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that, although so cruelly deserted, she still
felt towards you as formerly.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Ladislaw, with a deep
drawn sigh, “ how can I ever repair the in
justice of which I have been guilty ? 1
“There is but one way, Count, in which,
as an honorable man, you can act, and that is
to redeem your word.”
“Ah! how would I rejoice to do so; but
who can say that Sophia yet loves me, or will
ever forgive me?”
“What, will not a woman forgive who tru
ly loves? and, that such is the case with my
friend, I am ready to pledge my word.”
“Indeed! are you?” cried Ladislaw joy
fully.
“Yes! at this moment, if you still hold
good your resolution.”
“ Dear cousin!” exclaimed the Count, “act
for me in this matter. Even when I believed
her faulty, I still loved her : and now that I
know her to be innocent, I long to renew my
early troth. I beseech you, speak in my fa
vor.”
“There is no need that I should do so,” re
plied Theodora smilingly; “but let us see what
enchantment there exists in Ladika’s lamp;”
and, rising, the Baroness kindled the lamp
and retired to the window, while, as Ladis
law turned to ask what this meant, the door
softly opened, and a pale, but very beautiful
maiden, clad in white, stood before him.—
With a shriek of joy, the Count sprang for
ward and threw himself at her feet; while,
unable to control her emotion, the stranger
wept aloud.
“Did I not tell you, dear Sophia, that the
first beam of this lamp would carry joy into
your heart?” said the Baroness, as she laid
her hand in that of her cousin’s. “And
now,” she added with a benignant smile, “T
am.certain that Ladika’s spirit is appeased,
since this lamp has afforded comfort instead
of anguish to one sorrowing bosom.”
A few months after witnessed the marriage
of Ladislaw and Sophia.
(Original
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE OLD OAK TREE,
BY LEILA CAMERON.
The home of my childhood was in a sweet glen,
Away from the haunts and the turmoil of men ;
A silvery streamlet encircled the vale,
Which all the day long murmured low a sweet tale
To a noble old oak, which for ages had stood
Alone in its glory—the king of the wood !
The rich velvet greensward, all spangl’d with flowers,
Blest children of sunshine and soft, vernal showers;
The violet, the daisy, with eye lifted up ;
The cowslip so fair, with its bright golden cup;
But the pale valley-flower was the sweetest to me,
The lily that bloomed ’neatli the old oak tree!
llow merrily danced that clear streamlet along !
Each ripple came up to the bank with a song;
Those green mossy banks, all enameled with flowers,
Where gaily we sported in childhood’s bright hours,
But the laugh was most merry, light-hearted and free,
Amidst the long grass, ’neath the old oak tree.
I low fondly does fancy recall to me still
That valley—that cot —and that sheltering hill
The flowers in the spring-time, so fragrant and fair,
The crocus, the harebell, the jasmin so rare,
But fairer than any, and dearer to me,
The bright forms that gather’d beneath the oak tree.
On each youthful cheek glow’d the rose-tint of health,
Our cot was our mansion, and love was our wealth;
Xo grief came anigh us, no dangers arose,
We thought not of sorrow, we dreamed not of woes;
A band of young children, we frolicked in glee,
In our light-hearted mirth, ’neath the old oak tree.
When twilight’s grey mantle was spread o’er the
earth,
All hushed was our laughter, all silent our mirth;
Then sweetly there rose on the still summer air,
The hymn that preceeded our evening prayer:
With hands meekly folded, we bended the knoe.
And knealt on the greensward, ’neath the oak tree.
How fair was that vale in the calm, quiet night,
Now sleeping in shadow—now flooded with light—
MIT IS {BAB'S? ®ABglf IT m .
While cradled in azure, the queen of the sky
Looked down with a smile as she gently passed by.
But the moonlight was softest, and fairest to me,
When it gleamed thro’ th’ boughs of the old oak tree.
Long years have elapsed since that vale was my home,
And far from the haunts of my childhood I roam ;
Yet still with delight does my fancy renew
The scenes which e’en now are so fresh in my view ;
And again with those loved ones I frolic in glee,
On the flower-gemmed turf, ’neath the old oak tree !
Sparta, Georgia, 1848.
Sketches of £ife.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE LISTENER,...NO. I.
NOT BY CAROLINE FRY.
The character of a listener is not a very
enviable one, is it dear reader? Then, in
commencing these sketches, I must first tell
you how it has happened that I have heard
and seen so many things, which, apparently,
are none of my business. I do not think it
has been because I am over curious, for I sel
dom ask questions when listening —nor do I
in any other way seek to acquire that budget
of gossip, which, in these days, renders a
person an acceptable companion in any cir
cle. One of our most popular writers, a man
of large understanding and liberal views, has
fastened upon the inhabitants of these Uni
ted States, the opprobrious titles of “ the gos
siping nation,” and “ the gossip-governed na
tion.”
