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For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
A MEMORIAL TO
MA R Y E . LE E.
BY WM. C. RICHARDS.
A star may perish from the azure sky,
And yet its radiance cheer the watcher’s eye ;
A (lower may fade amid its freshest bloom,
And still, its petals yield a rare perfume;
A chord on some sweet instrument may break,
Yet mournful echoes ’mid its ruins wake :
So may the loved and gifted one depart,
And leave memorials in each loving heart!
The star, the flower, the broken lute,
Are emblems all of thee;
Gone—faded—and forover mute—
We mourn thee, Mary Lee.
Thy life, as pome fair star was pure,
And beautiful to see ;
Its holy light shall long endure
Around us, Alary Lee.
E’en as sweet violets unfold
Their charms where few may see.
Thy graces bloomed, and from the mould,
Yield fragrance, Mary Lee.
Thy song surpassed the lute’s sweet tone,
So varied, rich and free;
We hear it still, though thou art gone,
And ldess thee, Mary Lee 1
Jan. 1,1850.
if a a a® 5a a sa® sie*
Fop Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
THE MAIDEN’S CHOICE.
BV MRS. C. W. DUBOSE.
“And canst thou think, because we part.
Till some brief months have flown,
That absence e’er can change a heart,
Which years have made thine own 1”
“The love which is kept in the beauty of trust,
Cannot pass like the foam from the seas,
Or a mark that the finger has traced in the dust,
Where ’tis swept by the breath of the breeze.’’
Mrs. Welby.
“ Will you ever love me, Alice 1 ? Will
you bring back the same warm heart, the
same unsullied purity, the same free, gush
ing joyousness, which mark you now ; or
will you forget the happy hours we have
passed together, and, amid the gaieties of
the city, cease to think of one who loves
you with all the fervor of a manly heart?”
“ Fear not, Herbert; the heart that is
plighted to you will not forget its alle
giance, nor can the allurements of society
ever win away my thoughts from our ear
ly vows. 1 will be true to you.”
And the young girl lifted her blue eyes,
swimming in tears, to meet the gaze that
was bent so fondly upon her.
They were alone, that youth and maid
en, beneath the blue sky, and the moon
light shone full and clear upon the fair,
open brow of Alice Stanley, with its clus
ters of golden curls, and its expression of
purity and innocence. Nor looked that
moon less lovingly upon the manly form
•hat stood by her side, and held her little
hand so tenderly in his own. His eyes
were darkly bright, and on his pale, high
forehead, was stamped the seal of intellect.
About his finely chiselled mouth were im
pressed the lines of early sorrow, but his
countenance wore the expression of the
spirit’s mastery, the strong and determined
will, the firm and high resolve, unconquer
ed and unsubdued, now softened and spir
itualized by the love which his noble heart
bore to the fair and gentle Alice.
Long and earnest had been their con
verse; since dewy twilight had they walk
ed together, and held communion of all
that was in their hearts; and now, as the
hour of parting drew near, they lingered
still in the vine-clad porch, and their voices
grew tremulous with feeling, and Herbert
clasped still more fondly the hand he held.
“Forgive me, my Alice,” said he, “that
I seem to doubt you; but you are young
and very lovely, and many, with honeyed
words and flattering smiles, will seek to
win this little hand. Say, shall they sue
•n vain ?”
“ Ah, dear Herbert, the flatteries of others
can never be so dear to me as your sweet
smile of commendation. Nothing can ever
charm me like the music of your voice,
which ever meets my ear in tones of love
and kindness. Do not pain yourself with
sad forebodings. Your Alice will not for
get you. And now, while lam gone, be
as a son to my gentle mother, nor let her
miss too painfully her wild and wayward
child. I grieve to leave her alone, with
her sad memories and mournful thoughts ;
but you will win her from them, will you
not, dear Herbert 1”
“\ T es, my own love, I will try to cheer
her lonely hours, but who can fill your
place, or supply the love that makes the
light of her quiet cottage ? How we shall
miss the music of your voice, and the smile
that ever makes sunshine in our hearts, be
the day ever so dark and cloudy. God
bless you, my Alice, and bring you back
unchanged to those who love you so well!”
