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OPRFffiST PBEEPOHI
For Ricliurds’ Weekly Gazette.
W aciiullah.
I*Y MRS. C. W. DUBOSE.
[The Wachulla Spring (Dscribed in (he following
poem is situated about ten miles from Talla
hos’ie, Florida It is an immense limestone ba
sin, as yet unfathonied in the centre, with wa
ters as transparent as crystal 3
Fountain of beauty ! on my vision breaking
How springs my heart thy varied charms to
greet;
thoughts of loveliness within me waking.
Fill all my being with their influence sweet.
Gazing on thee, my spirit's wild commotion
Is hushed beneath some mighty magic spell,—
Till thrilling with each new and strange emotion.
No feeling’ but of high and j ure devotion
Within me dwell.
Wachullah, beauteous Spring! thy crystal wa
ters
Reflect the loveliness of Southern skies ;
And oft methinks the dark-hair'd Indian daugh
ters
Bent o’er thy silver depths with wandering eyes.
From forest glade the swarthy chief emerging,
Delighted, paused thy matchless charms to
view ;
Then to thy flower-gemmed border slowly verging
I see him o’er thy placid bosom urging
Ilia light canoe!
Break not the spell that wraps this beauteous
vision
In the enchantment of some fairy dream ;
Nl’ thinks 1 wander in those realms elysian,
Which on poetic fancies sometimes gleam.
Round me the dim-arched forest proudly towers,
Seeming those light and floating clouds to kiss;
Oh, let me linger for a few brief hours
By this enchanted fount —these wildwood bowers
To dream of bliss.
With the bright crimson of the Maple twining,
The fragrant Bay its peerless chaplet weaves ;
And where Magnolias in their pride are shining,
The broad Palmetto spreads its fan-like leave*
Far down the forest aisles where sunbeams quiver,
The fairest flowers their rainbow hues combine;
And pendant o’er the swiftly-flowing river,
The shadows of the graceful Willow shiver
In glad sunshine!
Bright plumaged birds their gorgeous hues en
wrea thing,
Their amorous tunes to listening flowers re
peat;
Which fn reply, their sweetest incense breathing.
Pour ou the silent air their perfume sweet:
From tree to tree the golden Jasmine creeping,
llangs its bright bells on every slender spray ;
And in each fragrant chalice, slyly peeping,
The Humming Bird its odorous store is reaping,
The livelong day.
Nature has here, in wilful mood, unfolded
Her choicest stores, the wilderness to deck; —
And forms of rare and j>erfect beauty moulded,
Where no rude hand her beauty dares to check.
How could I sit, and watch the waters glancing
in the calm beauty of these cloudless skies;
My vivid fanvy every charm enhancing,
And sight and sound my senses ail entrancing,
Till daylight dies!
llow o'er the misty Past my thoughts would pon
der,
When sad and lone beside Wachull i's spring ;
The red man flying from his foe.<*would wander,
And to the wave his heart wrung murmurs fling.
Oppression stern his free-born soul enthralling,
He flies for shelter to these wildwood haunts —
And on the spirits of his loved ones calling,
While murmuring voices on his ear are falling,
This descant chauuts.
44 Great Spirit of our race! hast thou forsaken
Thy favored children in their hour of need 1
Their wailing voice W.ochull&’g echoes waken —
Will not the Spirit of their father heed 1
Sunshine and joy our own loved dells are flushing,
But mid their charms the Red Man wanders
lone;
He hears the free winds thro,’ the forest rushing ;
lie sees Wacliulla’s gladsome waters gushing,
Yet hears no tone! ”
Alas! sad warrior! by these silver waters
No more thall gather thy ill-fated band;
Thy hunters bold, thy dark-eyed * ?rJy daughters,
Th 1 nought their own loved Spirit
land.
Yet still methinks 1 hear their voices sighing,
In the soft breeze that blows from yonder shore;
And wild-wood echoes to the stream replying,
Mourn that the voices on the waters dying
Return no more!
Hut now the soft Smth wind all gently wooeth
Our little to leave the flower-gemmed
shore;
Ami the light broac that perfume round us strew
• eth.
