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-JOHN H. SEALS, Editor and Proprietor.
Spies’ department.
Mary E. Bryan, Editress.
TO CONTRIBUTORS.
“The History of a Ring” will appear next
-•week. It has been crowded out heretofore.
“Cupid” must wait until we can make room
for it. The poem from Davidsboro is very
fine indeed, but unfortunately, not original.
“A Bachelor” is respectfully declined. The
author can do better. There are passages
in the story full of vigor and evincing talent,
but the whole wants polish and finish. Will
the writer try again? “My Childhood’s
Home,” by Marcus A. Bell. We did not
know before that Mr. Bell was a poet, as
well as a philosopher. We welcome him to
our department of the Crusader. *
LOLA MONTEZ ON RUN A WAY MATCHES.
Lola’s book of lectures contains many
r good things, not the least of which are her
comments en passant on clandestine mar
riages. She could speak from experience,
having herself eloped at the age of fourteen
►with a Capt. James, of whom she says, he
was only the outside shell of a husband,
who had neither a brain which she could
respect, nor a heart which it w’as possible
for her to love. “ Run-a-way matches,” she
adds, “like xun-a-way horses, are almost sure
to end in a .smash up. My advice to all
young girls who contemplate taking such a
step, is, that they had better hang or drown
themselves just one hour before they start.”
We agree with her in toto, and we are
tempted to say that there is no case where a
girl is justifiable in taking a step that shall
influence her destiny for good or evil, with
out a parent’s sanction. Better let the pas
sion, unfed by hope, burn itself out, even
if it consume her heart in doing so, than
break the solemn commandment —the only
one with promise, and incur the displeasure
of those to whom she is bound by the holiest
ties of love and gratitude.
As for the danger to hearts, the “ green
and yellow melancholy,” “ the rose whose
‘root is death,” and all those threatened con
sequences of disappointed affection, there is
more poetry than truth in their sentiments.
Hearts of our time are made of “sterner
stuff,” and their possessors are apt to con
sole themselves with the comfortable pro
verb, that “ there are as good fish in the sea
as ever came out of it.”
We can not now recall a single instance,
in our somewhat extended experience,
where a run-a-way match had a happy ter
mination. There is something in it, you
may depend. In olden times, a parent’s
blessing was a boon more prized than a her
itage, and a parent’s curse the most awful
malediction that could wither the energies
and blast the life of him on whom it was
a laid.
The consciousness of a parent’s displeas
ure has still its baleful effect. It lies, like
a shadow, forever in the path, and we be
lieve with Coleridge, that,
■> “ Beneath the foulest mother’s curse,
No child could ever thrive.
A mother is a mother still—
The holiest thing alive.”
“ If a body meet a body
Coming through the street,”
Need one of those bodies, just because lie
happens to wear broadcloth and beaver, jos
tle against the feminine hoop and bonnet
of the other, (as we saw on Whitehall yes
terday,) when the side-walk is abundantly
wide enough to admit the free passage of
Crinoline? It is not the first time, by quite
a number, that we have seen similar colli
sions in the street, and watched, with some
” thing like indignation, the nonchalent smile
and bow of the offending party, (always a
gentle —we mean a man,) and the flush that
mounted to the lady’s cheek, as with the
instinct of offended modesty, she drew her
y veil more closely around the assaulted bon
net.
It is useless to say that such collisions i
happen inadvertently. People do not walk
the streets in such profound abstraction,
that they run over others without noticing
them. If they do, they had better be sent
to promenade Bedlam, than allowed to run
at large. Besides, it is strange that over
coats seldom come in contact with each
other.
Bonnets and cashmeres must have a pe
culiar power of attraction.
* Now, it’s all very well to jostle and elbow
on the thronged side-walks of a metropolis,
•tor number one has to be taken care of at
fill events; but Atlanta is not New York,
nor Whitehall Broadway, and the side
walks are seldom so crowded that ladies can
not pass readily without pushing gentlemen
suade, or coming into kissable contact with
r-awrthnwpnnimnns wfbpse pder of blended
not to be endured.”
So there is no necessity in the world for
street collisions, so unpleasant to every lady
of delicacy.
If the gentlemen are particularly anxious
. embrace somebody, we presume they have
all either wives, sisters or—ladyloves of their
own. *
SIMPLE KINDNESSES.
How prone we are to neglect the “small,
sweet” charities of life 1 We may conscien
tiously render justice to our neighbors; we
Jftay contribute liberally to benevolent soci
eties, occupy our well cushioned pews each
day of service, and even have a class in the
Sabbath school, and yet, let pass many gol
den opportunities for doing good. It is the
little things, the simple, every day duties,
so often unregarded, because of their appa
rent insignificance, that are frequently the
meft powerful agents for moral good. The
broad and beautiful bow of the Heavens,
that arches above us,
“With a wing on the earth andawingon the sea,”
is but a union of little water drops, and the
great arch of social and religious duty, that
spans the world, is a combination of simple
obligations and requirements.
