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u The headsman ! here I have him—the
headsman!” .
44 Death to the villain !” was re-echoed on
nil sides; and from all four corners of the
held the mob, who had dispersed to seek the
object of their hate, rushed towards Franz.—
When Lina’s brother saw himself the centre
of a dense crowd, howling and frantic for j
blood, he hurled amongst them the man whom |
he dragged by the feet, with the words—
-44 There is the headsman!”
41 Death to him!” hoarsely repeated a hun- 1
dred voices, and as many blows descended ,
upon the shrieking wretch, whose expostula
tions and prayers for mercy were unheard in
the mighty tumult, and whom the mob, blind
ed by fury, easily mistook in the darkness for
the delinquent executioner. His cries were
soon silenced by the cruel treatment he recei
ved ; in a few minutes he was dead, his
clothes were torn from his body, and his face
was disfigured and mutilated so as to be
wholly unrecognisable.
Leaving the mcb to their bloody work,
Franz returned to his sister, and found her
weeping and praying beside the body of her
lover, whom she believed dead. On exami
nation, however, he found Gerard’s pulse still
beating. The violent blow he had received
had stunned, but not slain him. Fresh wa
ter thrown upon his face and chest restored
him to consciousness, and to the caresses of :
his dear Lina, speechless and almost beside ,
herself with joy at his recovery. When his j
strength returned, the trio crept stealthily from
the copse, and safely reached the town, where
Gerard concealed himself during the evening !
in the house of his mistress. When midnight
came, and the streets of Antwerp were desert
ed, he betook himself, accompanied by Franz,
to his own dwelling, and made his unexpected
appearance in his father’s chamber.
The old headsman, who lay broad awake
upon his bed of sickness, weeping bitterly,
and deploring the death of his unhappy son,
deemed himself the sport of a deceitful vision
when he saw the dead man approach his
couch. But when convinced, by Gerard’s
voice and affectionate embrace, that he indeed
beheld his child in solid flesh and bone, his
joy knew no bounds, and for a moment inspi
red the young man with fears of his imme
diate dissolution.
“My son, my son!” he cried, “ you know
not half your good fortune. Not only have
You miraculously escaped a cruel death, but
you are also delivered from the horrible em
ployment which has been mine, and was to
be yours. The accursed obligation that
weighed upon our race ceases with life, and
you, my son, are dead /”
u And pure from the stain of blood !” joy
fully exclaimed Gerard.
‘•Begone,*’ continued the old man, “and
dwell far from thine unjust brethren. Quit
Antwerp, marry thy good Lina, be faithful
and kind to her, and heaven bless thee in thy
posterity! Thy sons will not be bom to
wield the axe, nor wilt thou weep over them
as I have wept over thee. The savings of
thine ancestors and mine insure thee forever
from poverty; make good use of them, and
be happy!”
His voice grew weak with emotion, and
died away in inarticulate benedictions. Ge
rard hung upon his father’s neck, and stam
mered forth his thanks. The events of the
day appeared to him like a dream. He could
not realize the sudden transition from the
depths of despair to the utmost height of hap
piness.
For many years after these incidents there
lived at Brussels, under an assumed name,
the son of the Antwerp headsman, and his
beautiful wife Lina. The old man’s blessing
was heard, and when Gerard’s turn came to
quit a world of cares for a brighter and better
abode, brave sons and fair daughters wept
around the dying bed of the Doomster’s
Firstborn.
SONG.
All around and all above thee
Is the hushed and charmed air,
All things woo thee, all things love thee,
Maiden fair!
Gentle zephyrs perfume breathing,
Waft to thee their tribute sweet,
And for thee the Spring is wreathing
Garlands meet.
In their caverned, cool recesses,
Songs for thee the fountains frame;
Whatsoe’er the wave caresses
Lisps thy name.
Greener verdure, brighter blossom,
Wheresoe’er thy footsteps stray,
O’er the earth’s enamored bosom,
Live alway.
Whetesoe’er thy presence lingers,
Wheresoe’er thy brightness beams;
Fancy weaves with cunning fingers,
Sweetest dreams.
And the heart forgets thee never,
Thy young beauty’s one delight;
There it dwells, and dwells forever,
Ever bright.
a, a if & & a &
okctcl)£3 of £ifc.
For the Southern Literary dtazette.
THE CONTRAST,
“Procrastination is the thief of time.”
I There are three aspects in which we may
view events and circumstances, as we jour
ney down the vale of years— painful , pleas
ant and profitable. And there are some scenes
which pass before the mind’s mirror, of so
mingled a character, that we can scarcely tell
how to classify them, for, like all else upon
which earthly is impressed, they are made up
of lights and shadows—sunshine and clouds.