This fairy twin soon will waft us o'er
Then while zephyrs round us faintly blowing
Hear wo*h'ss voiees from the forest deep;
We'll lit 1 ,u the waters’ ceaseless flowing,
Yud wat ll the wavelets dancing on—unknowing
What course they keep.
With rapid oar, the water-lilies parting,
Whose snowy petals form the Naiad’s wreath;
Soon o'er the crystal fountain swiftly darting,
We cast our gaze a hundred feet beneath !
Between two heavens of purest blue suspended,
Above these fairy realms we float at will—
Where crystal grottoes lift their columns splen
did,
Formed of rare gems of pearl and emerald, blend
ed
With magic skill.
Now in the West the gold and criin-on blending,
Tell that soft twilighf falleth o’er the world ;
And on the breeze all noiselessly descending,
The dew-drops lie in lily-cups impearled.
All thought is lost in sweet bewildering fancies,
the forest dies the light of day;
And witching silence every spell enhances,
As o’er the wave the last glad sunbeam glances,
Then fades away!
Farewell, Wachulla ! sadly must I sever
My spirit from thy sweet bewildering spell;
1 leave thee, fairy fount, perhaps forever,
And mournfully I bid thee now—farewell!
Yet still thy loveliness my soul o'erpowers,
While dreamy shadows on the forest fall-7
And long shall memories of thy beauteous bowers
Fall on my heart like dew on summer flowers,
• Refreshing all!
‘ OUR FIRST PRIZE TALE.
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
P E 11 C Y :
—OR, —
THE BANISHED SON.
r.V MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ.
CHAPTER FIRST.
“ Oh ! that Uncle would forgive him.”
Thus ejaculated a young girl, as she sat,
with her hands folded over her knees, by
the side of a waning fire.
“What a sad, sad evening, this has been
to me, though all the while 1 have been j
compelled to smile and look happy.”
There was certainly nothing in the apart
ment, in which she was seated, that seem
ed congenial with sadness. It was a large
and splendidly illuminated room, richly
carpeted and furnished, and, from the flow
ers which not only decorated the vases,
but hung in gay festoons around the walls,
it had evidently been adorned for some
festive occasion. Rare and beautiful flow
ers they were, mostly green-house blos
soms, relieved by the dark evergreens with
which they were entwined, for the flowers !
of summer were long since faded and gone, j
Though the fire, by which the young
girl was seated, was now nothing more
than a heap of glowing embers, it had late
ly burned with intense heat, so that every
corner of that .large apartment was filled
with the genial warmth of the tropic lati
tudes. The dress of the young girl, who |
sat so lonely and dejected, in the midst of
those gay garlands, was in keeping with
the festive character of the scene. A robe
of white gauze, falling in transparent folds
over a rich under-dress of satin, gave that
gossamer grace to her figure, which airy
drapery alone can impart. A wreath of
white roses, mimic, it is true, but so exqui
sitely natural, one could almost see the pe
tals curl and tremble, amidst the tresses
they adorned, was bound around her brow,
confining the light brown ringlets which
fell unshorn and untutored, even to her
waist. What a contrast het gala dress and
mournful attitude presented ! That floral
garland, and those sad, dark blue eyes, all
swimming in tears! She looked wistfully
at the clock. Its solemn, continuous tick
ing, sounded mournfully in the solitude.—
It was a machine of elegant workmanship,
representing on its gilded pedestal, one of
the most interesting scenes in the history
of the Horatii and Curatii. Directly in the
foreground, the father of the Horatii was
standing with an air of stern majesty, the
swords of his three sons grasped in his
right hand, which he was elevating to
wards Heaven. He seemed to be consecra
ting those warlike weapons to a holy pur
pose, and calling down the blessing of the
gods, on the enterprize to which he had de
voted his sons. The dignity, the inflexi
bility of the Roman, spoke in every linea
ment. One could read on those firm and
nobly formed lips, the spirit that dictated
the magnanimous expression, “ Qu'il mour
ut,” when he believed his last surviving
; son a fugitive and a coward. There was
a fascination in that figure’ to her, whose
eyes were now gazing upon it. The light
of the lamps glittered on its snrface, and
it came out resplendently in its lustre.—
She thought of Roman fathers—how stern
and inflexible they were—of Brutus, the
avenging judge of his own sons—of Man
| Hus. condemning to an ignominious death,
the brave and gallant youth who had come
to lay the trophies of his valour at his
father’s feet.