Alice Stanley was fatherless, but when
with his last breath, her dying father com
mitted her to her mother’s tender care, he
left her to one not unworthy of the charge.
For many years, in loneliness and sorrow
had she watched over her darling, striving
to instil into her mind those principles
which would guard her from the tempta
tions of the world, and secure her greatest
happiness hereafter. Gifted with a supe
rior intellect, it had been her delight to
guide the youthful mind of Alice in its
search after knowledge, and to perfect her
in those accomplishments which add so
great a charm to woman. A proficient in
music, she had spared no pains to cultivate
the decided taste which Alice had early
displayed for it ; and often was their quiet
cottage made vocal with the blended voices
of mother and daughter, to the accompani
ment of piano or guitar.
It had been her father’s request, that
when Alice was eighteen, she should be
permitted to spend a year with her uncle,
who lived in the city of , and it
was in compliance with this request, that
she was now to bid farewell to the scenes
of her childhood, to test the pleasures of a
city life. Her uncle had arrived the even
ing before, to conduct her to his home, and
to his kindly care, with many tears and
blessings, her mother now confided her.
For the first part of her journey, Alice
sat silent and tearful, by the side of her
uncle, but with the elasticity of youth, she
soon recovered her usual cheerfulness, and
responded readily to his efforts to amuse
her. New scenes and new faces have
ever their charm for the young, and Alice
soon forgot her grief in the ever-changing
scenes of their route. She listened with
pleased attention to her uncle’s comments
upon the scenery, and upon their fellow
travellers, and delighted him by her artless
replies and her keen enjoyment; but still,
eager as she was for every new attraction,
she was not sorry when the railroad train
brought them to their journey’s end, and
the handsome private carriage which had
received them, stopped at the door of her
uncle’s mansion; but she missed, in her
aunt’s stately welcome, the warm kiss and
fond embrace with which her own dear
mother was wont to greet her, and she
sighed when she thought of that mother in
loneliness and sadness at home.
The little village of L——, in which
Mrs. Stanley resided, was secluded from
the fashionable world, as well by its remote
situation, as by the tastes of its inhabitants,
which had led them to adopt the primitive
manners of their fathers in all their strict
simplicity. Mr. Stanley had been the be
loved clergyman of the village, whose
words had been as oracles to the loving
parishioners who for years had listened to
the pure and holy precepts which fell
from his lips, so strongly enforced by his
own example. And at length, when death
snatched him from their sight, they laid
him to his rest in their quiet church-yard,
with tears and lamentations, and turned to
comfort the bereaved wife and child, whose
loss was so much greater than their own.
Mrs. Stanley, unwilling to leave a spot
consecrated by the memories of past hap
piness, and doubly dear as the last resting
place of her honored husband, removed
from the parsonage, upon the arrival of the
new inmates, to the little cottage which she
had since occupied.