These “words, fitly spoken,” what very
little things they are, and yet, how impor
tant in their consequences! A world of vast
results may be contained in a single word,
as the acorn holds the germ of the oak.
many care-worn, troubled hearts
with in the daily walks of life, to
whom a gentle smile, a sympathizing pres
sure of the hand, or a word of encourage
ment would be worth more than the pecu
niary aid from which their pride might re
volt.
Simple acts of kindness, quietly and un
ostentatiously performed, tears of pity given
to those who are athirst for sympathy, words
and looks and smiles that make the tried
heart forget its bitterness —these are the
chance flowers sown along the pathway—
flowers that may ripen into a glorious fruit
age in after time, and then they cost so
very little —only an effort sometimes, when
the spirit is overburdened with its own sel
fish sorrows; but even for this, the pleasure
of doing good amply compensates, for every
thorn that we pluck from the path of an
other, blossoms into a rose to shed its sweet
ness on our own. *
Mrs. Southworth, Mrs. Hentz and several
other writers of their style’ have given our
young family of scribblers a perfect passion
for magnificence. Whole columns of news
papers are taken up in describing the prince
ly splendor of my Lady Emma’s boudoir, and
as for the drawing rooms, the saloons of the
royal Tuilleries fade into significance before
the Aladdin-like magnificence of the par
lors of a Wall-street broker. Buhl and rose
wood, and damask, tapestry, carpets, and
harps, inlaid with pearl, statues and pic
tures, fauteuils of velvet, embroidered with
gold, and draperies fringed with the same
“shining stuff,” are all heaped together by the
fruitful imaginations of these young story
writers; and amid all this dazzling confusion
reclines my LadyEEmmaa —a gem in a splen
did setting—habited in velvet and diamonds
that a queen might envy.
Now all this is sheer nonsense. The ex
travagance of Gotham and its lesser satel
lites is bad enough, in all conscience, but
not so bad as this; and besides, these fash
ionables display taste, at least in their deco
rations, while this is a quality of which those
harpers on the thousand strings of fiction
are lamentably ignorant. Croisus himself
could not support the style in which they
represent an uptown merchant or lawyer to
be luxuriating. Victoria’s parlors (we hope
for the sake of taste) are not so bedizened
in gold embroidery, and so crammed with
statues, pictures and ornaments, as the
drawing-room where Emma plays on her
“gold inlaid” harp to the enamored Augus
tus.
Perhaps you think our representation sa
vors of the extravagance we are censuring.
Very well; we will draw to us the nearest
paper on our table —which happens to be a
yesterday’s exchange, and a well known and
excellent journal—and find you an example
of the style to which we refer. Here is one
from a continued story, on the first page
that we turn to: “The room was furnished
with lounges and ottomans of crimson vel
vet, heavily inwrought with gold. The
walls displayed the same blending of gold
and crimson, and the full length mirrors
multiplied it with endless repetitions. The
room was brilliantly lighted, and Elena
supported by velvet cushions, robed in a
closely fitting dress of crimson velvet.” But
this is quite enough for our pupose; now let
us tell you of something richly ludicrous
that we met with not long since, in a paper
that calls.itself ‘the only Literary Journal
in the South.’ “It was in a long novellette,
from the pen of a young lady of this State
—a very young writer, who will learn better
in time, and perhaps be successful in her
vocation, if she will quit imitating. She was
drawing a glowing picture of a lady’s bou
doir, furnished with more than Oriental rich
ness, and describing, in detail, the luxuri
ous carpets, so soft and thick as to bury the
tiny feet of the occupant, the mirrors in
gilded frames, the rare pictures and statues,
and the heavy chintz curtains, through which
streamed the golden light. Chintz curtains!
Now the fair writer had some where seen
that word, and with no more idea of its real
meaning than a Frenchman has of morality,
had fancied that it must be something a
degree finer than the customary damask,
and had thrown it in to add to the splen
dor she sought to describe. Had she con
sulted her Webster and found that “chintz”
meant neither more nor less than printed
cotton —the calico of which her wrapper was
made —she certainly would not have thrown
curtains of chintz into juxtaposition with all
the heterogeneous magnificence of rosewood
and Brussels.
We have no objection to an occasional
touch of the splendid in embellishing a nar
rative, but let it be within the bounds of
possibility, and not a detailed description
of luxuries that only the purse of Fortunatus
could purchase.
Such writings do infinite mischief by fos
tering, in weak minds, the spirit v>r
fortunes, discontent and useless repining.
*.
MY LYRE.
A TRANSLATION OF THE FIRST ODE OF ANACREON.
BY HERBERT.
The sons of A trues I would sing ;
With praise of Cadmus heaven should ring,
But my unwilling lyre no more
May wake historic strains of yore.
Nothing in earth or heaven above
Can move it but the breath of Love.
