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session of her mind; the dull heavy pain of
approaching madness, seemed pressing on her
brain ; while Despair, with lhs cruel fangs,
preyed upon her heart.
A deep and heavy foot-fall, in the solemn
silence of the midnight hour, was distinctly
heard approaching. How oft, in former days
the sound of that loved step had tilled with
almost maddening joy her fond, devoted heart!
A silent shudder rent her frame, her breathing
became quick, and heavy convulsive sighs
.shook her fragile form. The sound continued
to approach, until it died away at her side.
Her head remained bowed upon her arms, and
for a moment no sound was heard but the
hurried and unnatural breathing ors the two
persons, so unhappily situated. An arm was
slowly passed around her slender form, and a
voice, tremulous with deep emotion, slowly
pronounced her name.
“ Marian, my love, my wife, forgive! for
give !”
Springing from her chair, the startled Ma
rian cast one wild look of despairing love up
on the pleadei, and sank at his feet nearly
bereft of life. Harry Grey knelt at her side,
eeking to soothe the excitement of her nerves,
and bathing her feverish brow with his scald
ing and penitential tears. Dissipation had
marked his noble brow with its unerring seal,
but his features were calm and steady, his
eyes, though shorn of their brilliant hue,
beamed with the purest rays ol love upon the
altered lineaments of a poor neglected wife.
With feelings of the utmost astonishment,
Marian continued to gaze into the face of her
own dear Harry. Joy, the most ecstatic,
thrilled through her trembling frame. Could
it, indeed, be true ? Was such bliss really in
store for her ?
“Oh! Marian, my best beloved, can you
forgive me the misery I have entailed upon
you and our precious little ones? Can you
once again regard me with love and confi
dence ? From this moment, lam resolved to
emancipate myself —to cast oil’ the shackles
of intemperance; and, with untiring energy,
devote every hour of my future life to the pro
motion of your happiness. Speak to me, Ma
rian ; my heart is nearly bursting with its
load of sin and misery.'’
And he wildly pressed her to his throbbing
breast. Marian in vain essayed to speak :
joy, the most unbounded, pervaded her frame,
and, with frantic cries of happiness, she flung
herself into his arms, and in sobs of bliss and
thanksgiving, poured out her lull heart to
God for this dispensation of His mercy. In
speechless gratitude, she listened to her hus
band’s narration —how, having forgot some
papers of moment that morning, he had re
turned to the house for them- when, hearing
Marian’s exclamation of surprise, curiosity
had led him, unseen, to witness the meeting
of herself and mother, and to hear their whole
conversation, unfolding Marian’s deep and
devoted love, her determination still to strug
gle with poverty and a mother’s displeasure,
cheering herself with the faint hope of his
iuture amendment.
“Oh, Marian!” he exclaimed, “it is im
possible for me to describe the dark and terri
ble remorse which took possession of my soul,
at this exhibition of your enduring love. For
a moment, despair urged me on to self-de
struction, foolishly suggesting that my death,
ia any shape, would be a relief to your mind.
Hut better thoughts soon usurped the sway,
firm conviction of my return to the path
ol duty, so earnestly expressed, touched my
heart; the forms of my lovely, but neglected
babes, rose to my imagination; and how could
I) by one rash act, forge the last link in my
chain of crime and misery, and forever bind
aiyself to a hopeless perdition ? In a state
bordering upon insanity, I rushed from the
house. The haunts of men became hateful
to my sight: ray soul panted for the free and
°pen air to commune in silence with the tor
turing agony of my thoughts. Nearly Iren
a, il Tis& A& ¥ is AUI3T TANARUS& *
zied with the sense of my total degradation, I
lied to the solitude of the forest, and on its
cold, damp bosom, groaned out the anguish of
my soul. With clenched hands and despair
ing cries, I rashly besought Heaven to hurl
his bolt of justice, and end my wretched ca
reer. I know not how long I grovelled upon
the cold earth, when a voice, sweet and gen
tle as the zephyr, softly whispered in my
ears, “ Mortal, repent, retrieve the past ; there
is yet time.' 1 The peace of God seemed to
enter into my soul, and I arose, with the firm
resolution of fulfilling His commands. I re
turned to the city: you, it was impossible for
me to meet, until I had taken one more step
in the path of reformation.