“Oh! that fathers should be so stern and
unforgiving,” she exclaimed, the image of
an unrelenting American father resting
darkly on her remembrance.
The door opened very slowly and gently
—so slowly that it seemed turning on in
visible hinges—and a young man, wrapped
in a dark traveling cloak, with his hat
deeply shading his brows, stood on the
threshold.
“Ella,” uttered he, in a low voice; and
the young girl started as if touched with
electric fire.
“Oh ! Claude, Claude, is it you V’ she
cried, and the next moment, regardless of
the roses she was crushing, the beautiful
gauze folds she was disordering, she was
weeping on his shoulder, half-enveloped
in the folds of that dark, heavy cloak.
“ How pale you are, dear Claude,” she
at length exclaimed, “and how cold!”
and drawing him gently to the fire, she as
sisted him to unclasp his cloak: then stir
ring the dying emters, till they glowed
with cheering redness, she sat down by his
side, and taking his chilled hand in hers,
gazed earnestly in his face.
“How beautiful you are to-night, Ella,”
said he; “nml hrnr adorned,” he added, in
a tone of bitterness.
“This is all mockery, nothing hut mock
ery,” cried she, pulling off the roses from
her hair and casting them at her feet.
“ They dressed me for my birth-day ball,
and I was compelled to submit. Uncle
would have it so, and I could not help hop
ing he intended to make this a night of re
conciliation and joy. Oh! that he were
less kind to me, or less cruel to you. I
want to hate him, and he will not let me.”
“I have deserved punishment for folly
and disobedience—sin, if they will have it
so—but banishment from home, banish
ment from you, Ella—Oh! it is hard. I
am not a second Cain, that I should be
driven, an alien, from my father's house.”
And the youth rose up suddenly, ami
walked about the room, struggling with
his wretchedness.
“Yes, I must go, never to return. In
little more than an hour from this, I shall
be wending my way, I know not, care not,
whither. Disowned, banished, threatened
with malediction, if I remain longer near
the home I have disgraced, I care not what
becomes of me. Fool, maniac, that 1 have
been, I might have anticipated all this—l
might have known that I had a Roman
father to deal with. But, thoughtless of
the past, reckless of the future, I have
rushed on to ruin. Ella, my cousin, my
sister, my more than sister, can I, must I,
part from you 1”
“No, no, no,” she cried, clinging to him,
as if her arms had power to shield him
from the doom that hung over him, “ you
shall not go. Your father cannot mean it.
He does not will it. I will go to him this
moment, and rousing him from his night
sleep, I will kneel, weep, pray before him,
till he relent and forgive. How dare lie
think of sleep, when he has made us both
so wretched I Come with.me, Claude—
kneel and pray with me. He cannot re
sist our united prayers.”
“It is in vain, Ella,” he answered, a
dark shadow 1 gathering over his face, “I
have already humbled myself in the dust
before him. and he spurned me. Never
again, even to my own father, will I de
grade myself thus—l would meet banish
ment, poverty, suffering, even death itself,
before I would expose myself a second
time to such humiliation. Nay, Ella, put
down that lamp; you cannot avert my
doom.”
Rut Ella would not hear. With the
lamp glimmering in her hand, and her white
silvery looking robes, fluttering like the
wings of a snowy bird, she flew rather
than ran up the long winding stairs, that
led to the chamber of Mr. Percy. In her
excitement, she forgot to open the door
softly, and it swung heavily on the hinges.
Mr. Percy was not asleep. How could he
sleep, when he hail doomed his only son
to banishment ? No 1 his was the restless
couch and the thorny pilloW: but his was
also the unconquerable will, the proud, un
yielding temper. Thedecree had gone
forth, and he would not change it, though
his heart-strings should snap in the strug
gle.
Raising himself on his elbow, he gazed
with a bewildered countenance on the
| youthful intruder. A- strange apparition
jin the chamber of that stern, dark man !