Ah ! once its sounding chords were strung
To praise of battles fought and won,
But it has changed, of late, its tone,
And now it breathes of Love alone— .
Os Love, the god whose despot sway
Mankind all own and homage pay.
His joys no human song may tell;
His power, mysterious as a spell.
Herculean contests move me not—
The deeds of heroes are forgot.
Farewell, heroic ones of old,
Achilles brave and Eneas bold ;
My lyre is strung to softer themes,
Sweet as a maiden’s summer dreams;
Fame’s praise shall ail forgotten be, ’
Henceforth, the joys of Love for me.
Atlanta.
The last use of the telegraph is that of
lovers, who, by the wires, carry on courtship.
Recently, a couple thus exchanged their
“ mutual vows.”
FOR THE CULTURE OF TRUTH, MORALITY AND LITERARY EXCELLENCE.
LOST IN THE CLOUDS.
BY MARY E. BRYAN.
Thurston, the well known aeronaut, was car
ried up into the air, on last October, by the sud
den ascent of the partially collapsed balloon,
while he was seated on the valve to hold it down.
Having no means to secure his descent, or to
guide the ballon, he of course perished, after suf
ferings that may be only faintly imagined. It
was supposed that he must have fallen into Lake
Erie.
Away, with the speed of air—
And the reeling earth beneath him lies —
And above—the calm, remorscles skies—
And faint, on his palsied ear, [stands
Fall the cries of the horror-struck crowd, that
With their fear-blanched bps and their upraised
[hands.
Faintly he hears their cries,
As the sailor, misled by the mist and gloQtn,
And lured to theJMaesltrom’s whirling tomb,
As dizzily round he flies,
Hears voices sweet, that call from the shore
To him, that shall answer them never more—
To him for whom death waits grimly below.
Up, up, through the pathless air,
And the winds go by, with a mocking cry ;
And the red sun glares with unpitying eye—
And his lips can frame no prayer,
As he clings, with quick and laboring breath
To the only bar between him and death.
And now, the gathering clouds
Come hovering around, like birds of prey
Come trooping up on their pinions grey,
And wrap him in their damp shrouds,
And shut out the beautiful earth below,
As the mist, from the Mariner, veils the shore.
Oh ! blessed, beautiful earth !
Though it were on the desert’s burning sands,
Or the green icebergs of the polar strands ;
One foot of thy land were worth
These measureless realms of air and cloud,
Where the mist spreads darkly its death-damp
[shroud.
But now the night comeson,
And, the moving clouds take horrible forms,
And hover around in darkening swarms ;
But higher—and they are gone,
And the stars look down with their cold, pale eyes,
And silence is wide as the boundless skies.
’Tis a fearful thing, I ween,
To float —a wreck—on a stormy sea,
While the breakers, muttering hoarse on the lea,
By the lightning’s glare are seen ;
But oh ! to the lost in a sea of air,
With no sound and no living creature there —
Alone, with a terrible despair !
Oh God ! how still it is ‘.
Still, as when the murderer holds his breath,
As he bends awhile o’er his work ot death.
Oh ! better the. Cobra’s hiss,
The lion’s roar and all sounds ofdread,
Than this stillness, deep as the sleep of the dead.
Shriek ! Break with desperate cries
This silence, that broods so deep and wide ;
Scream to the spectral clouds that glide ;
Mock all those hungry eyes
That glare on your pain, that will soon be past,
For your hot brain reels, and your strength fails
(fast.
Oh, God ! to die, to die ! [health,
When the blood bounds free and warm with
And the lip is red with its treasured wealth,
And the noon of life is nigh : [strife,
When a sweet voice steals through his spirit’s
Wooing him back to love and life.
And.thus the night wears on—
As silently as a ghost glides by,
And the stars that rode the midnight sky
Grow'pale at eight of dawn,
And the smiling earth close under him lies,
But a dimness falls on his glazing eyes.
One by one, the stars go out,
As the lights in a desolate banquet hail,
Whose dancers vanished, one and all,
Whose flowers lie strewn about;
And the sun glares open his blood-shot eye,
As eager to see the doomed one die.
Ha ! what was that startled scream ?
Just Heaven ! is the longed for earth so near,
That its blessed sounds may reach his ear?
Alas for the transient dream !
An eagle with earth damp wings flaps by
And turns and looks with a startled cry
At so strange a sight in the lonely sky.
Aye; scream in your fierce despair;
Cry to the bird that has swiftly flown ;
Bid him not leave you, to die alone;
Then sob out a pitiful prayer,
For feebly your cold'hands hold their clasp—
’Tis death that is loosening their frenzied grasp.
Ah well; it is still again,
And a great calm falls on the doomed one’s heart;
And though his lips are with prayer apart,
There is no more fear or pain.
Look down ! what is it that lies below ?
A calm, blue lake with its quiet flow.