Mr. Melville, the father of Herbert, was
a worthy successor of their former beloved
pastor, and by his fervent zeal, his warm
and unaffected piety, which beautified his
every action, and shone in his every word,
he soon won the hearts of his simple con
gregation. Nor was he alone in his untir
ing efforts for their good. His wife, amia
ble and retiring, but truly pious, ably sec
onded his exertions. She had early sought
the acquaintance of Mrs. Stanley, striving
by every kind and delicate attention to win
her from her bitter grief, in t \vliich she so
far succeeded, that a warm friendship
sprung up between them, which continued
until she was cut off in the midst of her
usefulness, by an untimely death, a few
years after the decease of Mr. Stanley.—
Sorrowing for the loss of her friend, but
cheered in her sadness by the certainty of
her happy immortality, Mrs. Stanley rous
ed herself from despondency, to be a mo
ther to the yourg Herbert, thus early de
prived of the counsels and guidance of his
own mother. Reared under his father’s
own eye, and carefully guarded from all
the temptations which beset the young,
Hubert had grown up, from an ardent,
high-souled boy, to a noble, firm-principled
young man—one not unworthy to take
the place of a father so justly honored and
beloved, when, full of years and blessings,
that father closed his eyes in the sleep
which knows no waking. Thus bereaved
of both his parents, Herbert had concen
trated the whole strength of his natnre in
his love for Alice, who had been his com
panion from childhood, the sharer of his
youthful sports and of his sterner studies
—who had bent with him over the same
page, and sat by his side while he listened
to the words of wisdom which fell from
his father’s lips—who sympathized with
him in every sorrow, and shared his every
joy—who was, in fact, the being whom
his boyish fancy had painted in such
glowing colors—the realization of his
bright ideal—the one beloved object who
was destined to rob life of its harshness,
and make existence like a fairy dream.—
Nor wonder, then, that he was sad when
the hour of parting came, and Alice bade
him farewell for the first time. Strong as
was his trust in her truth, he still feared
that, amid the fascinations of the city, she
would lose some of the sweet simplicity,
the winning artlessness of her character,
and when the year of absence had expired,
find no charm in the quiet seclusion of her
childhood’s home. In his lonely walks,
he missed her sweet companionship, and
with fervent prayers for her happiness, he
watched and waited for her return.
It was mid-winter, and the snow lay
like a mantle over the city. Sleigh-bells
rang out merrily on the clear frosty air,
and the fires blazed cheerfully in the well
closed houses. A flood of light streamed
from the doors and windows of a stately
mansion in B street, and strains of
music stole forth on the night breeze, as
group after group alighted from the well
filled sleighs and entered the house. The
snow crackled and crumbled under foot, as
groups of gaily dressed young men, with
jest, and merry laughter, sprang lightly up
the marble steps, and entered the hospita
ble doors. The spacious and well-lighted
saloons were filled with the beauty and
fashion of the city. Bright eyes glanced
amid raven curls, and delicate forms, clad
in gossamer drapery, floated gracefully
about —jewels flashed and sparkled amid
silken folds, and light feet kept time to
merry music, in the mazes of the giddy
dance.
But amid that glittering throng, Alice
Stanley shone preeminent. Her robe of
rich white silk fitted exqusitely to her
graceful form, and her golden curls were
simply looped up with a bandeau of large
pearls. Her ejes sparkled, and her cheek
wore the flush of gratified vanity, as whis
pered praises fell upon her ear. Many
eyes followed her admiringly, as she mov
ed lightly through the rooms, and many
lips paid homage to the grace and beauty
of the leputed heiress of her uncle’s wealth.
But she listened with indifference to their
flatteries, for the voice of Herbert still lin
gered in her memory. As one after ano
ther joined the group which surrounded
her, she smilingly replied to their delicate
compliments, and, by some well-directed
repartee, disarmed them of their point;
but the flush deepened on her cheek, and
her eye emitted a brighter flash, as a noble
and commanding figure advanced into the
throng. A mass of rich, dark hair waved
over his broad and ample brow, and a keen
and searching glance shot from lus dark
grey eyes. He evidently was a personage
of no mean importance, and commanded
respect from the thoughtless group, for, as
he drew near, they all made way for him ;
but he seemed to note only Alice, for
“Lightly heeding all beside, ho poured his yearn
ing thithorward,”
and bent his eyes upon her with a look
of deep admiration. Alas! for Herbert,
that fair young cheek glowed beneath his
glance, and those clear blue eyes were
raised with beautiful timidity to his face,
and no sarcastic reply followed his ear
nest greeting. As his musical voice fell
on her ear, she listened with gratified at
tention to his words—and already the
whisper had circulated througli the room,
that Col. D’Orville was the favored suitor
of Miss Stanley.
Near the recess of a curtained window,
two young men stood, watching the gay
group.