I Rich curtains of efimson damask shaded
, the bed, and threw a kind of glow on the
pale and haggard countenance of the occu
pant. His complexion looked still more
sallow in contrast wSth the snowy white of
the pillow, and undtr the shadow of the
sable hair, as yet o!y partially threaded
with silver, that hung over his temples.—
Ella threw herself on her knees by the
bed-side, and burst into a passionate fit of
weeping. His conscience told him her er
rand, and he spoke to her in a harsh, hur
ried tone—
“ What is the meaning of this! I like
not to be disturbed. I have tried to make
you happy to-night. Go away, child, and
let me sleep.” Sleep 1 she could have
said—
“ There’s a voice in all the house,
Cries —‘ Sleep no more—Macbeth lias mur
dered sleep.’ ”
forgive Claude, and let him
stay; I cannot see him go; I shall die of
grief, if you cast him away from you.—
You cannot be in earnest, Uncle ; you are
only trying him. Say so, and I will bless
you on my knees, till the latest day of my
life.”
“ Do I look like a jesting man 1” cried
he, drawimr away the hand she had grasp
ed, in the energy of speaking; “I am in
deed in earnest, as that unhappy boy will
soon know, to hfs cost.”
“Oh 1 Uncle, he has suffered enough al
ready ; you know he has. Had he com
mitted murder, - forgery, any crime, you
might have disowned him ; but ”
“Crime! repeated the indignant father,
sweeping back the curtain with one hand,
and with the other pushing away the hea
vy locks from his brow, while his eyes
flashed luridly, “Had he committed mur
der, in ihe madness of passion, I could
have forgiven him. and kept him near my
heait, though his hand were reddened with
blood. Had he committed forgery, in a
moment of temptation, I could have forgiv
en even that; but to go against warning
and command, to herd with a company of
vile vagabonds—to follow them to their
haunts of wickedness—to adopt their pro
fession—to become one among them, heart
and soul—to suffer his name, my name—
the name of Percy—to be placarded in ev
ery corner of the street, for the vulgar to
gaze upon, and ‘he wise to sneer at —the
author of such a disgrace never shall be
forgiven. Away, and disturb me no more.”
Ella rose from her knees. The tears
seemed frozen in her heart. She had en
tered the chamber with a wrestling spirit—
the spirit that spoke through Jacob, when
he said unto the angel, “I will not let thee
go, unless thou blessest me.” Alas! she
had no angel to contend with, hut a proud,
unconquerable man—a man whose family
pride had received a deep and immedicable
wound. With a look of hopeless dejec
tion, of sullen, passive endurance, she
turned from that sleepless bed of down,
and descended the winding stairs. She
was no longer the bird, winging its upward
flight. She was the snail, dragging itself
wearily along. The spring of hope was
gone, and a leaden weight held back her
steps.
“I told you so,” said Claude, turning of
ashy paleness; for, in spite of his asser
tion to the contrary, he had cherished a
secret hope from her intercession, “ I told
you, you would plead in vain.”
Ella, overpowered by disappointment
and sorrow, leaned in tearless anguish on
the shoulder of Claude, who pressed her in
silence to his breast. She felt that deadly
sickness of the soul, which precedes the fi
nal separation from the object most loved
on earth. They had been brought up un
der the same roof, piotected by the same
guardian—they were both brotherless and
sisterless —how could they help loving
each other 1
“Oh! that I were a hoy,” she cried;
“then I would go with you, Claude, pre
ferring poverty and exile with you, to all
you leave behind. I would share all your
; trials; and heavy oi.es will they be, poor
| Claude. Whither will you go 1 What
will you an d But promise me, Claude,
■ whatever you do, you will never go back
to scenes my Uncle so much abhors. He
’ will yet pardon and recall you—l feel, I
know he will.”
“ No, Ella, there is ro hope of that; but
he assured, to whatcvci extremities I may
be driven, 1 shall never resort to that ex
pedient. If you ever tear of me again, it
shall be with honorable mention. Whith
er I shall go, what I shill do, I know not.
I shall just float along the tide of circum-
I stance, and perchance ‘he wanderer may
find some green spot to rest upon. 1 do
not fear want, for my father’s son has not
been sent away entirely destitute. I shall
work out my own destiny, and something
tells me, that in manhood I shall redeem
the faults and follies of my youth. Ella,
dear Ella, do not weep so bitterly, fam
not worthy such tears. In this moment, I
feel all the madness of which I have been
guilty. Ido not wonder that my father
disowns me—l deserve to be an outcast.”