Down, down through the yielding air,
And the blue lake opens its peaceful breast,
And the wanderer at last has found his rest—
And the wind breathes a trembling prayer.
But soon the fair waters close calmly o’er,
And the sun shines down, as it shone before.
[COMMUMICATKD.J
MY BOYHOOD'S HOME, MY BOYHOOD'S HOME!
BY MARCUS A. BELL.
In mem'ry's glass I see the day,
My life’s young beam was clear—
And sporting in the lovely ray,
I know not manhood’s care.
0, halcyon time that glided by
On wings of light and joy,
Without a cloud to dim my sky,
When I was but a boy !
The quiet grove around my home,
And wild-wood stretching far,
In artless glee I fond did roam,
Unknown to sorrow’s tear !
The murmuring rill that flowed along
That music-breathing dell,
Awoke me to a pleasing song,
My muse would softly tell.
The garden, gay with blooming flowers,
Beneath the southern skies,
Was blended with the golden hours
Os “Adam’s Paradise.”
In grandeur walked around,
And hung the shining stars above
To light that holy ground.
’Twas sweet deception to my heart;
The spell was sure divine !
The bloom thereof will ne’er depart
From mem’ry’s sacred shrine!
My generous father, mother dear,
Bo fondly nursed each pride,
Hope’s cheering beams dispelled the tear
That durst my fate betide.
Two sisiers, and my brothers, all
In bonds of love were bound—
-0-r home was dearer than “The Hall .
0/Spells” the “spirit found.
True friendship’s cheerful smile lit up
That home—my home divine—
As pleasure filled the infant-cup
Os joy with nature’s wine—
Extracting bliss from manhood’s day
To gild the sparkling bowl;
I never dreamed this humble lay
Would stir my inmost soul!
My boyhood’s home, my boyhood’s home,
Revives within my breast,
And bids the dear ones, while they roam,
In spirit here to rest!
O could I fly on angel wing
The scene again to view,
How swift away I’d speed and bring
Back home, sweet home, anew !
The light at home ! How still and sweet
It peeps from yonder cottage door—
The weary laborer to greet
When the rough tons of day are o’er !
Sad is the soul that does not know
The blessings that its beams impart,
I he cheerful hopes and joys that flow,
And lighten up the heaviest heart.
Men scorn to kiss among themselves.
And scarce will kiss a brother ;j
Women, with far tenderer hearts
Oft smack and kiss each other.
Atlanta, Georgia, February 4, 1859.
PAUL DESMOND,
A STORY OF SOUTHERN LIFE.
BT MARY E. BRYAN.
(Continued from last week.)
As I approached nearer, I found several
light carriages and horses with attendant
grooms, standing in front of the dwelling,
and for the first time I remembered an in
vitation given me by the lady of the house
on the preceding night, to attend a picnic
on the banks of the lake at a lovely spot a
mile or two distant. While 1 was hesitating
whether to alight or return, Mrs. Ailing
ham and her party came out, all smiles and
white plumes, and the lady graciously
thanked me for my attendance, as, in order
to render her party very select, she almost
feared she had made it too small. There
was no alternative but for me to smile and
bow acquiescence, which I did reluctantly,
for a quick glance around the group assured
me that Myra was not among them. In re
ply to my inquiry why she was not going
with us, Mrs. Allingham said, carelessly:
“I do not know. Some whim of Myra’s,
I suppose. I did not inquire.”
She stood drawing the gloves on her pretty
hands, admiring the fine, spirited horses I
drove, and allowing Judge Seymour to hand
a number of young girls who seemed with
out seats, into her carriage. At last I asked
her to accept a seat in my own, for which
she laughingly thanked me, saying that
Judge Seymour’s politeness had filled the
carriage so full that it was impossible for
it to contain any addition except himself,
and it would be a pity to deprive him of a
pleasure for which he had manoeuvred so
adroitly.
During our ride, Mrs. Allingham was un
usually entertaining.
She loosened the strings of her hat to let
the breeze wind and unwind the curls around
her white neck, and the sunshine hide in
the “ golden gloom” of their meshes. When
she spoke, her lips and her tyes rivaled each
other in expressiveness, and her vivacity
played like lightning around every subject
she touched upon. Sometimes her anima
ted expression was mellowed into one of
deeper feeling, and once her voice—when
looking over the bright chronicles which
Autumn was beginning to write over the
meadows, she quoted Edith May’s beautiful
address to October—was touchingly sweet
and full of pathos.
But notwithstanding this, I found the
picnic rather dull. There was the usual
number of torn flounces, lost puffing combs
and headaches, the ordinary quantity of
flirting, gormandizing and yawning, and the
usual two perches, caught by the old maid
of the conqtany, who probably found an
gling for fish, a less hopeless business than
fishing for men. After dinner, a small skiff
was unfastened from the cypress knee to
which it was moored, and Mrs. Allingham
herself rowed to the centre of a little bay
that indented the shore.