“How lovely Miss Stanley is,” said
one; “with what careless grace she re
ceives the compliments of the crowd who
so eagerly wait for her smiles. But see!
that blue eye is lighted up as D'Orville
draws near; and with what new anima
tion she turns to him. Verily, the beauti
ful statue has a soul, and he is a lucky
fellow who wakes it into life.”
“Yes,” replied his companion, “D'Or
ville is caught at last. After resisting the
combined attractions of all our city belles,
and the manoeuvres of their mammas, for
the last two seasons, the lustre of this new
star has won him from his solitary orbit,
and the stately D’Orville sues for a lady’s
smiles.”
“Methinks I have heard something of a
certain lover in her rural home, and of a
previous engagement, but I presume it
was mere rumor; or, at least, Miss Stanley
will soon forget her rustic love when Col.
D’Orville bends the knee.”
“ There is little of the rustic about Miss
Stanley, except it be her perfect freedom
from affectation ; and 1 think it will be a
difficult task, even for D'Orville, the all
conquering, to win that little hand, resting
so daintily on the marble table. Mais nous
verrons.” And the two separated, to seek
partners for the dance.
Alice had now been an inmate of her
uncle’s house for several months, ami du
ring that ttme, the genuine truthfulness of
her character, and her warm affection, had
completely won his heart—so much so,
that he had publicly declared his intention
of making her his heiress, having unfortu
nately no children of his own.
Mrs. Stanley, proud of her niece's grace
and beauty, was resolved on forming for
her a brilliant matrimonial engagement,
and to that end, spared no expense in ad
ding to her attractions, and setting them off
to the best advantage ; and Alice Stanley
soon became the reigning toast in the fash
ionable circle in which she moved. This
was at first irksome to her, and she often
sighed for the sweet freedom of her village
home, and the gentle voice of Herbert; but
as time wore on, and intercourse with so
ciety removed the bashful timidity which
was at first so distressing, she thought less
and less of home, and received with more
pleasure the homage tendered to her on all
sides. But great as was the number
of her suitors, not one had power to move
her heart, until Col. D’Orville appeared.—
The eclat of making such a conquest, call
ed forth all her latent vanity, and without
any definite intention of breaking her early
vows, she permitted his attentions, till, at
length, the rumor of her approaching mar
riage reached Herbert in his village home.
The announcement overwhelmed him with
sorrow, and, for a time,
“ He felt that chilling bitterness of heart,
which attends
Tho loss of love, the trcachiry of friends,”
and gave himself up to all the bitterness of
despair. But this could not last long; his
noble heart, early inured to suffering, and
chastened by its very intensity, bowed
humbly beneath the shock : and though it
brought a sad awakening from all his
youthful dreams, he murmured not, but a
settled melancholy,
“ That breathes no sigh, that sheds no tear,
While it consumes the heart,”
preyed visibly upon his health, till he was
but the shadow of his former self. He
was roused from this deep sadness by the
declining health of Mrs. Stanley, which
required his constant attention. It had
ever been her dearest wish to see her
daughter united to the son of her heart,
and Herbert, fearing to add sorrow to her
closing hours, studiously concealed from
her the falsehood of Alice, though it
wrung his very soul to hear her talk so
hopefully of their union, and of their mu
tual love.
When Alice first left them, her letters to
Hubert were long and frequent, breathing
the warmest affection, and the most con
stant remembrance, but gradually they had
lost their touching artlessness of expres
sion, and became few and far between, till
of late their correspondence had ceased al
together.
She had now been absent nearly a year,
and Mrs. Stanley, visibly approaching the
grave, yearned for the presence of her dar
ling, to soothe her last moments, and to re
ceive her dying blessing. Wishing to
spare her all grief, they had kept her in
ignorance of her mother’s ill health, till the
truth could be concealed no longer; and
now Mrs. Stanley begged for the presence
of her daughter.
“Go for hei, my son,” said she. “ Let
me clasp her once more to my heart, ere T
go hence, and then 1 commit her to your
care. Go my son —delay not —and God’s
blessing be with you.”
