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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