When, therefore, we cannot determine wheth
er they belong to our painful or pleasurable
emotions, it is well to ascertain how we may
profit by the reflections which that mirror of
the mind returns to our gaze, as we look upon
it; and there are few subjects more full of
improving moral, than the study of the char
acters which pass before our view as we
tread the “ world's wide stage,” and few les
sons more salutary and impressive than those
we draw from the results of human conduct.
| They are way-marks to guide to happiness,
; or beacons to warn from the shoals and quick
! smds of ruin, and the ship-wreck of the
j heart’s best hopes. How solemnly, then, and
j how delightfully, should we note what occurs
I around us—feeling that these are sent by
some other influence than chance , to be used
for our future welfare.
At a period not very remote from the pres
ent era, I was cast by Providential circum
! stances, into a situation where 1 became ac
|
quainted with an interesting family: and as
months rolled on, frequent, and at length, al
most daily intercourse, revealed traits, and
feelings, and principles, and dispositions, in
| the different members of it, which deeply and
i mysteriously absorbed my interest. And
Time, in sweeping by, did not efface with his
wing one feature of the scene. He seemed
; rather to leave more indelibly their impress
upon my memory. At one moment, stirring up
a flood of joyous thought, and at another,
■ darkening the fair landscape of life as the
| sunlight of hope retreated before the clouds
of apprehension. Os this interesting band, I
shall sketch the history of but two —both
gifted with that rich but responsible talent,
intellectual strength— both well fitted to play
a distinguished part in the drama of exist
-1 ence, yet so different in destiny And where
fore this difference in results, do you ask ?
We reply, from difference in mental energy :
The one, having deliberated on a course of
i conduct and plans, satisfied of its correctness,
j firmly and unwaveringly went onward , and
; not looking back, found himself at last on
the summit of that eminence to which his
I ) r outhful ardor had aspired—standing there in
I his free and undimmed brightness, a living
and speaking monument of the reward be
stowed upon Perseverance. And whenever
1 his actions were the theme of criticism, they
invariably drew forth the happiest anticipa
tions of coming usefulness, and commenda
| tions from the wise and good. Such was
Edgar Stuart.
There was another. To know was to love
him, for all that was beautiful in character,
or endearing in disposition, or exalted in
j principle, or rich in intellect, were his. His
“winning manners and pleasing address,”
found their way to the hearts of all—and
i never could that youthfully matured mind fail
j to attract the interest and solicitude of those
j who were admitted to its secret mines of gold
en ore. With these gifts of Providence—
; gifts to be accounted for at the day of final
reckonings, Henry Vinton seemed marked but
for a career of brilliant action and holy influ
: ence, for what need we for the first , but tal
ent of no ordinary stamp, cultivated intellect,
and manly principle?, and what for the last ,
but loveliness of temper, and a piety unsul
lied? Why, therefore, did not Henry take
1 his station upon some commanding height, to
be a “ city set on a hill,” an example and a
beacon to all around him—inducing the young
and the careless to follow him there ? Said
I not, that shadows fell oft times over the
brightest pictures of life, and that pain was
mingled with the sweetest pleasures of ex
istence ? Let me whisper , reader, for only as
a warning would I breathe the sad truth, that
there was one shade to dim the fair sketch.
Henry Vinton had, alas! traced upon his char
acter, amid so much that was excellent, the
paralyzing trait, instability of purpose / And
we know whose decree it is, that the “ unsta
ble as water shall not excel.” Amid a thou
sand schemes, all originating in virtuous, or el
evated, or noble, or useful emotions, some were
designed and commenced, and then abandoned
long ere they were matured ! Was he urged
to cultivate his decided talent for composition?
he would in an apparently vigorous mood,
quickly throw off’ from his ready pen words
and thoughts, which would delight the heart
and startle the mind of those who scarcely
believed he could thus embody his feelings;
but a moment’s interruption —a flashing idea
of some other pursuit—the entrance of a com
panion—the employment of an hour—and all
those lofty imaginings were cast aside, and
the vase which contained those beautiful gems
was shattered to atoms, and its wasted frag
ments could never be gathered again. In
vain did affectionate solicitude hover over his
path, striving, like some spirit of good, to fan
with her expanded pinion those slumbering
sparks of genius, and keep alive the flame
which seemed expiring on the altar of the
mind, under the chilling influence of Instabil
ity. In vain did anxious friendship speak in
“ the still small voice” of tenderness, and tell
of the death-like spell which Indolence casts
over the brightest mind. In vain did Con
science, Heaven’s vicegerent, thunder in his
ear, “To whom much is given, of him much
will be required.” Slumber, the slumber of
the mind, still hung over him, and “Another
time I mean to he up and doing,” was the de
lusive echo from his lips. Said I not truly,
then, some remembrances of the passing
scenes of life were painful ? For who would
not weep to see youth, the harvest time of
the soul, thus lost, thus misapplied, thus sad
!ly misused. And what will compensate in
: after years, for these unvalued hours? When
I companions of inferior attainments, who start
| ed with us in the journey of life, by their un
j wavering pursuit of plans calculated to ad
j vance them in the world, —prove a bless
j ing to those who crowd with them the busy
haunts of men, reaping their reward—we who
have loitered on the way, will be still toiling
up the rugged road, made rugged by our hav
ing delayed to undertake its weary pilgrimage
| in the strength and vigor of youth and man
hood: and if we exercise perseverance enough
even to attain, at last, the height we seek, we
| shall find little there to do; for others, who
; have outstripped us in the race, will have
| gathered the rich spoils of the world’s wealth’
! and the world’s approval, and the world’s ad
’ miration, and perchance, leave nothing for us
to achieve—all the places of usefulness filled,
! and we but moral blanks in a society in which
i we might have shone “as lights in the firma
| ment,” had we arisen up in our strength as
“an armed man,” and taking the sword of
Resolution in a virtue-nerved hand, gone
forth determined to stay that greatest enemy
of man, Instability of Purpose! Oh! Life is
full of instruction. We may silently look on,
as one, and another, and another, acts his part;
before us—and gathering from each history
of character the wheat which is good, fill the
! store-house of our own hearts with food to
j nourish the soul in time, and make it health
j ful for eternity. But if we permit indolence,
or irresolution, to paralyze our energies, we
too may pass onward without leaving a sin
gle record of usefulness or greatness upon the
tablets of society, and find in the Book of Re- j
membrance, which will be opened on the great
white throne, the fearful sentence—“ Inas-!
