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TKIiMS,'; PEin\\l^ y EAIt ‘'’ & mwmm aw jbbiiul*. M9&m m uwmm, mi mn mb seismes. mb to cimiml wmmsm. 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