to his side, with an undefined fear
at her heart, she besought him to tell
to her the cause of his troubled looks.
“ Tis for thee, my daughter, that I
grieve,” said Aruns, drawing a roll of
parchment from his bosom, “behold my
child, this time the lot has fallen upon
thee; thou must become one of the at
tendants in the temple of Vesta!”
,‘Who bids this, my father ?” cried
Yirgilia, with ashen lips.
‘‘Those whose authority may not be
resisted,” replied Aruns; “and even if we
were disposed to try to evade it, ’twould
be too late, for see, those who are to
guard thee to Chisium are already here.”
“Am I to spend my life in dreary
loneliness within the temple of Vesta ?”
moaned Yirgilia, while the petted slaves
of the household gathered around with
sobs and tears; “tell me, my father, is
there no way for me to escape.”
‘ Rut one, my child,” answered Aruns;
“the father of Lucius is all powerful; he
holds the decrees of life and death in
his iiands; he can save thee if he will.”
“Lucius! Then, indeed, I am lost!”
cried Yirgilia, in an agonizing voice.
“ ’Tis from his hand comes this
blow; there is no hope for me 1 011!
Brennus, why art thou not hear to help
me !”
“Upon whom dost thou call, my child?
I know of no god whom we call Bren
nus,” said Aruns iu great alarm; “sure
ly thy heart doth not wander after strange
gods ?”
“Oh, no, ’twis but a friend I named,”
said Yirgilia, turning away. “Come,
Nyda, let us enter the house.”
“We are ordered not to let the maiden
pass from our sight/’ said one of the men
who had come with the fatal message.
b O
“What! wilt thou not even let her
prepare for her journey ?” asked Aruns,
angrily.
“My lord will not be angry with his
slave,” answered the man; “he knows
that 1 have but to obey.”
“Follow her, then !” said Aruns turn
ing aside.
Two hours afterward the weeping Vir
gilia was borne away from the home of
her childhood, to be placed among the
virgins of Vesta.
CHAPTER. 111.
Brennus was prompt to keep bis ap
pointment, but, alas! Virgilia was not
there to meet him. Nyda, alone, the
weeping Nyda, crouched on the floor of
the grotto.
“W hat ails thee, girl, where is thy
mistress ?” asked Brennus, lifting Nyda
to her feet.
“Alas! most noble Brennus, they have
taken her away, to place her among’the
virgins in the temple of Vesta!”
“They! Who ?” cried Brennus, his
cheeks flushiug; “was it her father ?”
“Aruns! No, my master weeps for
his daughter/’ said Nyda, indignantly;
“my mistress thinks that Lucius hath a
hand in this matter.”
“Lucius ! W r hat the noble who sought
her hand 7 Come Nyda, set me on the
road to Cliusiutn; I wii! tear my love
from his hands!”
“But she is not in his hands ; said I
not that she was to be placed in the tem
ple oi A esta? Alas, my lord! she is
lost to thee forever !”
“Not so! cried Brennus. with a scorn
ful laugh; “she is lost to me but for a
time, 1 will try to rescue her with my
own hand, Nyda; if I cannot—then we
will sacrifice to the gods, and try other
means. You can give me a dress, Ny
da ; see, my clothes are not fashioned
like,those ot your countrymen./’
“i can give you all you want,” an
swered Nyda; “Come back here when
the day grows late, I will have all things
in readiness lor thee. Beware lest thy
speech betray thee, Brennus, and more
grief fall upon my lady’s heart!”
“This Lucius, Nyda, how else do you
name him ?” asked Brennus, not heeding
her warning words.
“Lucius Fabius,” said Nyda.
‘Lucius Fabius,” repeated Brennus,
slowly, as if to stamp the name upou
his memory. “Go then, Nyda, I will be
here belore you and await your coming.”
* '* * # * 1
[to be continued.]
.xhe Rajah of Saranak, if not the
successor ot the late Sir James Brooke, is
going to marry an English girl who is
daughter of Clayton Be Windt, Esq., ol
Blursden Hall.
Provincial papers speak of Commodore
w anderbilt’s erection of a monument in his
own honor, as a remarkable exhibition of
personal vanity. Oh, gammon ! It isn’t
brass; it's bronze.