The clock stpek one. Claude started,
as if a knell tolled on his ear. It was the
signal for his departure—for the stage that
was to bear him away, and must even then
be waiting at the hotel, where his trunks
were already carried.
“ You will write tome, Claude ; wherev
er you may be, you will write and tell me
of your welfare. Remember, it will be all
I shall live for now.”
“ Yes, Ella, as soon as I find a home.”
His voice faltered with deep emotion.—
“ One promise, Ella : be kind, be loving
still to my father. Do not resent my ban
ishment; and should Nature resume its em
pire in his heart, and he remember with
sorrow his alien son, then comfort him,
Ella, for my sake. Tell him that I love
him still, and that my life's struggle shall
be to prove myself worthy of the name 1
bear. Farewell, Ella, sister, cousin, friend,
dearer, a thousand times dearer, than all
these precious names to my heart—but
how dear, I never knew till this bitter mo
ment.” -
Incapable of speaking, Ella lay sobbing
in his arms. Stooping down, he kissed
the pale cheek, that rested almost uncon
sciously on his breast, while hot, scalding
tears, that could no longqr be repressed,
gushed from his eyes. To legve the home
of his fattier, the companion of his child
hood, to go out into the cold world friendless
and alone, not knowing what ills he must
endure, with what storms he must battle,
with what enemies he must contend—and
to feel, too, that all this was the conse
quence of his own disobedience and folly
—it was a bitter, bitter thought. With a
desperate effort, he released himself from
the clasp of those fair, clinging arms,
placed her gently on the sofa, .and rushed
from the house. The faint light of the
night lamj> in his father’s chamber, glim
mered through the window and streamed
across his path. The unhappy youth paus
ed. It seemed that all beyond that ray
was darkness and desolation ; and yet, it
threw a solitary gleam of brightness on j
theparting hour, it might be an omen of
funtra forgiveness. Softened, melted into j
even Womanly tenderness, and filled with
remorse at the memory of his disobedience,
he knelt on that illuminated spot, and
bowed his head in penitence and humility,
even as if he were prostrated at his father's
feet.
“Father, Ella, farewell,” he cried? and
starting tip, dashed the tears from his eyes,
and became a wanderer from his native
home.
And what was the offence for which he
was suffering so severe a penalty 1 To
explain this, we must go back to Claude's
earlier youth.
CItAPTr.R SECOND.
Mr. Percy’ was a man of sovereign aris
tocracy. He hqd the three-fold aristocracy
of birth, wealth and talents. The very
name of Percy had an ancestral sound, and
breathed of noble blood. Called to sit in
the high places of the land, and act a con
spicuous part in his country’s capital, he
had but little leisure to devote to the educa
tion of his son, who was the object of his
pride, even more than his affection. He
was an only son, and consequently the fu
ture representative of his name and fame ;
and, as if Nature, in this instance, was de
termined to gratify, to the utmost, a fath
er's pride, she had endowed the youth with
her most splendid gifts. Os extraordinary
personal beauty, brilliant talents, the most
graceful and engaging manners, in the
brightness of life's morning hours, he gave
promise of a glorious noon. At College,
he was called the admirable Crichton, so
wonderful was the versatility of his tal
ents, the ease with which he could master
the most difficult and abstruse sciences.
Mr. Percy exulted in the reputation of
his son, but he knew- nothing of his heart,
lie had not time for that. Proud, cold,
dignified and reserved, his demeanor re
pelled the sunny spirit of Claude. It played
over the cold, polished surface of his fath
er's character, like sunbeams on steel.
