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JOURNAL AND MESSENGER JOURNAL & MESSENGER. UACOX, GA., THURSDAY, OCT. 15. ALICE STAXLEV. liV MliS, H. C. HALL. *■ They sin who tell na love can die.” Southey. There is an ancient manor-house in a c ertain English county, where I have gpe nt many days ; yet the place, and its uiaster, and its amusements, resemble more the things we read of in old books f hmi matters to be met with in modern habitations. jt impossible to see Mr. Stanley with out an involuntary feeling of respect; his voice, one of the most uuerring tests of high breeding, confirms the impression ; and his well-chosen words, always few in number, convey his ideas so distinctly, that you know at once exactly what he desires you should know, and no more. He never was flatly contradicted in his life but once; it was by an American, and, ever since, no one has cared to mention America in his presence. Not that he was ever guilty of flying into a passion.— Mrs. Braude, the venerable housekeeper, who has lived (to quote her own quaint words) “in his honours service half a century and two years,” told me she never heard him raise his voice. “Madam,” quotft Mrs. Brande, “his honour never aid; when he is angry, he only looks, and remains silent. I never saw any one who eouhl abide that look twice . It’s danger ous, madam— the lightning without the thunder it’s the* only warning he ever, jrjves ; but no servant bides it twice.” You would never dream of calling Stan ley Pleasaunce a “Liberty Halland yet 1 have seen people happy there; perhaps because more orderly than at some of those new-fashioned “Liberty Halls,” where tiie host and hostess meetyou in the drawing-room, for the first time in the day, ten minutes before dinner, and con sider they have performed all the rites of hospitality when they inquire, “How have you spent the morning?” There are a Bible and a timepiece in every room at Stanley’ Pleasaunce ; and a variety of bells are rung at regular hours, or, i should rather say, minutes, to call to prayers, breakfast, and so on ; and the head and chief of all this punctuality is the old gentleman himself. Everything in and about the house may be described by the term punctuality; but, though the meet ing ami eating hours are the same all the year round, the intermediate hours are filled up in many varied ways. Mr. Stanley has numbered more than seventy years; yet his poiitenesss is per fection. From being a strict lover of iorms, his first attentions are paid to those whose positions in society demand them ; but he has the happiest manner of pre venting his humbler gusts from feeling, or even perceiving, that the slightest differ ence exists ia the circumstances of any nartaker of the hospitality of Stanley Pleasaunce. His walls are liung with tapestry, or old pictures; his hall, noble and lofty in its proportions, is a perfect museum of old English implements of sport and war; stag-hounds and a pair of genuine English mastitis act as sentinels at the porch ; and Pus stud is unrivalled. He keepsa falconer, and the hawks are the best trained in Eng buul. His preserves are filled with game; uud, conceiving it to be his duty to provide lor the amusement of “his people,” as he is nld-iashioned enough to call aud con sider his tenants, the May-pole is as care lully preserved as his Dutch flower-garden, i-ie village bowling-green as his park, and ! 110 wi cket ground is as clearly a matter of interest to the lord of the manor as to the peasa a ts. He caters i y every possi ble w’ay in tne amusement of his visitors; but n nen he tells them how they ought to be that they will be so. m iI . Pi P 1 h'Hgland is the world; that ma tA L f U ,\ e Potions of the four therein n» f 6 8 ?. be are 'congregated Os modern o>? WayS * Stens to t,ie accounts smile of di«h?f r ? Ve,laeilts witil a polite of t-ikinu- h,- eie an vv °uld as soon think railroad in a balloon as on a tom[ L He !° ve » toke *P «P old cus ox raLio a mi sletoe hung in the hall, an mii o- h« a n b .° and hogshead of “hum mem broached for the entertain* ,urnj f i . 8 vi i^ a gors at Christmas, and j... A ae Hvo first couple to the tune of L|, u> he Coverley, at the accustomed - u on Aew-Year’s eve, then resumes his ],! a carved, high-backed chair, raised -\ a single step above all others—and o< }* s gravely on at the festivities. \fr ul , d bedifficultto determine why wh'v i!t Dley see ®. 