Written for the Banner of the South.
ELEANOR STAUNTON.
BY A SOUTHERNER.
DEDICATED TO MILES M. FARROW, ESQ,, OF
CHARLESTON, S. C.
[continued ]
W iNDF.MERE Park, May 26t11.
We arrived last night, after an ab
sence of nearly three months. And I
am so, so glad to be at home once more.
Aunt Margaret is perfectly delighted,
and declares that she thinks traveling a
great bore, and hopes we will do no more
of it. Now, that the roses bloom once
more in my face, and her anxiety is al
layed, she begins to remember the many
comforts of home and the countless disa
greeables that travellers have to endure.
And, truly, no home is more quietly ele
gant or luxurious than ours. As well it
may be, since Mr. Staunton is one of the
richest gentlemen Commoners iu the
Three Kingdoms.
But, alas! alas! nither wealth nor
devotion can buy happiness. I do not
mean to repine ; but, coming home has
recalled so vividly the scenes of the past,
that I could not help the thought.
Windemere Park, June Ist.
The seeond anniversary of my wed
ding. I have been keeping this diary
but one year; and yet how much of my
life has been embraced in its span.
Mr. Staunton makes me very uneasy
about him. He looks so badly. I do
not mean that his face has lost any of
its beauty, but there is such a worn,
jaded look on it the whole time. Some
times it presents to me the idea of a
wrestler exhausted by his struggle. He
is always so very tender iu his manner
to me.
Oh. that I could return his love!
What a wasted, sorrowful life his has
been! And, yet, he was apparently the
favorite of Fortune, possessing noble
birth, superb appearance, fine talents, and
unlimited wealth, everything, in short,
that is required to make up the sum of
human happiness ; and the falseness of
one heartless woman, marred the fair
plan of his life, and blasted all its bright
promise. Some persons are marked out
by fate to wear the Martyr’s crown, and
Mr. Staunton is one of them. He has
been disappointed all his life long in
every hope. And I, wretched I, can
mourn over the hardships of his fate, and
yet be unable to brighten it.
A single word from me would make
amends to him for all he has suffered;
and, yet, that word must forever remain
unuttered.
YVindemere Park, June 2d,
Aunt Margaret is very unhappy about
Mr. Staunton. She said to me, this j
morning:
“Eleauor, I am unhappy about Ed- I
ward. His father died of heart disease, I
and Edward has the same transparent
pallor of complexion that my brother
had, during the last few months of his
life. Do persuade him to sec a medical
man about his constitution.”
I asked him, this evening, to ride
over to Staunton, and consult Dr. Len
nox about bis health, lie promises to !
do so, although he says that it is quite ;
unnecessary, as there is nothing to be j
done for him. j
I hope he is right; but I feel misera-!
bly depressed about him. All his ten- |
derncss and forbearance Vith me comes j
back to me, and I have done so little to ;
contribute to his happiness.
WINDEMERE PaRK, JuHC 3d. I
Mr. Staunton rode over to Staunton !
this morning, and returned to luncheon
bringing Dr. Lennox with him.
I went into the library after dinner, to
read his letters for him, and, after I had
finished, he asked me to stay and talk to
him a little while. Tie was looking very
badly, and said that his ride had wearied
him; sol persuaded him to lie down on
the lounge and rest, and I drew up an
ottoman, and sat by him.
He lay silently stroking my hair for
some time, and, then, said:
“We have been married two years,
have we not, Eleanor ?”
“Yes, two years the first of this
month.”
“Eleanor,” he resumed after a pause,
“have you yet forgiven me for the wrong
I did you, in making you my wife ?”
“As fully and as freely as I hope to be
forgiven for my negligence of my wifely
duties.”
“You have failed in nothing, my dar
ling; you have been all and, indeed,
more to me, than I deserved. And, re
member, always, that I never, for one
instant, blamed you, even in my own
mind, fdr anything that lias occurred;
ever holding you in my heart of hearts,
as the best, as well as the dearest of wo
men. Never forget, my love, that to
your husband you are faultless, ever hon
orable and unselfish, despite the adverse
circumstances that have surrounded
you.”
