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name, to me. I would resign them all to se
cure even transitory peace to thy heart. They
were only valuable to me when you were to
wear and enjoy them, but now, Evelyn, that
hope is over.”
“Dear Walter, it shall be as you wish;
with me share life’s sorrows, and together let
us seek to alleviate that woe which we could
not avert, to shield from further ill the strick
en one so inestimably clear to us both.”
“I appreciate, I understand all you would
have me feel, Evelyn : ands shall still be
blessed in lingering where thy light of mind
and spirit sheds its sweet influence.”
Each day the shadow of disappointment,
deepened on the brow of Alice Hamilton;
each day her fragile form became more ethe
rial, and that fair lip more delicately transpa
rent; the fearful hectic had shed its damask
upon the lily cheek. Watchful and constant
was the care of Walter and Evelyn, to every
wish of her heart; and Horace, too. would
sit near her, anticipating every thought with
the tender solicitude of a parent. As, each
day, she would recline upon th*e cushioned
eat in her favorite little study, with its mar
ble vases, rich exotics, and the rarest gems
of her own beautiful imagination suspended
in gilded cases upon the wall: from its trel
lised balcony the fair wilderness of flowers |
spread away in neglected luxuriance. Ban- ■
quo, too,, that faithful friend and playmate of
her earliest days, would lie near, his head
resting upon the ottoman at her feet, as if he
too missed her kind caress and merry laugh, i
No attention that the most devoted affection 1
.
could suggest, was omitted. When the invalid I
became too weak to bear the fatigue of a long
stroll among her favorite haunts, Horace
would gather the sweet flowers which she
loved to train, and place them in the vases j
around—would read for hours from her fa- j
vorite poets: and when the air was balmy, !
they would stroll together in that labyrinth
Ytf flowery beauty, as he would endeavor to
divert her mind from brooding over its gloom.
The good old minister seemed like a stricken
reed bending before the blast of this sorrow, !
as day by day he beheld his fondly nurtured
one, the pet of his old age, fading away from
earth. From the ravings of Evelyn during
her delirium, he had gathered many fearful
truths: and when the first sad change had
come over Alice, he had urged Evelyn to
confide the whole truth; since that acknowl
edgement, he had seldom left the cottage. —
Every living creature, every faithful servant
of that once-happv homestead, wore a gath
ering gloom, to see that meek and gentle one
suffering, dying, without the power to avert
or mitigate that great woe. One evening, as
the disease took its last, most dreaded form,
she told Evelyn and Walter to sit near the
bed-side,, that she might talk to them of some
thing which had long oppressed her mind.
“Tell me, Evelyn, why you and Walter
were never married. Do not deceive me, my
sister, for it will be very gratifying to me. I
do not flatter myself that I have long to re
main with you, and the last wish I ever ex
nect to make is, that I mav see the two whom
I so dearly love, united.”
“•Alice, my sister. I will be candid; I will
not deceive you in this; we had promised
never to marry while it could give you pain.
It has not been a sacrifice to me—l have on
ly sought to shield your heart from further
grief, to discharge my duty to you, and to my
.dear departed parents.”
“ And most faithfully, beloved, generous
Evelyn, have you kept that sacred trust; to
me you have been a guardian angel, the
guide oi my life; all of moral worth or dis
cipline of heart which I may possess, my
sister, is but a radiation from the loveliness
of yours. Evelyn, I know why you still
hesitate to decide—you fear that it could
grieve me; but to see you the bride of Wal
ter can soothe my dying moments; then \
shall be resigned, happy .”
a®®inasi3ssi km?bbaiey
“ Alice, l can hesitate no longer; have it
as you will.”
“Bless you, Heaven bless you, dearest
Alice,” said Walter, throwing himself upon
his knees beside the conch, and pressing his
lips to her Parian brow, “Heaven bless vou.
Ally, for that sweet wish,”
“ I am to name the happy hour —is it not
so, Eva? Then, Walter, tell Parson Evans
that a happy duty awaits him tnis evening.”
“Be assured, Ally, I never discharged a
command more willingly in my Jife; and now,
Evelyn, dearest one, this evening, with that
bridal wreath let me meet again that happy
smile,” said Walter, as he playfully kissed
her cheek, and left the room with a proud
and happy step.
On that bridal night, all seemed to have
laid aside their gloom to smile upon the hap
py pair. Evelyn had never looked more
lovely. She wore a dress of simple mull;
her flowing sleeve was looped back, display
ing a golden circlet upon her arm, the bridal
pledge; her dark hair was parted smoothly
above her classic brow, and wound in a mas
sive braid around the jeweled comb.