And is it not so ? The ladies discuss gos
sip in the parlour—the gentlemen at the cor
ners of the street. One of the first named,
dealing largely in the article, wins, and often,
unblushingly, wears the character which
should be the shame of any of her sex, that
of a “gossip.” I believe a gentleman loung
ing in a place of public resort, detailing the
petty scandals of the day, or making public
observations .on the passers-by, is equally
entitled to the honorable appellation of “ a
loafer.” But they do not all the gossiping :
it is the subject of conversation between
nurse and physician in the sick-room—the
politician discusses it with his constituents—
the clergyman with his parishoners—the law
yer with his clients—the mails carry it in the
delicately folded and perfumed letters, and in
the’ closely printed columns of the newspa
per. It is the staple of conversation, even
among those who claim to be well educated
people; (alas! how little is necessary to con
stitute a good education now-a-days) and it
is the theme of statesmen, and the foundation
of speeches, and even laws in the Halls of our
Capitol.
It is not then, in this despicable character,
that I wish to appear before you. I have
listened, not to detail again, into the ears of
those who seem to find their greatest happi
ness in a knowledge of the imperfections of
their friends, but because Nature has gifted me
with greater powers of observation than is
her usual boon ; eye and ear have been forc
ed to make me aware of many things of which
I would gladly have continued in ignorance.
This faculty of observation has been a most
troublesome one to me. It has taught me the
hollowness of most professions of friendship;
the insincerity of many words, and the sinis
ter motives of many actions, which wear the
garb of kindness. It has made me aware, by
means of some by-scene, that those whom I
have regarded as nearly faultless, are pos
sessed of pettish, or malicious tempers; and
oh! the purposes of deceit to which I have
“listened,” not named deceit—oh, no! but
policy, or civility, or politeness, were these
subterfuges christened, and they were pro
nounced most expedient and necessary ar
rangements, by lips that no one could have be
fore persuaded me ever let fall aught but pearls
of truth!
I hardly know how it came to be so, but
this faculty beset me, even when a child, and
proved the bane to much innocent enjoy
ment. Instead of taking pleasure in a gift, I
sought to find out the motives which induced
the giver to make it—and, if these were not
satisfactory to me, there was no more happi
ness to be derived from the possession I had
entered upon, no matter how envied it had
been before. Two or three circumstances
tended, in no slight degree, to confirm this
tendency in the child. One of the first in
which I discovered the insincerity of kind
professions, a common instance, but most de
cided in its bearing, I will narrate to you,
and, after that, will give you lessons I learn
ed in the world when I was older and less
artless myself.
My mother had two friends, who both
seemed to love me, I suppose, for her sake.
Mrs. Linton was one, however, who was
above all arts, and made no false pretences
whatever. She was the daughter of one of
our leading men, who died soon after the mar
riage, leaving his property, which was known
to be large, so encumbered by debt that his
family were comparatively destitute. Mr.
Linton, at the time of the marriage, was a
man of acknowledged talent and influence:
and when Isabel Porter became his wife, half
of the young ladies of C county envied
her her handsome and spirited husband. —
Now their oldest child was eight years old,
and Edward Linton was a ruined man—a
confirmed inebriate —their property was gone
—his practice was lost —and misery stared
them in the face. Apparently but one course
was left for Mrs. Linton to pursue: this was
to pay oflf their debts, as far as possible, by
the sale of their elegant furniture, books, and
pictures, and leaving her husband, whose bru
tal treatment, when under the influence of
wane, almost crushed her to the earth, and
seek a subsistence for herself and her chil
dren, by turning to account, as a milliner, the
exquisite taste which distinguished her. In a
few days the sale would take place, and they
w r ould leave their elegant and retired mansion
for a home in an obscure and dirty street, in
a city where Mrs. Linton was a stranger, for
she could not bear her humiliation among
those who had courted her in prosperity, and,
when gloom overshadowed her path, had
coldly turned away.
Judge Huntington w r as the purchaser, and
w T ould, as soon as possible, become the occu
pant of their house ; and while 1 was sitting
by Maggie Linton’s side, in a corner of the
library, one afternoon, looking over a book of
engravings with her, w T hile Mrs. Linton was
examining the catalogue, and marking vol
umes, not to be offered for sale, the door of
the room opened and Mrs. Huntington glided
in. She w r as a pretty woman, perhaps twen
ty years old, who had been married some
eighteen months to a husband much her se
nior—much in love wfith her, and consequent
ly very indulgent. She was called very ami
able, I remember, and was as much courted
by the crowd as Mrs. Linton had once been.