“Dear Mr. Staunton, you only make
me feel my utter unworthiness, by your
undeserved praise, Iso little merit such
affection, since I have done so much to
shadow your life.”
“There are times, my dearest, in one’s
life, when all disguises must be laid aside;
and I must take advantage of this occa
sion to tell you things that I may not be
able to inform you of again. My inter
view witn Dr. Lennox has decided me
in doing what I had before intended. I
will not hasten my fate by such a course,
and it will probably be a comfort to you,
in case anything should happen to me.”
A .sudden perception of his meaning
flashed over me; and, for the first time
in my married life, I threw my arm
over him, and buried my face in his faith
ful bosom, weeping bitterly. And, oh,
how tenderly he comforted me.
“Hush, hush, ray darling ; there is
nothing to frighten you I would not
have been abrupt in telling you—but
how did I know that you would care so
much ? There may be no immediate
danger. I have known for a long time
that my heart was affected; and Dr.
Lennox, without positively saying that
my life was in immediate danger, advised
me to arrange all my affairs, so as tw be
free from care and axiety, as they arc
extremely prejudicial to me.”
The thought that my distress might
be injurious to him, helped me to control
it; and, soon, I was able to listen to him
with tolerable composure.
“There, you are my own brave Eleanor,
again; and I will finish what I have to
tell 3 T ou.”
He paused, breathing very fast, and I,
fearing that that my leaning on his
breast affected his respiration, raised up.
He sighed, and said:
“Are you tired of your position, m3’
love ?”
“Not at all; I feared that I was wear
ing you.”
“Then resume it, please; you have
uot taxed my powers of endurance so
otten that I am likely to weary of any
mark of tenderness that you will bestow
upon me.”
I knelt beside him again, my head
resting on his breast, and my ear,
sharpened by anxiety, could note the
faint irregular beatings of his heart.
Ah! how bitterly I reproached myself for
my coldness towards him, and thought
how I might have sacrificed my own
feelings to brighten the darkened life
that was fast drawing to a close. After
a long pause, Mr. Staunton said:
“You have no idea, Eleanor, how hap
py you make me. lam almost willing to
die if it will win such tenderness from
you.”
“Pray, pray, do not speak of dying,
I cannot bear it; I cannot give you up.”
“Eleanor, would it, indeed grieve you
it I were to die, or do you merely say it
to please me ?”
“His eager, earnest tones, went to my
heart, and I said passionately:
“No greater sorrow eould happen to
me. You are all I have. I cannot, I
will not, give you up.”
“God will teach you how to bear it,
my love, and will raise up for you other
friends as faithful and far dearer than I
could ever be. I have made all the ar
rangements I could to spare you trouble,
and I would prefer that you should spend
the first year of your widowhood here;
Aunt Margaret will stay with you. But,
you must not feel bound to adhere to any
of my wishes, if they should prove irk
some. Do you understand ?”
He waited sometime for the reply that
I was incapable of giving him. At last
the reason of my silence occurred to him,
and he said:
“Why, you are not in tears again, my
darling? Take courage, love; maybe
my condition may not be as desperate as
you think, I certainly am not suffering
as much pain as I have done lately.”
I could not stay my tears ; each effort
he made to console me only increased
my distress; and, as he was getting agi
tated. I had to leave the room. As I rose
to go, he drew me fondly down, and
kissed me tenderly, saying:
“Oh! Eleanor, how hard it would have
been to me to face the near approach of
the grim Destroyer; if you had always
been as tender in your manner to me as
you have been to night.”
Oh! Father! spare him to me! He is
all that I have. My life will be so deso
late without him. The shadow of his
coming fate weighs darkly on my soul.
Oh ! that I could stay or avert it! And,
yet, I must sit helplessly by, with folded
hands, and wait for the sorrow that I
cannot bear.
WINDEMERE PARK, June 6th.
Since my last entry, three days ago,
i Mr. Staunton lias seemed decidedly bet
ter; he has suffered very litttle pain,
and has been stronger and brighter.
lam constantly with him, and always
as caressing in my manner as possible.