80 , much company, and vi glves himse,f so much trouble, htch every one says yields him no pleas - smi'io- 18 b ?, bits ’ ma uners, words, and il? F,' f- e u a tbe • I ' esult of a species of •ut h’ \- bl^i l be as firmly entailed m tb ? estates. The society of the whether for rank or talent; oomphments of the polite, nay, the th?f of the poor, the widow, and ne fatherless, on whom he is ever con firing benefits, do not reach, much less uar na, his heart. If there needed proof how little wealth, Ration, and high birth have to do with .ppmess that bright fountain of light, 18 lu ._ itself a sun m tke dark places iii i ?. l e . artk » warming and illuminating ail w *thin the circle of its rays—the mas- SUPPLEMENT. MAOON, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, OCTOBER 15, 186& ter of Stanley Pleasaunce would be the example of all others I should select to show the incompetence of what is most coveted to yield the rich fruitage which is the object of our labours and ambition. It is said that George IV. was so much charmed by the manner and appearance °I Mr. Stanley, that he caused it to be communicated to himthat, if he pleased, he might be elevated to the peerage. “1 thank his majesty,” answered the gentleman, “but I have no son.” “But sir,” replied the nobleman who conveyed the gracious message, “you have a nephew.” A deep shadow passed over Mr. Stan ley’s face ; and, lest his voice should be tray any emotion, he paused before he answered: “One, sir, unworthy to bear my name, much less to be honoured by His Majesty.” Air. Stanley, though Providence had crushed his ambition by denying him children by his first marriage, and or daining that, during the lifetime of his third wife, he should follow two noble boys to their grave, had still a child of his second marriage to watch over and com panion his old age, though she knew she had not the power to render it happy. But if Alice Stanley had not the power of making her father happy; if the feel ing that his principal estate was so strictly entailed that it must go to the nephew, whom, justly or unjustly, he hated with a bitterness that lent its flavour to every portion of his existence, Alice Stanley both possessed and exercised the power of cheering every other heart and brighten ing every other eye. She had passed the age when women are considered either young or handsome; the latter, strictly speaking, she had never been ; yet, after spending a few hours in her society, every one declared they had forgotten her fea tures in her fascination. Although her mother’s noble fortune had been settled upon her, and it was well known that her father had used every method which law could devise to impoverish the entail and make his daughter passing rich, at forty, Alice Stanley, beloved, blessed, and endowed with the highest personal as well as men tal accomplishments,—at forty, Alice Stanley was unmarried: there could be no doubt of her preferring to remain so: and there was a dignified composure in her manner, an avoidance of thedressand habits of youth, a resigning herself, long before most women consider “the time” arrived for such resignation, to the cus toms of elder life, which proved, more than words could prove, that Alice Stanley would neither be wooed nor won. It couid not be supposed that this was the resuit of apathy, or a want of the af fections of our nature; if nothing seemed to touch her father’s heart, everything appeared to vibrate upon hers. It w’as a treat to see her leaving the village church on a Sunday afternoon ; her father always accompanied her, or rather she accom panied him on the Sabbath morning.— The Stanleys went regularly to church, from time immemorial, in a carriage drawn by four greys, and were invariably seated in the old family pew before the church beil had finished ringing ; but Mr. Stanley would have considered it as wrong to go in the afternoon as it was right to go in the morning. He held it, that women, to whom every courtesy should be shown, even to the standing up when a lady went in or out of a room, were, for all that, not of sufficient importance to make their go ing or not going to afternoon prayers a matter of consequence: so he permitted his daughter to do as she pleased ; and it was a treat to see her leaving the village church; to note the shrivelled hands lifted in silent or half-uttered, prayers for the blessing of their lives; to watch the chil dren crowding round her path, to catch the smiles she so willingly exchanged for theirs ; and to listen to the words of kind ness, consolation, or advice, which fell from lips that were as eloquent as her father’s were silent. In the stately receptions in which Mr. Stanley’s desires, rather than his words, had required that she should bear so dis tinguished a part, she managed to com bine the nameless aud numberless formal ities of the old school with the ease of the new ; it was not that she seemed to do or say a great deal, but, if absent from illness or any other cause, something, the most important of all things, was immediately discovered to be wanting, not by one per son, but by all. “I have served many ladies in my time —and seen many,” said the old house keeper, one day, in a confidential tone, and yet one of aged exultation. “I was own maid to the first Mrs. Stanley; a lovely creature she was, aud well the master loved her, until, when they had been three or four years married, finding she had no children, his love cooled, and she soon died. He married, at the end of a year and a day, just such a lady as Miss Stanley was —no matter how long ago— only more gay like; and the birth of her daughter aud her own death w r ere within one hour of each other. My master met me at the door, just as all w’as over. ‘She is in heaven, sir!’ I whispered ; he drew back, covered his face with his hands one minute, and then inquired, ‘And the child?’ —‘A sweet daughter, sir,’l said. ‘Lost her life for a daughter!’ muttered my master, stalking away like a shadow ; and that was the sting, poor gentleman — a daughter! Then there was another wife self-willed, aud a beauty ; she left him two noble boys, and though, when my uaster followed the last of them to his grai?, he was only five and thirty, he said ‘I am too old, I will marry no more; the i is a curse over the inheritance.’ But of t ese three ladies, and of all that ever cancj to aud went from this house, there nev r was any like Mis3 Stanley; there are one like her, and there never will be! : “ Vhat a pity she never married !” was thejiatural observation. “V pity!—ay, it is indeed a pity; it is suci as she who ought to be wives and mo hers. She’ll never marry now, she kmjws better ; it’s a cast of a die any time —bit it’s no business of mine. She’s too gooi for—an angel even!” quoth the old housekeeper, as she hobbled off; for the next day was Miss Stanley’s oirthday, anc of course, to be kept with all the ponp which evidently the lady would not liavi herself bestowed upon it! Tie morning was ushered in by the ringing of bells, and Mr. Stanley had, as usui.i, invited a large party, to do honour to tie occasion. “It was an old family custom,” he said, “and should never be neglected.” The guests who were staying in the housje observed that the lady was not in her usual —one could not exactly say “spirits,” for she was always calm and even—but her rnaner was abstracted, and she, always so ready to return the slight est courtesy, was silent, even to sadness. The day passed on—the dinner in the hall was perfect. The venerable man who proposed Miss Stanley’s health had been her father’s friend —that is, they assimi lated in politics and religion, and all county matters—for fifty years; and when Mr. Stanley returned thanks, he spoke so well, and looked so handsome, that lew would have believed he was in the seven ty-second year of his age. At the proper time the visitors with drew, and the old man and his daughter stood side by side, a oue in the stately drawing-room. “Are you very much fatigued, dear father?” inquired Alice, tenderly wind ing her arm within his. “No, my dear, not at all, particularly as I have observed that you have something to say to me.” “Thank you, dear father,” she answer ed, “J shall not, I hope, detain you long; but the servants want to put out the lighJ«. Will you go to your library or dressing-room?” Mr. btanley led tbe way to the library, and, having placed a chair for his daugh ter, seated himself opposite to her, wait ing with well-bred attention for her words. “You will bear with me, dear father, will you?” she inquired, or rather whis pered, while her frail, slender frame trem bled with emotion. “You will bear with me, will you not?” “I have never had anything to bear,” replied the old gentleman most truly.— “You never contradicted me in your life; you never angered me but once—never but once , Alice, never but once ! Ido not think you would do it a second time.” “God knows I would not! father—but you will bear with me?” Mr. Stanley w r as not a father either to caress or be caressed, yet Alice pushed an ottoman close to bis feet, and crouched rather than sat down upon it, as if she had been a little child. Her dress, of the richest silver-grey satin, fell in massive folds around her; her hair, which was streaked with white, was partially con cealed by a dark velvet head-dress, She had endeavoured to conceal her agitation, but. as she drew closer, her father per ceived that her features were almost con vulsed ; and she trembled so violently, that she grasped the arm of the chair upon which he sat with both her hands, as if that would impart strength to her quiver ing ffame. “Alice, my child !” exclaimed her father quickly, “you are ili; I never saw you thus before"!” He would have rung the bell, but she prevented him by her ges tures ; aud when she had regained her self-possession, so as to enable her to speak again, she said, “If you only say you will bear with and hear all I have to say, I shall be well presently.” “I will, Alice, I will; my own, patient, gentle child,” answered the old man; and while he spoke, he fondled her head, pass ing his hand over the silken aud silvered hair. She seized it, and kissed it eagerly. “Thank God, my dear father, for all your kindness ! My birth and my whole course of life have been a disappointment to you—l know that; but you love me, my own dear father, I know you do.” “Alice,” answered Mr. Stanley, “that I wished fora son, when divine will thought fit to send me a daughter, I do not deny ; that afterwards, when you were again my only one, I desired to see you wedded to him who bears our name, but whose de light has been to mar my dearest wishes, and who dared to spurn the alliance which the highest coveted—when I was thus insulted