And Herbert bowed his head on her pale
and wasted hand, and witli a heart bowed
with anguish, promised to do her bidding.
“Alice, my child, haste thee—Col. D’-
Orville waits,” said her aunt’s voice in the
hall below : and Alice lingered only to ar
range more becomingly her new French
hat, and twine a truant curl around her
slender fingers, and then tripped gaily
down, to meet Col. D'Orville, whose ele
gant equipage waited at the door to re
ceive its lovely occupant. The stately
Colonel handed in (he blushing girl, and
springing lightly to a seat by her side, the
beautiful horses dashed off at a rapid pace.
What passed during that ride, we can
only guess; but on their return, the checks
of Alice wore a brighter hue than usual,
and Col. D’Orville, as he bade her adieu at
the door, pressed her hand witli a meaning
smile. Alice entered the drawing-room
with a thoughtful air, and, raising her
eyes, encountered the sorrowful gaze of
Herbert Melville, who had arrived during
her absence, and anxiously awaited her
return. Slio started, and the flush on her
cheek died away, for the wan face and
sunken eye of Herbert, told too truly of
the blight that had fallen upon his young
years. She spoke not, but gazed eagerly
upon him, for her heart bitterly reproached
her. He took her hand and led her to a
seat, and then, with all the tenderness of a
brother, he told her of her mother’s illness
and of his own sad mission, and urged her
to lose no time in preparing to return with
him to her mother’s side.
She listened to his communication like
one in a dream. He spoke to her gently
and soothingly, till tears came toiler relief,
and she bent down her fair head, and wept
in the very bitterness of anguish. Then,
starting up, she exclaimed wildly—
“ Come, let us go. My mother, oh! iny
mother.”
She delayi 1 only to announce to her
aunt the urg nt necessity for departure,
and leaving n > message for Col. D’Orville,
she hastened to her early home. During
their hurried journey, there was no time
for explanatii is, and her mother’s situation
soon occupied all her thoughts.
For a time, the disease took a favorable
turn, and flattered them with hope, but this
soon died away, and death approached
with sure and steady step. It is beautiful
to look on the last hours of a Christian —
to see the lamp of life expire with a steady
blaze, and the soul, full of hope and joy,
patiently waiting till the last sand shall
have mn out, ami angel wings shall bear
it to a blissful immortality. Such was the
close of Mrs. Stanley’s blameless life.
“My children,” said she, as her last
hour approached, “do not grieve for me.
I leave you together; to your keeping,
Herbert, I commit the happiness of my
darling child. See that ye guard well the
precious trust. Your hand, my daughter!
I give it to you, Herbert; be as kind and
as true to her as you have ever been to
me, and a mother’s dying blessing he upon
yon.”
Then with a smile she closed her eyes,
and gently fell asleep.
Though almost entirely occupied with
her mother, Alice could not fail to mark
how beautifully the character of Herbert
displayed itself in that trying hour of ad
versity. With untiring assiduity he shared
her vigils, and by his gentle sympathy,
soothed the bitterness of her anguish, lead
ing her with kindest words to the true
source of consolation, till she was taught
to say “Thy will, oh! Lord, be done!”
and after her mother’s death, his thought
ful kindness spared her many a pang. As
the knowledge of his many virtues was im
pressed day by day upon her mind, her
former love for him returned with redou
bled vigor, and the brief fancy with which
Col. D’Orville had inspired her, was re
membered only as a fitful dream, and re
gretted, only that it had given pain to a
heart so truly noble as Herbert’s.
As she could not remain alone at the
cottage, it was agreed that she should re
turn with her uncle, who had come to at
tend her mother’s funeral, and that Herbert
should follow her as soon as practicable.
The night preceding her departure, they
stood again alone, in the vine-clad porch;
but few would have recognized, in the
pale, sad countenance of Alice, the same
bright face, so full of hope and joyousness,
which, but one little year before, had glan
ced amid those clustering vines. Now, it
rivalled in purity ‘.he jessamine that twined
round the casement of her mother’s win
dow. but from amidst its deep sadness,
there beamed a smile of holy trust, as those
blue eyes were again lifted to the face of
Herbert.