“Mrs. Preston, Ally,” said Walter, ap
proaching Alice when the ceremony was
over : and a proud and happy light shone
again in his eye, as he playfully introduced
his lovely bride and received the blessings
and good wishes of all the happy circle.
A few brief days, and another, but a mourn
ful occasion, assembled that household band:
Alice, the beautiful, the beloved one, was dy
ing. One by one she bade them all adieu,
clasping each loved form to her bosom ; and
when her voice grew faint, and the tide of
life was fast ebbing from her pure heart,
again she clasped her arms around the neck
of Walter and Evelyn.
“Come near ine, dear ones,” she feebly
murmured, “and let me feel your warm breath
upon my brow. Oh! Evelyn, sweet sister, I
shall soon be with our parents in Heaven. —
Heaven bless you all,” again she faintly
murmured, and the meek sufferer w 7 as with
her God. Long and inconsolably Evelvn
wept, as she bent above that bed of death,
and convulsively pressed her lips to the cold
brow.
“Come, my Evelyn, let me lead you from
this scene; I cannot bear to have you w-eep
so wildly, and upbraid yourself; you have
done all, endured all, sacrificed all, that a de
voted, a pious heart, could suggest —and now 7
you must be resigned.”
“But, dear Walter, do not tell me to cease
to weep for one like her, in whom my very
heart was bound, so young, so beautiful; she
w 7 as too pure, too spiritual, to stay with us.”
“But you must come with me, Evelyn,
from this scene;” and wrinding his arm around
her waist, he gently drew her from the couch
and placed her upon a seat in the recess of a
window.
It w r as midnight. In that cottage hall, up
on a velvet couch, draped with snowy linen,
lay like a crushed lily, the sweet, fragile be
ing, whose spirit had been too delicately
strung to bear the rough breath oi disappoint
ment —too gently, too tenderly nurtured, to
become inured to life’s storms. Her pure
brow was uncovered, that the night winds
might breathe among the soft tresses which
fell around her form, and kiss that cheek of
Parian beauty. Flowers, beautiful and pure,
were clasped in her hand, and strewed snow
drops upon that couch. A silver lamp, in
which aromatic oil burned, shed a soft amber
light around, giving a life-like expression to
the quaint old family portraits suspended in
massive frames upon the wall; they too
seemed keeping their silent vigils with the
pale mourners around that funeral couch. —
Horace Sidney sat, with his head bowed up
on his hands above that lovely face, as if his
all of hope, life, ambition, were centered in
that cold form, and they with her were buried
forever.
“Evelyn,” he said, as he pressed his lips
for the last time to those of Alice, “may not
this dear privilege be mine in death, which in
life was denied me ? It cannot offend her
now.”
On the morrow, again that urn was lifted,
and another loved one rested beneath the
marble tablet. This quiet resting-place of the
loved, the early lost, became a consecrated
shrine of love and devotion, where, amid its
holy solitude, the spirit could commune with
Heaven and grow calm.
After the death of Alice Hamilton, Horace
devoted himself to the study of divinity; and
long before the death of the good old minis
ter, he presided over the little church, and re
lieved him of his sacred labors, though he al
ways lived at the cottage with Walter and
’ Evelyn. Walter Preston, in after years, min
gled in the council halls of his own State,
and the National Assembly, where his bril
liant powers of intellect and elevated moral
worth, won confidence and high position
among his fellow men.
“Evelyn,” said Preston to his wife, a few
years subsequent to their marriage, “I have
often speculated upon the most enviable, the
most indispensable qualification of the female
heart—that quality which could bind and
gratify the stern spirit of man. In the heart
of man thfcre is an altar and a throne. We
enthrone the being whose matchless beauty
or brilliant intellect gratifles our ambition,
and entitles them to the proud position. But
with feelings how different, how far more
dear, do we enshrine the being whose gentle
ness and moial loveliness entitles them to
that sacred position upon the inner altar of
our heart. Evelvn, mv wife, vou are sole
sovereign, sole idol, upon both, in my heart.
It is seldom that in one being we find all the
gentle attributes of spirit and rich endow
ments of intellect united : but, Evelyn, that
indispensable quality of heart, which trans
mutes the dross of the spirit which possesses
it, and those upon which the sweet influence
is disseminated, is that utter void of selfish
ness which ever looks beyond its own inter
ests, its own happiness, to secure that of
others. This is the inestimable pearl of spir
it, Evelyn, which w 7 on, which wields, my
heart; and such qualities alone are worthy
that shrine which should receive the homage
of a lofty spirit.”