“ Anew edition of the ‘ Lady of the
Lake !’” called out the Judge, who lost no
opportunity for paying a compliment.
“ ‘ And ne’er might Grecian chisel trace
A Nymph, a Naid or a Grace, etc.’ ”
They floated away, singing the beautiful
German air,
“ Oh wie whol ist am abend,”
and growing tired of watching the unhappy
Sophomore pull the juvenile Miss Rosa out
of the water, into which she insisted on dip
ping her slippers—clapping her hands and
declaring it was such fun; Mr. Charles must
excuse her, but really, she was “such a
child”—growing tired, I say, of watching
this exhibition of “ poor human nature,”
as well as of the picnic in toto, I pleaded an
engagement, and, leaving my barouche and
horses for the use of the J udge, I mounted
his fine black charger, that the groom had
rode, and set out on my return. It was
sometime before sunset when I reached Al
lingham place, and, thinking it too early
for my engagement, I could not resist the
temptation to dismount and enter. The
servant showed me to the drawing-room,
where Myra was sitting reading aloud to
her father. His arm chair was drawn to the
window, in order, I imagined, that his rest
less eyes might wander incessantly forth to
watch for the return of the party from their
pleasure excursion.
As I entered, Myra closed the book she
had been reading and rose to receive me
with quiet self-possession. She was simply
dressed, yet, the dark, closely fitting robe
of purple merino suited well her chaste and
picturesque style of loveliness, and the blue
asters in her hair relieved the severe sim
plicity of its Madonna bands.
After some preliminary conversation, I
took the book—Carlyle’s “ Sartor licsartus”
—and offered to read aloud, as she had con
fessed herself fatigued. I read earnestly, for
Carlyle s strong, rough sentences had always
a charm for me—and she listened with in
terest. At length she arose, for her watch
ful eye had perceived that her father, lean
ing his head iq the embrasure of the win
dow, had fallen asleep, and taking the sofa
pillow, she placed it gently beneath his Bead
and noiselessly closed the blinds, lest the
air might be too chill so the invalid.
In her every word and action towards this,
her only parent, there shone forth theearn
est affection of her heart, but he seemed
neither to notice nor care for it—his whole
faculties being absorbed in mingled admii'a
tion and jealousy of his fascinating young
wife.
Myra resumed her seat and I continued
to read, until startled by the sound of wheels
and the tramping of hoofs. Remembering
that, should the party return and find me
here, my position might be a little awkward,
as I had excused myself on the ground of
business in the city, I sprang to my feet,
determined to make a retreat, if possible.
But It was too late. Several of the party
had alighted; the rest were driving oft’. In ‘
another moment, Mrs. Allingham’s light
step was upon the colonnade. She started
at seeing me, quietly seated, holding the
half closed book.
“ What has become of your engagement ?”
she asked, smiling sarcastically.
I endeavored to plead some excuse, which
she received with the same haughty, incred
ulouslook.
“ N’importe” she said, doffing her plumed
hat and sinking upon the sofa. “ 1 never
blame any one for leaving company when
they find it dull.”
Her voice awakened old Mr. Allingham,
who, starting nervously, gazed around with
eyes as bright as though he had never slept.
Seeing her, he appeared to observe no one
else in the room, and thanked her tenderly
for placing the cushion beneath his head.
I do not think she heard him ; at any rate,
she made no reply, and Myra did not unde
ceive him.
When I returned to the hotel that night,
my aunt informed me that she had finished
her sonnet to her satisfaction, copied it upon
violet-scented paper and sent it to delight
the heart of Mr. Green. She wished me to
go with her to the theatrq, declarjng that
she deeded some recreation after her day’s
close confinement. The play to be pertorm
ed was the “ Ladv of Lyons,” but Mr. K,
the principal actor, having been taken ill
the day before, I had not heard who was to
be his substitute.
We were late in procuring seats. St.
Charles’ theatre was crowded to overflow
ing, and 1 had only time, in a brief glance
around, to perceive Mrs. Allingham and
Myra occupying a front box in an upper tier,
when the curtain rose and the performance
began. What was my surprise, as it procee
ded, to see Herman Rodenstein, the young
German musician, appear upon the stage as
Claude Melnotte. I was disappointed, think
ing that he had not mind or cultivation
enough to appreciate the character ; but in
this I soon found myself mistaken.
He was perfectly at home in its represen
tation. Evidently, such a character, more
brilliant than deep, more impassioned and
poetical than powerful, was peculiarly adap
ted to him. His graceful and natural ges
tures, his well modulated voice and fine per
sonal appearance won instant favor. His
acting was life-like. I afterwards heard that
he had frequently rehearsed the play ; but
be that as it may, his manner had all the
charm of unstudied feeling.