The heat was repelled—the light only re
ceived. The only person, who really
knew the heart of Claude, was his young
cousin Ella, the orphan child of Mr. Per
cy’s youngest and favorite sister. The
young Ella, too, was the only one who had
found the avenue to the warm corner of
Mr. Percy's pride-mailed bosom. She,
alone, dared to sport with this august per
sonage. As the young vine, frolicking
■ round the ancient oak, the bright, tender
j moss enamelling the cold, dark rock, she
! twined herself round the pillar of his pride,
’ and made it beautiful with the garland of
j innocence and youth. She was so confid
ing, so loving and so gay, she must have
! something to love and play about; and
j when Claude was absent at College, and
her uncle resting from his official duties,
was a necessity of her ardent nature to lav
ish upon him the tenderness that was well
ing in her heart. But, during the long va
cations, when Claude was restored to his
home, what a paradise it was to her! To
say that she loved her cousin, would con
vey but a faint idea of the feelings she
cherished for him. It was more than love;
it was worship—idolatry—which, though
indulged with all the innocence and uncon
sciousness of childhood, and expressed with
all the ingenuousness of a sister’s affec
tion, had, nevertheless, all the strength and
intensity of passion.
During the long holidays, Claude, whose
spirits often wildly effervesced, “ sought
out many inventions” to wing away the
hours. One of his favorite amusements
was to get up private theatricals, in which
Ella and himself acted very distinguished
parts, lie was a passionate lover of the
drama, and, with a wondeifut power of
imitation, could catch the tones, looks and
gestiyes of the heroes of the stage. It is
not to'be supposed that these scenes were
enacted in the presence of the stately Mr.
Percy, but, after supper, he generally went
abroad, and they had ample scope for their
dramatic taste. All the old family trunks
were ransacked for their stage costume,
and most ancestral looking garments were
brought forth, and, with a little modifica
tion, converted into royal robes, and the
proper paraphernalia of Melpomene and
Thalia. Their young friends delighted to
gather on, these occasions, and never did
more spontaneous applause shake with
thundering echoes the walls of Drury or
Park, than resounded through the hall they
had selected for their theatrical exhibitions.
Ella sometimes objected to Claude's
choice of characters, and, though he was
rather despotic, he was obliged to submit
to her caprice or judgment. He must not
take the part of King Lear, as it made him
look too old and crazy. He must not be
Othello, for it would be too horrible to
blacken and disfigure his beautiful fare:
but Borneo, the handsome, youthful and
impassioned Romeo—that was the charac
tei which, more than all others, she loved
to see him perform. With his cap, shaded
with long, white feathers, drooping over
his classic brow, his dark-brown waving
hair so romantically arranged, and his eyes
beaming with all the poetry of love, noth
ing could be so graceful and beautiful as
Claude.
Ella made a bewitching little Juliet, hut
she often forgot her character in admiration
of Claude; and even in the vault of the
Capulets, when her eyes should have
seemed sealed in everlasting slumber, the
dark blue orbs would furtively open to
gaze upon her Romeo. Little did they
think that these gala evenings of their
youth were to change the whole color of
their destiny.
Once, when Claude was representing
Macbeth in all his majesty, and the ser
vants, dressed like witches, with long
brooms, were dancing round a large mar
ble basin, which was supposed to be a
boiling cauldron, where many an “eye of
gnat and tongue of toad” was simmering
and cooking: and Ella, with a regal-looking
turban surmounting herchildish head, was
peeping behind a long, green curtain, the
door opened, and Mr Percy entered. The
Ghost of Banquo, with his gory locks and
blood-stained brow, rising up at the royal
banquet, was not more appalling than this
unexpected apparition. The crimson tur
ban of Lady Macbeth plunged into the
darkness of the curtain, the servants scam
pered away, dropping their brooms as they
ran : Claude alone stood his ground like a
King, and confronted, with undaunted
mien, his father’s wrathful glance.
What a scene fer the ukra-majeslic
statesman 1 who never deviated from the
perpendicular line of formality in the most
common affairs of life —whose household
concerns were always conducted with the
severest accuracy ar.d the most rigid dis
cipline, and who, above all, had the most
sovereign contempt and aversion for theat
rical exhibitions.
“ What is the meaning of this vulgar
revelry—this scene of tumult and chaos 1”
exclaimed he in a voice like low thunder.
