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20 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-