“ You are aware that my friend Melville
has repeatedly made offers to reinstate me in
business, if I would forsake my course of sin
and shame. To him I appealed, circumstan
tially related the occurrences of the day, my
resolutions of reformation, and my desire for
assistance. Cheerfully and magnanimously
has he responded. Knowing the suffering we
have bo h endured in this city, Melville, with
the consideration of a brother, has made eve
ry arrangement for our immediate removal.—
The death of an agent of their firm, in the ci
ty of New Orleans, places it in his power to
confer the situation upon me; and, in three
days, we shall leave this scene of bitter trial
to us both, with a firm reliance, I trust, upon
the care and protection of a good and just
God —believing that He will bless our exer
tions, and shield us from future sufferings.”
******
Fifteen years have passed; years of care
and suffering to many —of joy and hope to
the few. During this period, many changes
have taken place, and we have some impor
tant ones to note in the history of the subjects
of our brief narraiive.
A few miles from the town of , in
the State of Virginia, stands the fine old man
sion of the Clares’. Situated on an eminence,
a mile from the public road, it appears to the
weary traveler a most desirable haven of re
pose. It is seen through a noble avenue of
cedar and oaks, which lends a romantic and
agreeable appearance to the view.
Seated on a sofa, in one of the brilliantly
lighted rooms of this stately mansion, we be.
hold a gentleman and lady, whose noble, ea
sy and graceful manner, denote their relation
to the higher circles of society, but whose
pensive and thoughtful countenances evince
truly that their path has not been all strewn
with flowers. Reclining on one end of the
sofa, with his arm thrown caressingly around
the lady’s neck, stands a tall and graceful
youth, just verging into manhood; and, seat
ed on an ottoman, at the feet of the gentle
man, is a fair young girl, of some sixteen
summers, her eyes beaming with the tearful
smiles of happiness.
“Marian,” said Mr. Grey, “in yielding to
the persuasions of our children for an eluci
dation of the mystery of this inheritance, you
have over-exerted your strength Therefore,
my love, allow me, in a few brief words, to
acquaint them with the rest of the story. —
With the assistance of my friend Melville, I
was soon established in business. Fortune
showered its favors upon me, but adversity
had taught me a lesson never to be forgotten.
It had shewn me the necessity of looking to
a world beyond this, and convinced me that
there is a Supreme Ruler, to whom we are
accountable for all our actions. A few months
since, I received a despatch from the honora-!
ble Mr. , announcing the death of
Mrs. Clare, with an enclosed letter from that
lady, bequeathing to your mother the whole
of her property, with her last blessing, breath
ing sincere regret for her former harshness,
and humbly petitioning her Creator to forgive
her, as she forgave her only child. Not an
ticipating the recovery of her parent’s favor,
your beloved mother was unwilling to excite
in your minds false hopes of future wealth.
It was your grand-mother’s last request, that
her daughter should return to the dwelling of
her father, and it became necessary to ap
prise you of our disunion, lest the veil which
concealed it from you might be torn asunder
by more unsparing hands than ours.
“And to you, my beloved Marian, is due
all the felicity we now enjoy; for, had you
listened to the entreaties, and even commands
of your mother, and deserted your husband,
my ruin would have been sealed. Cast off’
irom all the hopes and ties of love, thrown
upon a scoffing world, without a single glance
of affection to cheer my desolate path, 1 should
have fallen lower and lower in the scale of
vice, until I had fulfilled my terrible destiny,
by sinking into a drunkard's grave !
“Guard well, Marian, our beloved daugh
ter; and, should it ever be her lot - which an
indulgent Heaven forbid —to taste her moth
er’s sorrows, teach her her mother's fortitude
to endure them. Teach her that, no matter
how degra led a husband may become, in the
cold and heartless judgment of the world,
there is yet a spot in his heart susceptible to
the sunshine of woman’s gentle influence, be
neath which it will become fruitful with the
virtues of anew life. Teach her that, if wo
man will cherish and exert her native tender
ness, her undying love, with a firm reliance
on the blessing of her Heavenly Father, she
can reclaim even a drunken husband from his
degradation, and save from a drunkard’s
grave one who will become an ornament to
society, and who will bless the gentle, faith
ful, loving wife, who wooed him, by her in
fluence, from the very brink of ruin.”
STEPHEN! A.
Savannah , Geo.
-i mm >
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE CONTRAST,
OK
The Man of Gold and the Golden Mind.
( Concluded, from our last.)
PART 111.
Near the estate of Binton, lived an old far
mer, who had accumulated a small property
through his own exertions. Mr. Simpson
had a daughter five and twenty years old,
named Lucretia, who was even now a beauti
ful creature. The old farmer had given all of
his children first rate opportunities, and Lu
cretia had taken advantage of them. Her
sparkling wit and well cultivated mind long
since placed her among the Belles of the
Land. It is strange she had not married ere
this; but this young lady long since deter
mined, as she often said, never to marry at
all, unless she married to please herself; and
she formed such a beau ideal, as almost ne
cessarily to preclude, as the Lawyers say,
“per se,” any hope of fulfilling her desire.