much as ye have not used your talents and
time, and influence, and opportunities, and
energies, for the benefit of your fellow-beings
on earth, ye have not used them for me, and
must therefor bear the penalty of exclusion
from my kingdom in eternity!”
Reader, is Instability a trifle, either on
Earth or in Heaven? Can that be a trifle
on earth, which renders us beings who live
without effecting a single purpose of life ?
which blights the sweetest hopes which
those who love us have wreathed around our
destinies—which causes affection’s eye to be
dimmed with sorrow, and affection’s lip to
breathe the heart-felt sigh ? Or can that be
a trifle in Heaven, which disappoints the de
signs of God, who formed us to be his mes
sengers of good to all who cross our path—
his agents for the advancement of his glory
—his guardians of the interests of men—his
children by adoption and grace?—which
forces from a merciful judge the sentence of
condemnation, and the forfeiture of Paradise!
Oh! reader, Instability is no trifle on earth,
will he no trifle at the judgment-seat—no tri
fle in the abodes of the blest! J. A. S.
Jo reign Correspondence.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
LETTERS FROM SCOTLAND.-NO. 5.
Inverness, August 26th, 1848.
My Dear R ., —Since my last letter was
written, we have traversed the entire breadth
of Scotland in these latitudes, passing up the
beautiful Glen of Inverness, upon the waters
of the Caledonian Canal, a distance of sixty
miles —every one of which discovered to us
some new scene of beauty or of grandeur.—
This celebrated Canal, which unites the wa
ters of the Eastern and Western seas, thus
avoiding the hazardous passage of the Frith
of Pentland, is in more than half its extent
natural, composed of the waters of three
lochs, which occupy a large portion of the
Glen of Inverness. These lochs have been
connected by an artificial channel, an under
taking of considerable magnitude, but still
presenting few obstacles, as the whole eleva
tion of the line does not amount to 100 feet
above the level of the sea.
Passing from the pretty town of Oban up
the beautiful Loch Linhee, we landed from
the steamboat at Fort William, on the East
ern shore of the Loch, and within the shad
ows of Ben Nevis, the loftiest peak in the
Highlands of Scotland, and, indeed, in Great
Britain. It was our intention to leave the
ladies of our party at the village, in the care
of Mr. D., while Mr. H. and myself made
the ascent of the mountain. We were advi
sed, by the experience of former tourists, of
the toil incident to the ascent, and were well
aware of the fact that
“ Seven miles its top points gradual from the
This, however, was a trifling consideration,
and we retired to rest with the satisfaction at
having secured a favorite guide to the sum
mit, who, in reply to our enquiry, if he
thought the morning would be a fine one, re
plied, “Oh aye, Ise na doot ’twill be a verra
braw mornin’.”
Alas for human calculations! When I
awoke the next morning, and sprung eagerly
to the dormer-window of my chamber, which
was in the attic, and which looked towards
Ben Nevis, not a trace of its giant outline
was visible —for a thick heavy mist was dri
ving in the direction of Glen Inverness, and
the waters of Linhee were scarcely percepti
ble through its grey shroud. I stood a mo
ment, thoroughly vexed and impatient;
checked in the next the ungracious humor,
aud proceeded to the breakfast parlor, where
I found H. talking to the guide.
“Well, Sandy, your ‘braw mornin” turns
out to be a raw one. You were out in your
reckoning, my good fellow.”
“Oh ay, sir, I’se gar’d mony a misjudge
afore aboot the mornin’, for the skies arever
219