! Sketch*? of £ifc.
i
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE LISTENER—NO. 10.
NOT BY CAROLINE FRY.
[
“I have no serious objections to a wo-
I man’s writing, if she will only confine her
self to subjects she can understand. When
she meddles with some matters, she makes
a fool of herself, and deserves the ridicule
we bestow upon her.”
“Very well, sir. Your permission is as
f gratefully received as it is graciously accord
jed. Perhaps I do not understand all the
bearings of the subject \ am considering, and
very probably, I cannot treat it philosophi
cally or logically, or after any other fashion,
which you may think necessary, and yet im
possible, for me to attain. It may be, how
ever. as I am about to inveigh against a bad
i custom which obtains in society, among our
sex, that I know quite as much about the
matter as yourself; for it is possible that
i there are some things, even in woman’s heart
| and woman’s art, which you have not fath
| omed with all your vaunted and self-compla
j cent superiority.”
A Recent Conversation.
1 have not been reading Mrs. Opie lately,
but circumstances have conspired to turn my
thoughts frequently to a subject she has il
lustrated very forcibly. I refer to “ white
I lying ;” and I have asked myself the ques
tion How many such equivocations are we
forced into, by a strict adherence to the con
. “ !,onal *‘ ,es of society ? lam constrained
to believe that the forms and regulation, !,
etiquette, which prepare the way f or ,„ rh
frequent violations of truth, are wrong f r “
their very foundations; and I think, w erc W( .
all conscientiously to consider this error
reformation might be effected. Look for !
moment at one of the most common instance
of this fault, and see its effects on the on!
who commits it, and on those to whom it,
influence extends.
“ Jenn y> the *-e is the door-bell going again •
if it is a visitor, tell them 1 am not at home
. The servant goes out, and the lady con
tinues in an under-tone:
“I wish people would not call in the
morning. My lime is so necessarily and in
cessantly occupied by my family, that I can
not attend to company. What, with over
looking the servants, hearing Ann’s and Ma
ry’s lessons, and giving to baby the time hr
requires, every minute is occupied between
breakfast and dinner.”
My dear lad) 7 , you are right in not desir
ing company during the early part 0 f the
day, when the important and imperative
duties you enumerate are to be discharged:
but it wtould be far better for your children,
that tao caie of their education should he en
trusted to others, than that they should thus
receive from their mother, who is the infalli.
hie guide to right in the eyes of an obedient
child, such lessons in falsehood. You may
give them precept upon precept, inculcating
truth and sincerity, hut this one instance of
deceit will outweigh them all; it will linger
in the child’s mind, and leave a blight upon
its conscience. Conventionalisms are un
known to her—nor could you teach her why
it is allowable for you to send word you are
not at home, when you are, while she is re
quired to reply with exact truth to every
question.
Listen, for a moment, to the visitor’s reflec
tions, as she leaves the house :
“I know Mrs. S was at home : 1 saw
her husband in town, this morning, and he’
assured me she never went out in the fore
noon : besides, the servant said it, as if she
knew she was telling a fib. Well, I shall
not take the trouble to go again, very soon.”
Again, a visitor comes, and it is very in
convenient to receive her, as the lady oi the
house, suffering under an attack of indolence,
or afflicted with a habit of slovenliness, is
not prepared to see company, and is unwil
ling to exert herself to become so, though her
friend has put herself to considerable trouble
to make the visit. If she does not slip into
the ward-robe, or a closet, so as to be out of
the way, when the servant brings the an-’
nouncement, she will tell her to beg “the
lady will excuse her, as she is suffering from
indisposition.” •The servant to herself,
“ If 1 must tell lies/or my mistress, 1 may as
well tell them to her.” And thus the circle
of influence widens, and wrong is wrought
again. How much better it would have been,
had she said or written on a card, in either ol
these cases, the true reason of her inability to
receive a guest. “I regret that lam so much
engaged, this morning, as to be unable to see
you; please excuse* me, and I will see you,
soon, at your own house.” Would any one,
unblinded by conventionalism, take offence
at this ? Would they not rather respect thr
more the woman, who could tell the truth
and shame custom ?
There may be another case mentioned. A
servant comes with an invitation to dinner oi
tea, which is accepted “with a great deal oi
pleasure.” But when the servant is gone
the lady adds: “How tiresome! It is such
a bore to sit bolt upright, and conform to the
formalities of dinner etiquette! I would a
hundred times rather go without my dinner,
to-morrow, than have to go to Mrs. B
to get it. But, if 1 had refused, she would
have been offended, and it is worth whik
keeping in her good graces.”
Perhaps the invitation is accepted, and tin