“I fear not, my love,” said he, “that
you will again deceive me. The heart
that is purified by suffering is firm and
strong. But I would that you should
have time to reflect. Remember that, by
declining the alliance which Col. D'Orville
offers you, and accepting me, you refuse
not only his high station, for the humble
home of an obscure clergyman, but you
also resign the fortune of your uncle, who
would never consent to your union with
one so humble as myself.”
“’Tis true, Herbert, but what is all that,
compared to your love, which, alas! 1 was
about to throw away so lightly. I am
content to resign worldly honors and sta
tion, to find a home in your true heart ; but
be it as you will —the time of our separa
tion will not be long. I know my aunt
will condemn my choice, but my heart is
your's, and your’s only, Herbert, and all
their entreaties cannot win it from you.—
So help me God, I will fulfil my mother’s
dying request.”
“ I bless you, my Alice, for that resolve,
and with renewed confidence, bid you seek
your uncle’s home, and await my coming.
If you should yet regret this decision, you
have but to let me know, and you shall
never hear one wor.l of reproach, though
my heart should break in the struggle.”
Again, then beamed over the countenance
of Alice, that smile of holy truth, and with
a murmured “farewell,” they once more
parted.
The deeji mourning of Alice prevented
her mingling in the gay society of which
she had formerly formed the centre, even
had her wishes led her lo it, which they
did not; but Col. D’Orville had ever been
a privileged visiter at her uncle’s mansion,
and she frequently met him there. Hut
the charm that had once hung around him
was broken—her heart was true to her
first love, and when, after a time, he re
newed the offer of his hand, he met with a
firm but gentle refusal. Her aunt remon
strated in vain, and finally left her in an
ger, calling her “an ungrateful, self-willed
girl;” but though the gentle spirit of Alice
was deeply pained by this lihkindncss, she
never wavered for an instant. The letter
which she that night penned to Herbert,
contained the earnest outpourings of -a
heart which yearned for sympathy.
“ Come to me,” it ran. “In the stillness
of night, my heart whispers your name,
and my spirit longs for your companion
ship. Oh! do not longer delay. Am I not
your own—bound to you by every tender
tie ? By the memory of my mother’s dy
ing words, 1 bid you come to me now, for
though I must resign all that the world
holds dear, I freely do it for your dear
sake. My uncle and aunt, I fear, arc ir
remediably offended with me, but though
their displeasure grieves me much, I can
not hesitate; and again 1 say, come to me,
for lam only your’s.” *****
A few short days brought Herbert Mel
ville to her side, and her uncle, pleased
with the simple earnestness of his man
ners, and the true nobility of his character,
ere long relented in his favor, and yielded
an unreluctant consent to their union;
though her aunt never forgave her for re
fusing the alliance which she had planned
for her.
Their union was consummated without
delay, and Herbert returned to his home,
bearing witli him his young and lovely
bride, whose cheek again wore the hue
that lingers in the heart of the rose, and
whose eye had resumed the smile of its
earlier days. As the youthful pair stood
again in the shadow of that vine-covered
porch, Herbert clasped his young wife to
his heart, and with a fervent voice invoked
the spirit of her mother to bless and sanc
tify their union, and Alice hid her tearful
eyes upon his bosom with a tranquil and
holy trust.
Year after year rolled by, marked only
by those changes which time ever brings.
A few silver hairs gleamed amid the raven
tresses ot Herbert, but years had left un
furrowed the pure white brow of his be
loved and loving wife. Another Herbert,
with the same dark eyes, and a liny Alice,
witli her mother’s golden cuils, now laugh
ed away their happy hours in the garden
of the old parsonage, and as Alice Melville
gazed with pride and love upon her hus
band’s manly face, she found no reason to
regret her early choice.
tety” The first announcement of a rail
road in Georgia was made some fifteen
years ago, as follows:
1 Railroad in Georgia. —A fellow by
the name of John Nockumstiff was rode
upon a rail in county, Ga., one day
last week, for abusing his wife.’