Once, while describing to his proud mis
tress the home to which,
“ Could Love fulfill its prayers, this hand would
lead thee,”
his tones, full of tenderness and enthusiasm,
thrilled to the heart, and his beaming eyes
were raised, not to the Pauline by his side,
but to Myra Allingham. His countenance
was absolutely radiant with feeling, and
there was the pathos of truth in the delicious
tremor of his voice. The audience felt that
it was not mere acting, and loud plaudits
testified their approbation.
I looked at Myra; she was leaning forward
from her box with flushed cheeks aqd ab
sorbed manner, seemingly forgetful of the
presence of others, in her admiration of the
actor. Their glances met, and though her
eyes were instantly withdrawn, it was not
until the tell-tale blood had mounted to her
very forehead. Ido not think this little
by-play was observed by any one but myself
and Mrs. Allingham. When the perform
ance was ended, 1 observed that, of all the
bouquets and garlands showered upon Ro
denstein, there was one over which he bow
ed low, with his inimitable grace, and press
ed to his lips with an expression almost
reverential.
Alter this, I sought the acquaintance of
Rodenstein and studied his character thor
oughly. I found that, notwithstanding his
poetical and sparkling exterior, the under
current of his nature was but commonplace.
He had no more stability than a child, was
easily influenced and disposed to float upon
every passing current. I saw him frequently
lounging in the restaurants and French cof
fee houses, smoking or drinking brandy
and water, sometimes playing rouge et noir
in the back room of some case or oyster sa
loon, to which my curiosity—for I had taken
a fancy to study human nature—occasion
ally led me. And yet, although 1 knew
there was, in reality, but little refinement
in his nature, I could not but admit his un
doubted attractions—the graceful, almost
child-like abandon of his manner; his warm,
generous temperament and exhuberant flow
of spirits; his frank, beaming smile, disclos
ing such beautiful teeth, and his eyes so
deeply blue and tender in their expression,
with lashes long and silken, resting like a
woman’s xipon his cheek.
I learned from him his short but eventful
history. He was an orphan, with no ties of
relationship this side the Atlantic. When
but a child, he had accompanied an elder
bi-other—since dead—to America, had been
adopted and partly educated by a respecta
ble physician in a northern town, and at
fifteen, had i*an away and joined a strolling
circus band. Since then, his fortunes had
been as various as those of such stray waifs
thrown upon the world usually are, although
he had in some way managed to acquire
more information and mental culture than
are ordinarily found in those of his class.
chapter in.
After that night at the theatre, I deter
mined never again to seek an opportunity
of seeing Myra Allingham. With some reg
ular occupation, that would have kept handfe
and brain employed, I might have adhered
to this resolve; but having nothing tp do
but dress, promenade thej oave, drive on the
shell road with my aunt every afternoon,
and suffocate at night in jerowded drawing
rooms, I persuaded myself that it was solely
to vary this routine, that I rode out one
dull, rainy evening to Allingham place.
Mrs. Allingham was alone in the drawing
room when I entered, and no trace of her
former slight displeasure clouded the smile
with which she received me.
“Welcome as roses in May!” she said,
looking up from her seat at the piano and
motioning me to one at her side. “ I have
just been singing ‘ The long, long, weary
day,’ but I will Change the air, now, that
you have come. This is one ot the days
when a human voice is sweeter music than
the songs of Israfael.”
How beautiful she looked in the rich light
that, falling through the damask curtains,
played around her figure like a halo. One
dimpled elbow rested upon the frame of the
open piano, and the sleeve of her rose-col
ored morning-dress falling back, revealed
the rounded arm. Something—perhaps the
music—had given a dreamy softness to her
eyes, and the long lashes were pointed as
with tears. I think that an eremite would
New Series, Volume IV. —Old Series, Volume XXV. No. 6
have been bewildered by the beauty of this
accomplished coquette, and I do not remem
ber what nonsense I must have said, but
her fascinations did not cause me to forget
the object of my visit.
“ Myra was probably in her own room,”
she said, in answer to my question. “She
would send and see, if it would be of any
avail, but she was confident that she was
not dressed to receive company, and she
never liked to be disturbed.”
Then she turned again to the piano, and,
running her fingers carelessly over the keys,
played one piece after another with bewil
dering rapidity—now fragments of songs, sad
and sweet as vesfer chimes, now a brilliant
fantasia, or a dreamy waltz of Beethoven.
“ Why do you not admire my new ring?”
she exclaimed, stopping abruptly and hold
ing up her little hand. “It was given me
by Professor Durkee, the antiquarian, who
assures me that the set is made of an Egyp
tian beetle found in one of the pyramids.”
As in politeness bound, I took the pretty
hand, so temptingly displayed, and bent
over to examine the ring. As I did so, she,
too, bowed her head, and a ringlet of her
soft hair brushed against my cheek. On
looking up, to my surprise and confusion, I
saw Myra Allingham standing in the door
way, erect and pale, regarding us with a
look of mingled scorn and indignation.