through my child, I—but that is past ” The old gentleman paused: he had never in his long life permitted his daughter to perceive that he was much moved by any occurrence; while he spoke, he did not venture to look at her, but kept his eyes fixed upon some object at the other end of the room. She was unconscious of this, having covered her face with her hauds. By a strong effort, Mr. Stanley conquered the evidence of his feelings, aud continued, “You refused the only revenge which, as a woman w’as in your power—you would not marry the man it would have galled your cousin to see you married to —instead of this you paled aud pined.” “Father!” interrupted Miss Stanley, removing her hands, and gazing steadily at her proud father, “do me not injustice. That I loved my cousin beyond all power to tell, is true. When, after cherishing from girlhood the belief that he loved me, I found he loved another —wheu he in sulted me by the parade of her most wonderful and rare beauty, I loved him still. When, wrought by bitter broils be tween you and him, he scornfully spurned his cousin, she still loved him. l)o not look so sternly on me, father!” said Alice, as she rose, half-kneeling, from her lowly seat; “I have been punished for that love. I angered you by refusing to wed in deep revenge, as you truly say, one whom it would have galled my cousin into mad ness to see me married to. I loathed the man—you were angered at this. I paled, it is true—revenge and love struggling within the heart of a young girl were enough to make her pale; but though love was stronger than revenge, or the dread of your displeasure, Alice Stanley did not pine.” She pushed back the hair which had es caped from its confinement, and walked rapidly up and down the room. Again her father became alarmed either for her life or reason, aud did not venture to speak. At last she resumed her seat, and, much calmed, said: “I cannot think why what occurred full twenty years ago should so unnerve me now’. Yet, though the flesh shrinks and the colour fades, aud the poor toil-worn frame aches for the quiet of the grave, the springs of love are stronger in some hearts than those of life.” “Not in yours, I hope,” said her father. There was something approaching to sar casm in the tone of his voice which made her shudder; but the cause she had to plead gave her strength, and she continu ed:— “My cousin married—” “He did,” said Mr. Stanley ; “he mar ried —and had no children. There was great comfort in that—he had no chil dren—” “His wife died,” continued Miss Stanley, as if she had not noted her father’s inter ruption. “When?—where?” inquired the old gentleman—“and how did you know’ any thing about him, wheu I have not heard for years?” “You w’ould not hear, my father.” she answered; “you would not hear; his im prudence impoverished him.” A thought, the most painful that could be formed by such a mau, suddenly cross ed Mr. Stanley’s mind; but, though it changed the expression of his counte nance, he did not give it words, “It was disgraceful,” Miss Stanley said, “for your nephew, your future heir, to need aid from strangers.” “Go on,” said Mr. Stanley. “You have been most liberal to me, father.” “I pray you to go on —and quickly,” muttered the old gentleman. “I transmitted him money through a bank, without his knowing whom it came from.” “Oh, you did ! —but bis wife was dead ; and he in time found out, of course, and is most grateful.” “The fair and beautiful, whom the whole world admired, was dead ; but, a few mouths after her death, he married again.” “And you knew this?” “Os course, I did. He married a young English lady—” “Rascal as he was, I am glad he did not wed a foreigner,” thought Mr. Stanley. “He married, and has left one child—a boy.” “Alice,” inquired her father, “what uo you mean by left? You said he has left one child—a boy—what do you mean by left?” “Need I tell you— must I tell you, my dear father,” she replied, “the dull, cola words—he is dead! I knew’ it only this morning.” “Dead!—dead !” repeated the proud old man. “Why, he was but a boy. The Stanleys live to a great age,—but he was unworthy of the name —turbulent, seii wdlled, proud, selfish.” “My lather, if any living have a right to heap heaviness upon his grave, it is i— f—he was my blight. And yet he could no more love me tnan I could love another and out of your resolve that we should wed sprung ail this whirlwind of sorrow. Bui for it, he would have been to you as a sou; he was the child of your beloved brother, and you remember he has not died child less.” “And what is that to me?” inquired the old man, with more than his usual steiu ness. “Much !—much! In a few years, wheu our days are numbered, that boy must he here—master of this house, of the Stanley entailed estates. I ask you to bear with me,” she said, grasping both her lather’s hands in hers, and kneeling at his feet: “God grant it may be many years!—but it must be in the end. Let us teach him, by care and tenderness, to look for it as a loss, and not a blessing—let us make him [continued ok second page.]