Sometimes he smiles and tells me that
I am spoiling him. And he is so gener
ous, never taking the least advantage of
my change of manner.
Dr. Lennox is still with us. He is a
charming old gentleman, and was once a
lover of Aunt Margaret’s. She laughs
very often with him over the days gone
by ; and the nonsense he used to be
guilty of. He sometimes tells her that
it is her fault that he is still a bachelor.
But she seems very impenitent; at least,
she never offers to repair the mischief she
has wrought.
Windemere Park, June 10th.
Oh ! how shall I bear! My husband,
my noble, loving husband is no more !
My very soul turns sick at the thought.
My best, my onh r friend! Oh, faithful
heart, thy sjrrows all are done ; never
more shalt thou grieve over wasted af
fection—never more yearn for the love of
the cold, selfish wretch, who only learnt
thy worth when it was too late, only es
timated thy value by thy loss.
All day Mr. Staunton had seemed
quite bright, but, towards evening, he
complained of excessive languor, and
was persuaded to lie down. When din
ner was announced he did not wish anv,
and I would not leave him, So we were
left alone. He asked me to raise his
head, a little as his breathing was op
pressed. So I put m3 r arm around him,
and rested his head against my T shoulder.
He said:
“This is very sweet; it only T needs
‘the music of the spheres’ to make it
Elysian. Sing for me, my love, that beau
tiful solo 3’ou sung for Dr. Lennox, last
night.”
I obeyed, and sung for him “Eve’s
Lament on Leaving Paradise.” When
I finished the song, Mr. Staunton was
lying very quietly, his eyes closed, and
a beautiful smile lighting up his pale,
worn face. Yielding to an irresistible
impulse, I bent down and pressed a kiss
upon his brow. The touch of my lips
seemed to rouse him; a flush colored his
cheek for a moment, and the arm around
mjr waist drew me still closer to him. 1
rested ray face on his cheek, and, in a
few minutes, he seemed to sleep. Ten
minutes, or more, had elapsed when Aunt
Margaret and Dr. Lennox came in from
dinner. I held up my hand, saying,
softly:
“Mr. Staunton is asleep.”
Dr. Lennox came up, and stood by
me, looking at Mr. Staunton, for a mo
ment or two, and, then, said:
“Mrs. Staunton, yrnur position is a
painful one ; try to alter it.”
“I cannot move without disturbing
Mr. Staunton.”
“That is what 1 want done. He must
be raised.”
Something in his voice frightened me,
and I instsntly obeyed him, laying Mr.
Staunton’s head back on the pillows. He
did not inoye in the least. The doctor
bent over him, laid his hand upon his
heart, put his ear to his mouth, after a
few moments, rose and shook his head.
I knew that the worst had happened,
and stood bv, frozen with horror. Aunt
Margaret said sharply:
“Why don’t you rouse Edward, Dr.
Lennox, if you think it necessary, instead
of standing by, idle?”
“Alas, madam, the King of Kings
alone can rouse him, now.”
A piercing scream broke from her
lips, as she knelt beside her dead idol,
aud exclaimed:
“Oh, sir, are yon sure’? ’twas but this
morning that lie seemed so much better.
Have pity upon me, and do something
for him,”
“My dear madam, there is nothing
that 1 can do ; I am only surprised that
this painful event has not occurred be
fore. I had no idea that his life would be
prolonged to the extent it has. He had
a most malignant form of heart disease,
which has of late been aggravated by
some mental distress, which, unquestion
ably, had the effect of shortening his life.”
Ilis words pierced me like a sword.
Like Cain, I ery, “my punishment is
greater than I can bear.”
Dr. Lennox has just left me. He came
to inform me that Mr. Staunton had re
quested tiiat our wedding ring should
be put on his band after death. Oh!
the agony of remorse that I endured as
I took off the pledge of those vows that
I so entirely violated. Oh! my hus
band! my husband,! your wrongs are
all avenged!
WINDEMERE ?ARK, JllllC 6th.
I have just left my husband's side. I
would have watched by him, but Dr.