I saw instantly that she had misinterpre
ted the act she had just witnessed, and I
knew that her love for her father would
render her peculiarly sensitive in regard to
anything affecting his happiness. I was
about to spring to my feet with a hurried
explanation, when she waved her hand
haughtily and withdrew.
I expressed to Mrs. Allingham my appre
hensions that Myra had misunderstood
what she had seen ; but she only laughed
in reply, and quoted the Spanish proverb:
“Honi soit que male y pense.” Afterwards, she
engaged me in a game of chess, which las
ted until the arrival of visitors, to my great
satisfaction, broke in upon our tete a tete,
and in a few moments I took my leave and
hastened home in a state of almost feverish
excitement.
So impatient was T to vindicate myself
from blame in the eyes of Miss Allingham,
that I could scarcely postpone my visit un
til next evening. Fortunately, I had no
engagements, thanks to Mr. Green, who had
entirely monopolized my aunt. It was a
delicious evening. The haze of the Indian
Summer rested goldenly upon the plain ;
the skies were meltingly blue, like the eyes
of infancy, and the breeze, rippling Ihe
broad fields of Cane, made them appear
like billowy seas, as they rolled away in the
distance. I rode a’ong, pleasing myself
with the hope of seeing Myra alone, when,
as I emerged from the avenue that led to
the house, I saw before the gate Mrs. 41hng
ham’s own riding horse, with her velvet
cushioned saddle, and a groom holding the
ornamented bridle. Before I could alight,
the lady herself came out, looping up the
long folds of her purple riding dress—a cap
of black velvet, with snowy plumes, placed
lightly upon her curls. She smiled gra
ciously upon seeing me.
“Ah! Mr. Desmond,” she said, “how
fortunate! I was just going to ride, and
am, as you see, sadly in want of a cavalier,
as Mr. Allingham has just been frightening
me with an account of some city despera
does, who are supposed to have taken re
fuge hereabouts. With so gallant an escort,
however, I shall have no fear. Oh, never
mind! you need not dismount; Hamlet can
help me quite as well as yourself.”
“How provoking !” I mentally ejaculated;
but then I could do no less than agree to
the arrangement—not, however, before I
had inquired why Myra did not accompa
ny her, thinking she might take it as a hint,
that my visit was not intended for herself.
Myra was not at home, was the reply.
She had taken her drawing materials and
gone out half an hour before.
There was, then, no excuse, for the old
gentleman, I knew, was in the habit of ta
king his siesta at this time, and so conceal
ing my disappointment as best I could, I
rode along by her side down the green aisle
of orange trees, through which the mock
ing birds were fluttering, balancing them
selves upon the swaying clusters of unri
pened fruit. About half a mile from the
“Villa” was situated a pretty, bird’s nest
cottage, occupied by a widow lady of Creole
descent, and her two little girls.
They were now in reduced circumstances,
and Madame La Motte—who possessed con
siderable talent—eked out her scanty main
tainance by writing for the periodicals. As
we passed the cottage we involuntarily
checked our horses to admire its beauty,
and inhale the fragraixce of the white tea
roses that clambered up the paling. Be
neath an immense live oak, that stretched
its green arms protectingly over a plat of
grass, was as beautiful a rural picture as a
painter could have desired. On the low,
rustic seats, around the foot of the tree,
was seated a little group in careless, picture
esque attitudes, while a basket, heaped with
apples, golden and red, was placed on the
grass beside them. The pale, oval face of
Madame La Motte I at once recognised, for
I had seen her frequently when riding past,
busied with her flowers and assisted by her
two lovely girls, who now reclined at her
feet. One of these, with brown eyes brim
full of mischief, was laughing .at the grave
looks of a little King Charles Spaniel, as he
sat erect with her tiny bonnet of crimson
silk on his head, a scarf thrown around him
and holding, between his shaggy paws, a
parasol evidently belonging to a lady in a
walking habit sitting beside him, and for
whom the other little girl—a charming bru
nette—was holding a dish to receive the ap
ples she was paring.
I could not see the lady’s face, but the
hand and arm around which the apple par
ings fell in long, bright rings, was of deli
cate whiteness. By her side sat a young
man in a green hunting suit, with his caj*
and silver mounted rifle thrown carelessly
beside him, and holding in hiadiand a half
open portfolio. I knew him, even before
his rich, sweet laugh fell upon my ear.
The graceful figure, the chestnut curls clasp
ing the white neck—they could belong to
none other than Herman Rodenstein—and
the lady was Myra.
Her face, always noble, was really beauti
ful, as at the sound of our nearer approach,
she turned towards us with a glow upon her
usually colorless cheek, and such a light in
her eyes.
She replied to my salutation by a slight
inclination of her head, and then turned
away, while I thought with despair upon the
probability that, seeing me riding alone with
her step-mother, might serve to confirm her
in the belief that I was acting dishonorably.
Rodenstein smiled and bowed with his usual
graceful gayety.