•ifia.BiLfl©aA!E^
THE GIRLS OF HILO.
[From Lieut. Wise’s now book, 1 Los Gringos.’J
All classes of Hilo, (Sandwich Islands,)
evince an enthusiastic admiration for flow
ers, and the maidens particularly are never
without natural wreaths, or necklaces of
woodbine and jessamine, prettily woven for
the occasion. There is a yellow bud of
the candle-nut, which is not so pleasant to
eye or nose, though more generally worn.
But in all the tastes and diversions of the
natives, there was not one that charmed
us so much, and in which the natives in
dulged with such wild delight, as bathing
in the river of YVailuku.
Along the whole eastern face of the Isl
am! of Hawaii there are numberless rills
and streams, that come bounding from the
lofty sides of the giant mountains, in cata
racts and cascades, until at last they jump
from the green-clad shores into the salt
foatn of the ocean. One of the largest of
them is the Wailuku. No further than a
league from the harbor inland, is a minia
ture Niagara, of more than a hundred feet,
which dashed a mass of broken water into
a bowl-like basin, flashing upon either
side brilliant rainbows. Retracing our
steps towards the village, the bank of the
river becomes less abrupt, and within a
hundred yards of the bay. the water is di
verted into a multitude of channels—here,
a torrent boiling over scattered rocks, with
a clear, sleeping pool beyond—there, the
white cataract, plunging swiftly through
the narrow straits, and leaping gaily down
below, like a liquid portcullis to some mas
sive gateway—again, whirling eddies play
ing around rocky islets, until at last, by
one sparkling effort, the waters re-unite,
and go roaring and struggling down a deep
chasm, into the noisy surf of the bay.
It is here the youth of both sexes pass
most of their time. Troops of boys and
girls, and even little ones, scarcely able to
walk, are seen in all directions, perched on
broad, shelving crags, and grassy mounds,
or still higher up, clinging from the steep
sides, and peeping out from amid the fo
liage. On every side, they come leaping
joyously into the rushing waters ! There
on a bluff—thirty, forty, ay, seventy feet
high—a score of native maidens are fol
lowing each other, in quick succession, in
to the limpid pools beneath. The moment
before their flight through the air, they are
poised upon the rocky pedestals, like the
Medicean Venus. One buoyant bound—
the right arm is thrown aloft, knees brought
up, and at the instant of striking the water,
the head falls back, feet dashed straight
out—when they enter the pools with the
clearness of a javelin, shooting far away,
just beneath the surface, like a salmon.—
Others, again, are driven into foaming tor
rents—plashing and skirling—laughing,
always laughing; plunging, swimming,
half revealing their pretty forms, before
sinking again beneath the stream. Oth
ers, still more daring and expert, go whist
ling through narrow passages, thrown from
side to side in the white waters -now com
pletely hidden in the cataracts—anon rising
up in a recumbent attitude, when away
they are hurled over a cataract of twenty
feet, emerging far below, with long tresses
streaming behind, and with graceful limbs
cleaving the river, like naught else ill na
ture more charming than themselves.
It is a sight to make a lover forget a mis
tress, or a parson his prayers. I know it
would have been my case, had I been so
fortunate as to be either! Here I passed
my leisure hours, never tired of beholding
the beautiful panorama of life and water
moving before me; and there were others,
on these occasions, who were wont to
mingle bravely’ in the sport —portly post
captains, husbandly lieutenants, mad-cap
reefers, of course, staid chaplains, too! but
all declared it was pleasant, exceedingly
pleasant! although mingled with a few in
different remarks as to what the good mis
sionaries might think of it.
Many of the v'yhecnees have pretty faces,
expressive black eyes, and long, jet black
hair; then there are others, who make
good imitations of Blenheim spaniels in
the visage; but nearly all have rounded,
voluptuous forms, perfectly natural and
beautiful when young, with small hands