“ How dare you, young man, convert your
father’s hall into a scene of theatrical
riot 1”
Giving the marble basin a violent push,
that, heavy as it was, sent it whizzing
across the floor, he approached his offend-
ing son, but, forgetting the witches’ brooms
in the way, ihe stately statesman nearly
stumbled to the ground. This gave the
crown to his anger, and it was terrible to
behold. But Claude's dauntless spirit
quailed not. He was not afraid of bis fath
er, or of any human being. He was too
ingenuous, brave, self-relying, to know
kb tight of “ that dark dweller of the house
hold,” so thriiiingly described in Zanoni.
A? well might tlfb sunbeam fear the rock
or the ruin, on which its brightness falls.
He stood, with his royal robes folded over
his breast—his brow, which “ the likeness
of a kingly crown had on,” proudly eleva
ted—and his beautiful, resolute, dark eyes,
fixed upon his father's face. That look
and attitude would have made the fortune
of a professed actor.
Poor little Ella could not listen in si
lence to this denunciation against her be
loved Claude. She rushed from behind the
curtain, pulling it down in her haste, thus
displaying all the mysteries of their craf%
and falling on her knees before her uncle,
exclaimed, with true tragic pathos:
“ Oh, uncle, donot be angry with Claude.
lam more to blame than he is. I urged
him to it—indeed, I did. But I never
dreamed of your comingjiome, dear uncle,
indeed, I did not.”
“So it is only in my presence you think
of conducting with propriety, is it I Go to
your room, Ella,* this moment: you are
nothing but a foolish little girl, and may,
perhaps, be pardoned, if this prove the last
offence. But remember the conditions—
the last 1”
Lady Macbeth, gathering up her long,
sweeping train, stole slowly from the room,
casting a piteous glance at Claude, which
changed to vivid admiration, as she beheld
ihe bold beauty of his countenance.
The scene which followed was one in
which passion and pride struggled for mas
tery; but pride at length prevailed. Mr.
Percy felt that it was undignified to scold,
and when his anger was somewhat abated,
he condescended to reason with his son.
Had he done it more calmly, more gently,
he might have exercised more influence.
But family pride, th? idol he set up for his
worship, Claude cared no more for than
tne image of Nebuchadnezzar's dream,
with its legs of iron and its feet of clay.
Mr. Percy commanded him never to enter
the walls of a Theatre—never again to
turn the leaves of Shakspeare, or to have
any thing to do with dramatic exhibitions,
either public or private. He deemed this
command sufficient, for the thought that
his positive commands could he disobeyed
never glanced into his mind. This folly
had not been anticipated—therefore, not
prohibited; but, once discovered and for
bidden, he felt as if a flaming sword gflard
ed the majesty of his law. But, unfortu
nately', the master passion of Claude only
gained strength from opposition. His love
of the drama became a monomania, and, in
spite of his stern father's probation, he not
only visited the Theatre, hut frequented
the green-room, and became acquainted
with some very dangerous and fascinating
characters. One of these, who was about
to take the command of an itinerant com
pany, having witnessed a specimen of
Claude's astonishing dramatic talents, re
solved to secure him as the new star of the
season. It was not without much hesita
tion that young Claude consented to take
so bold a step, but the tempter was elo
quent, and his own rqjsguidcd imagination
was a more eloquent tempter still. His
father was absent on a long journey ; but
Ella, his sweet cousin Ella, should he
leave her, without confiding to her his se
cret expedition I Yes, it must be done;
for, were she the confidante of his purpose,
she would be the sharer of the parental an
ger, which he well knew would fal l upon
his head, but which he rashly dared to
crave.
The sequel is already known. The
wrath of Mr. Percy, when lie learned,
through the public papers, that his son, his
heir, a Percy, had come before the world
as an actor, cannot be described. When
the young prodigal, weary of the false glit
ter of the artificial lire, which, in the dis
tance, seemed so alluring, dreading reproach
and wrath, because he knew he merited
them, yet confident of ultimate forgiveness,
returned to his father's house, it was only
to be sent forth again in banishment and
disgrace. The magnificent ball, given on
Ella’s sixteenth birth-day, was celebrated
by Mr. Percy’s orders, in contrast to
Claude's degradation. Ella, hoping, be
lieving all things, imagined that her uncle
held prepared this brilliant festival, that he
might restore his son to favor, without the
embarrassment of a private reconciliation.
Alas! she knew not the man.
Let us follow the young exile. Waked
I from his feverish dream of excitement, he