How .1 envied-him! How willingly I
would have exchanged places with this Ger
man boy, and given up my position in the
fashionable world and brilliant prospects,
for his violincellq and the love of a heart
like Myra’s!
After Mrs. Allingliam had finished dis
canting on this picturesque tableaux, as she
was pleased to call it, I asked if she knew
the gentleman she had just passed.
“ Certainly I do,” she said; “by sight; at
least. He is a very tolerable musician, and
I believe an actor also. He personated
Claude Melnotte not long since, I think.”
“ Mrs. Allingham,” 1 almost stammered,
after a long pause, confused and scarcely
knowing what I said, “ do you not think
that there is some understanding between
this young musician and your step-daugh
ter?”
“ Really Ido not know. Myra has never
honored me with her confidence, and I feel
no disposition to pry in her affairs,” was the
cool answer, the lady not seeming at all sur
prised at my abrupt inquiry.
“ But in this particular instance you might,
with propriety, interfere. She is so young
—so —”
“ Quite old enough to judge of her own
feelings, I presume, and as she is disposed
to be romantic, I think it very jiossible that
there may be some understanding, as you term
it, between them, especially as the young
man is remarkably handsome. I am, how
ever, totally ignorant of the manner in which
she made his acquaintance.”
“ But her father,” I persisted, in spite of
her indifferent manner, “would he not op
pose such a connection ?”
“ Undoubtedly ; but romantic young cou
ples, you know, seldom consult their pa
rents about such matters.
Gretna Greens are open here, as well as
elsewhere, and after the affair is all over,
papas seldom remain inexorable. Now, if
you have finished your catechism, I will
thank you to fasten my bridal rein, that you
have been too much abstracted to notice.”
1 saw that it would bo quite useless to say
any thing more—useless to add that the
young man was totally unsuited to Myra;
that twice, during my recent strict watch
over him, I had seen him partially intoxica
ted, and had known him to frequent gaining
saloons and other questionable places of
amusement. I really believed that this sel
fish, heartless woman would rejoice, should
her husband’s daughter form an unworthy
alliance, that there might be no possibility
of competition for the laurels of Belledom.
And Myra—l could not help fearing for her
future happiness, and wishing that I had at
least a brother’s privilege to warn her with
all the gentleness of disinterested love.
I was aroused from these reflections, by
becoming sensible that a pair of piercing
eyes were intently peering under the sombrero
I had drawn partly over my brow. I looked
up, and the lady colored as she withdrew
her glance.
“Pray, Mr. Desmond,” she exclaimed,
with a light laugh, “ why are you looking so
grave ? One would fancy that you had your
self fallen in love with my little, rustic look- *
ing step-daughter, and were jealous of your
more favored rival. If this be the case, 1
am sorry to inform you that your suit is
nearly hopeless.”
“And why?” I asked, for I was in no mood
for a light reply.
“Oh! because, leaving the rival out of the
question, I could tell you of a slight incident
not very favorable to your hopes, if you re
ally entertain any. You remember the lit
tle simpleton saw you in the act of admiring
my Egyptian beetle, and put quite a ludi
crous construction upon the trifling circum
stance of your taking my hand to examine
the ring. Well; after weeping for nearly
an hour in her own room, as her maid as
sured me, she came to her father in the
library and begged of him that he would
forbid your coming here again, but notwith
standing his entreaties and commands, re
fused to give any reason for her request.
At length, hearing his angry expostulations,
I ventured to go in, treated the affair with
the contempt it deserved and explained the
circumstance of the ring. Myra still looked
doubtlully, but apologised to her father and
to me for having caused any disturbance.
He was, however, much incensed at her un
just interference, as he called it, and she
has been quite sulky ever since. Perhaps
she has found consolation before this, in the
society of her Claude.”
Very probably, thought 1, and I felt more
than ever convinced that it was this want
of affection and sympathy at home, that had
induced this sensitive young creature, whose
heart, notwithstanding her reserve, was, I
felt sure, filled with a yearning for love, to
seek for it elsewhere. This reserve, fostered
by her secluded mode of education, together
with her nature, so unlike those around her,
prevented her from forming any intimacy
with those of her own age. She was not one
of those specimens of young ladyhood so
admirably described by Mrs. Neal, whose
friendships consist in an exchange of kisses
and confidences.
Mrs. Allingham’s disclosure produced
upon me the opposite effect of what she evi
dently intended. It did not lessen my in
terest in Myra.
If she hadtakep a prejudice against me,
she no doubt thought it a justly founded
one, and I could not refrain from pitying
her and regretting that the impulses pf her
romantic and inexperienced mind were not
watched over by a mother’s loving eye; for
after all, there is no love like that of a
mother—none so pure, so perfectly unselfish
and self-denying. It is a sad day for th&
child, when the white grave robes are folded
above the faithful heart that first beat for
him, and the hot tears fall, for the first lime
unheeded , upon the cold brow of the mother.
[to BE CONTINUED.]