She had very modestly made up her mind
that, unless the man who sought her hand
possessed wealth, talent, and belonged to
what they call “the aristocracy,” she would
never marry at all. She had some capital of
fers, but being all deficient in some of the neces
sary qualities, she very deliberately rejected
them.
Five years had worked quite a change in
Lucretia’s mind. She found she had been
rather hasty in some of her refusals, and she
determined to compromise the matter with the
first tolerable offer. Jack had been one of
these suitors: not dreaming of a refusal, he
applied for her hand —but, alas! how shock
ed was his pride, to meet with a repulse! lie
was truly in love with Lucretius beauty, and
did not abandon his visits. Fortunately, or
rather, unfortunately for Jack, time produced
a change in the head, but not in the heart,
of his fair one; and one day, from some un
accountable cause, they became engaged, and
even a day fixed for the marriage. Lucretia
never would have married Binton, but for two
reasons. The first was his handsome person,
and the second was his fortune. Strange to
say, she herself did not appreciate his person
al attractions, bur the world did, The* fortune
was quite another thing. She would shine
as a star of the first magnitude in her circle.
Jack was sometimes afraid he did not possess
a sufficient share of his betrothed’s affection,
and intimated something of the kind to her,
but she soothed his fears, and he was eager
for the marriage. He flattered himself, too,
with the thought that he would now have an
opportunity of exercising his authority, as she
once did hers; and this afforded him no little
secret gratification.
About a fortnight before the celebration of
their nuptials, the elated bridegroom gave
what low-country gentlemen call a “Big
Hunt,” and had collected some dozen friends
of his, who—be the truth spoken—loved the
voice of Jack’s hounds more than the voice
of friendship, and who often drank their
friend’s health in considerable quantities of
his “old Madeira,” enjoying much more the
flavor of the wine than the sentiment of the
occasion.
The party had just returned from a long,
but successful hunt. Binton had been the
hero of the day. Fortune seemed to stand
over him, pouring out her gifts in profusion.
In small, as well as great matters, he was
truly successful. In the hunt we are speak
ing of, he was the favored one. A noble
buck had fallen, biting the dust, at the report
of Iris gun. Thus had they returned, none
more ejated than Binton —not only with the
day’s sport, but his approaching marriage.
Freely did they quaff the wine—loud and
clamorous were their voices.
“Now, boys,” cried Binton; “now, fel
lows, go it; for you won’t have many chan
ces like this, as soon as—hem ! hem! —Mad-
am comes home.”
“Hurrah! hurrah for our host!” shouted
half a dozen voices.
“Binton,” said one, “you must be tho
happiest fellow in the world.”
“Oh, quite happy, I assure you,” replied
Binton.
“ Yes,” said another, “ I don’t know, in all
my circle of acquaintance, such a favorite of
Fortune, as our friend Binton,” —(the speak
er had that morning borrowed a few hundred
dollars from Binton,) —“with every thing a
gentleman wants under the sun; plenty of
money, friends in abundance, the finest estate
in the country, and about to marry the pret
tiest girl in this or any other laud. What a
lucky fellow!”
“ Now, don’t, boys,” exclaimed Jack, “ you
will make me blush.”
“ But, it is all the truth,” exclaimed his ob
liged friend, who then proposed to drink, in
an ‘ overflowing bumper,’ the health of their
‘distinguished host.’ Up went the glasses,
and down went the wine.
To the brain these exhilerating potations
soon flew, and Jack and his companions were
exceedingly merry. There is not a more
dangerous time to indulge in drinking
and other strong liquors, than just after endu
ring fatigue, and after refreshing the craving
appetite with an excellent dinner. The spir
its are sufficiently exhilerated, without such
exciting potations.
It is, therefore, not at all astonishing, that
Binton and his companions were rather drunk
than sober. Indeed, they made the welkin
ring with their loud laughter, that, the po
et says, bespeaks “thevacant mind.” From
drinking toasts, they proceeded to speech
making. Binton was unanimously called on
for a speech, and he consented reluctantly,
because he did not know what to say. He
could talk all day, but to make an extempore
speech, quite startled him. Just at that mo
ment, his old College-chum popped into his
head, and he made him the subject of his
speech. He had not forgotten, and certainly
never forgiven, Richard Rowan for his supe
riority ; and, although years had passed away,,
his anger was not at all aFated. Here, then r
was a chance to utter his vituperation, and
rid his bosom of those feelings so long dor
131