I presume she would have called her visit
one of condolence ; and her sympathy was
expressed something after this sentimental
fashion:—
“My dear friend, how much you must re
gret leaving this charming residence, as I tell
Henry it distresses me to become its posses
ser at your expense. You have lived here
ever since your marriage 1 believe, and doubt
less these scenes are consecrated by memo
ries of your bridal hours. I sincerely sym
pathize with you in the circumstances which
compel a removal. I shall often think of
you, as I enjoy the beauties your taste has
created in this truly exquisite garden, and in
the elegancies and conveniences of the house.
1 believe Mr. Linton consulted you entirely !
about it, during its erection, although before
your marriage. But, having made up your
mind to leave, I suppose all delays are un
pleasant to you. Is there anything I could
do to assist you? Perhaps, with Henry’s
help, I might be able to put things in a train
for you to leave a few days, or a week ear*
Her.”
All this sounded extremely plausible to me,
and I wondered that Mrs. Linton’s counten
ance changed so often and so singularly,
while listening. When Mrs. H. spoke of
their consultations about the house before
their marriage—that house which had been
the home of their wedded love, during those
first blissful years, ere Linton was tempted
and fell —her eyelids drooped over the flash
i ing orbs, whose brightness was dimmed by
tears; but there was no softness in her aspect
when the lady had concluded her proposals,
of assistance —again her eyes flashed, the
blood rushed to her cheek, her chest heaved.
“Thank you, Jane Eliza Huntington, for
your offer; the manner in which you made
it shows the kind motives -which prompted it.
I am your debtor for this last act of friend
ship. I had long since determined to leave
LI at the earliest possible moment, and
no assistance could now expedite my arrange
ments.”
She looked very cold and proud as her vis
itor took her leave*: but when she stooped to
kiss me, as I followed at Mrs. Huntington’s
bidding, her eyes were again full of tears,
and she seemed almost choked with emotion.
I can understand it all now!
Arrived at Judge Huntington's, what was
my surprise to hear his wife commence detail
ing the conversation at Mrs. Linton’s, entire
ly misrepresenting the tone and manner on
both sides.
“And, to think Henry, how haughtily she
spoke to me. The ungrateful woman, when
you have, time and again, helped Ned Linton
out of the ditch, and are now their principal
creditor, through whose forbearance they are
allowed a private sale. She knows I want
1 the house a week sooner than she sees fit to
i give it up, for I must give Frances a bridal
party, and they will be here next week. I
declare her insolence is extremely provoking.”
Judge Huntington only smiled qt this ebul
lition of wrath from his pretty wife; and, af
! ter a few minutes, drew from his pocket two
I notes, saying—
“My dear here is an invitation to Mrs. Jor
dan's supper on Thursday night, and she has
i added to her card an affectionate billet, Peg
ging you will not disappoint her, “as her
rooms will boast no charm like those of your
| sweet face.” And here, Jane Eliza, is a bill,
from Jordan’s store, of a S7OO shawl, which
j same was presented at the office this morning
J lor payment, as you had requested. Be care
ful, little wife, I am not made of gold.”
*******
Six years passed, during which I was ab
sent from H. I returned at length and renew
ed some of the acquaintances of my child
■ hood. One evening as my brother and my
self were proceeding to a friend’s house to
i spend there a social hour, we were detain
ed a few moments on the side-walk by some
ladies leaving a carriage, which had driven
to the steps of the house.
“And is everything gone, Jane Eliza?”
said one of them.
“Everything, lovey,” replied the soft voice
ol Mrs. Huntington, “we have not a dollar
lett; and, but for Linton’s exertions, we should
have been cleaned out six months ago by im
portunate trades-people. The worst of it is,
Henry says, our misfortunes are all owing to
my ex .” The door closed, but 1 readily
finished the sentence.
In five minutes more we were in Mrs. Lin
ton’s parlor, in the H—House—the most fash
ionable hotel in town. What a sweet scene
presented itself as the door opened. Mrs.
Linton was sitting at the piano playing a pret
ty air; and her husband and Maggie were
trying to teach two younger children, a little
girl and boy, the steps of anew dance. The
room was lnxuriously furnished and brilli
antly lighted—the husband and father with
his beautiful hair pushed back from a high
white brow, and his eyes sparkling with hap-