Lennox positively forbade me. He did
not wish me to enter his room at all; but
I entreated so earnestly that he consent
ed, and accompanied me within. There
lay all that was mortal of my true and
iaithful friend. There was a superb dig-
A. O
mty stamped upon his lifeless brow \\i
one who had received the martyr’
crown. His usually compressed L!
were wreathed with a smile, and over t\
whole kingly face shone the radiance Ts
victory. So grand and stately as }„.
lay. A delicate hair-chain caught m"
eye, and, with an ungovernable immilj
I drew it forth. A miniature was at
tached to it, and, as I unclasped it, nu '
own face looked out upon me. -
Dr. Lennox said:
“Your husband requested me to
that that miniature, which he always
wore, should be buried with him. lyjQ,*
on his heart. He loved you so verv
dearly.”
I knelt beside the bier, and covered
with repentant kisses the hand that would
never again thrill at my touch, or ff
raised to shield me from an adverse
fate. And memory, busy with self-re
proach, brought in long review before me
all his tender, self-denying love, and all
my miserable, ungrateful return, until I
almost screamed in my agony.
At last, Dr. Lennox raised me, and
begged me to leave the room. I made
no resistance until he reached the door
and then the thought that I was partin r
from my husband forever came over me ° ;
and I brrke from him to return
and again, to his side. At last—l scarce
ly remember how—l was forced from the
room. Dr. Lennox forbids me to return
to it. I must leave my husband for
strangers to watch over, while I, f or
whom he gave up even life itself, can do
nothing for him, but wildly lament his
fate. Had it been I, no power could
have kept him from me. I will <t o to
him. He is my husband. I alone lave
the right to be at his side. No oue shall
part us, until he is borne to his last long
home.
Windemere, Park, Aug. 26th.
I have been ill for many weary weeks.
The last thing I remember was leaving
my room to watch all night by my hus
band. The rest is all a blank.
Oh! my husband! I miss him so.
Windemere Park, Sept. 6th.
lam improving so very slowly. Dr.
Lennox wants me to travel; I steadily
refuse. My husband wished me to remain
here, and his lightest word is law.
Aunt Margaret is in such grief: Mr.
Staunton was like a son to her.
Wherever I turn some trace of his
love meets me. Oh, true and faithful
heart! Surely, a “merciful Father” has
prepared some blessing for him, that will
boa recompense for all his earthly woes.
No words can paint the agony of sell
reproach that I endure when I remember
how much I could have brightened
his life, and how little I exercised my
power. If the wildest regret, the most
passionate sorrow, can avail to lessen my
criminality, I may be forgiven. But.
like all repentance, it comes too late to
do any’ good.
[to be continued.]
PASTORAL LETTER
PUBLISHING THE
Jubilee granted by His Holiness Pius IX,
On the Occasion of the
APPROACHING (ECUMENICAL COUNCIL.
Augustin Verot, by the grace of God,
and the favor of the Apostolic See,
Bishop of Savannah, and Administra
tor Apostolic of Florida.
To the Clergy " and Laity of Georgia
and Florida , health and benediction
Beloved Brethren :
It is our duty to announce to you the
Jubilee that our Holy Father Pius IX.
has proclaimed to the Catholic world,
on the occasion of the (Ecumenical Coun
cil which he has convoked in the Eter
nal City for the Bth of December of the
present year. A general or (Ecumeni
cal Council composed of all the Catho
lic Bishops of the world is au event oi
great bearing in the Church, and ot
momentous import for the welfare of the
world. The last (Ecumenical Council
was celebrated a little more than three
hundred years ago, in the city of Trent;
such were the difficulties of the times,
and the multiplicity and importance ot
the affairs there transacted, that the
Council lasted eighteen years, having
been interrupted several times, and
having outlived several Popes. l^ c
Council of Trent had been convened to
inquire into the religious movement
called “ the Reformation,” which had
convulsed the Church as well as near!)
all the States of Europe, enkindled every -
where the fire of discord, strife, civ.
war, and bloody revolutions. l !l
Council of Trent proclaimed with vigor
ous and triumphant logic the anu l ■>'
dogmas which had been assailed by in
novators, after having used every peb
ble exertion, but in vain, to prevail ;»n
those innovators to come and discuss with
them the topics on which they had