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a mmwn Fiiii mmm„ — mmm to mtomtom, w &m &m sciihcss. mb to mma* wmuciio. For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. THE FAIR FOURIERITE. A COLLEGE LYRIC. Ah ! sure there was never so sad a complaint, And spoken with so grieved and reproachful an air, That, bless me, I'm thinking that you are the saint, And I the worst sinner that swims in our sphere ; A picture so dark, of the faithless among us, \Y r as never yet spoken or *ung by a maid; And if the reproa-. h of a saint could have wrung us, Yours had surely compell’d me to leave off the trade. Dut your arguments subtle will scarcely suffice, For all the results that you seek fr m the plea : To prove that the man is a monster of vice, Is no reason for se t ing you women all free : Suppose that, for argument’s sake, we admit, Thar men were still wicked from earliest time, Still the very same women, in judgment who sit, Will embrace the offender while cursing his crime. ’Tis ruled, by a power much greater than yours, j That your sex. to a certain nice point, shall have sway; But the very same wrong your indictment de plores, Brings the matter all right when you come to obey: Better ask, ere you plead for a tie fast or loose, And for freedom from bonds when you happen , to chafe, Whether, when you ‘ve succeeded in cutting the noose, The sinner or saint is more like to be safe ELEPHAS. Columbia. S. C. ■urn a® spa si® is s. From the Columbian & Great West. THE BEAUTIFUL QUINTROON. A TRUE TALE OF NEW ORLEANS. BY CHAS. SUMMERFIKLD, ESQ. PREFACE. 1 do not claim for the following story the magazine title of Fashionable Fiction; that it is “ founded on fact,” which means, nine times out of ten, a single grain of truth diluted in a whole sea of romance. — My narrative demands a far higher degree of credibility—that, although wrought into the form of a tale, for the sake of greater precision, and more intense dramatic effect, in substance, it is all fact. It is a verita ‘ ble history of events that were, and yet live in the memories of many : and when ever called on, the writer stands always ready to give the relerence of unimpeach able witnesses. I trust that the thrilling incidents of my story will not be perverted by the political sophist, to cast unmerited odium on any portion of our common and beloved coun try. At least, the author disavows all such treasonable intention. Asa friend of true logic, he abhors the miserable fal lacy of prejudice and passion, which would erect sweeping generalizations, and hold theories, on the authority of isolated in stances ; as a patriot, he shrinks from the mete thought of inflaming those sectional antipathies that alone threaten disunion and death to the only free and happy gov ernment on the globe. This disclaimer being made for myself, let the brief prologue end, and the actors in the real drama shall, henceforth, speak and perforin their genuine parts, as in life. CHAPTER I. THE STRANGER AT WASHINGTON A MYS TERY. During the winter of 18 —, there resided for a time, at the city of W ashington, a young man, whose appearance and con duct, in many respects alike singular, caus ed a sensation as intense as it was univer sal. The fact itself might be regarded as extraordinary ; for Congress being assem bled in session, had, of course, collected the usual immense crowd, embracing the riches’ and rarest varieties of character, from every State whose star burns its sym bolic light on fredom’s beauteous banner. The lions of tame were all there—politi cians,heroes, literati, artists: celebrated men and charming women ; the wizards of di plomacy, and the witches of love ! Hence there must, assuredly have been something peculiarly remarkable in the person or man ners of the stranger, coming as he did, a simple individual, without pomp, or dis play, or the prestige of accredited renown. Nor did the unpretending object of the general gaze employ the slightest effort to achieve notoriety. On the contrary, he seemed as anxious to shun the broad stare of the popular eye. as most others were to woo it. He never attended balls, files, or brilliant assemblies. Indeed, for some weeks in the early part of the session, he did not appear to have one single acquaint ance. He was not seen on the marble steps of the. elegant hotels, or in any of those gorgeous saloons, where the youth of his own age resorted for amusement or excitement of a deeper meaning. He com monly attended the debates in the House or Senate, and looked on the proceedings with a listless and melancholy counte nance, until some true towering giant took the floor-a Calhoun. Clay, or Webster— when it was delightful to witness the joy, the rapture of mental intoxication, ex pressed on his speakihg features, as his soul followed the logic of profound argu ment, or flew away on the fire-wings of soaring eloquence. Nobody knew his name. He soon, how ever, notwithstanding his incognito, at tracted such envious attention as to be called, among the idlers of both sexes, who frequented the galleries, by the flattering appellation of “the handsome stranger.” The title was well-merited, by a figure tall, slender, and of the most graceful sym metry, combined with power and elasticity, as if his nerves and joints possessed the strength and spring of sword-steel, rather than of human fibres; with ample, intel lectual brow, high and white, environed by a circle of raven hair, flowing in many curls, line as the down of flowers, smooth as the texture of Persian silk; face regu lar, oval, almost feminine in its outlines, pale, and tinged with the shadows of a deep sadness; eyes large, dark, piercing, hut mild, like the light of a dream; and mouth small, firm, rigid, betokening the presence of an unconquerable will. But what, more than anything else, rendered ! him the subject of so much puzzled obser vation and thought, was the soft, spiritual, unearthly melancholy of his otherwise no ble countenance. Could it be the memory ‘ of measureless suffering, or the impress of irretrievable crime ? Had his young heart already been stricken by some thunderbolt of passion, and was that unrelaxing gloom its scar ? Or had he hurled death in the faces of others, and was the sombre cloud, on his brow, flung there by the pale fingers of a haunting ghost from eternity 7 None could answer. As numerous, and as contradictory, were the surmises as to the character of the stranger: but on this social crux criticorum, also, volleys of babbling breath were ex hausted in vain. It could only be infered dubiously, “that he was rich, and a scion of the land of summer and the sun,” —con- clusions predicated on two facts; the cost ly splendor of his wardrobe, and the pres ence of a sleek, black waiter, that drove his flashing carriage in his morning and evening excursions. Several stratagems, devised by the gen teel loafers of Pennsylvania Avenue, to pierce the shroud of his mysterious soli tude, resulted in poor success. Once they doged his steps to the house where he lodged, and feigned an application as hoarders. “ We does n’t take boarders,” replied a | cross-looking servant, who came at the ring of the bell. “But,” interrogated the fashionable fops, “ does not a young man with dark hair and ! eyes—” The incipient question was cut short by a hoarse curse from the crabbed slave, who, without farther ceremony, slammed the door in their faces. The same hopeful duad, the next morn j ing, accosted the stranger, as he stood in a j posture of deep thought on the granite | pavement before the Capitol, sweeping with his eagle glance that finest prospect on the globe —a magic panorama, where su n-bright woods, and gleaming waters, transparent air, and.brillianl sky,shining spires, wreaths j of curling smokp. proud palaces, and ! snowy cottages, all melted and mingled in : the distance to realize a scene as of fairy enchantment. The stranger returned the salutation of the i loafers but as they persisted in their efforts to cultivate a better acquaintance, he fixed his piercing eyes full in theirs, and asked with an appalling frown, “ Were not you the impertinent fools, who inquired after me at the cottage in street, last evening 1” Both began to falter apologies; but he interrupted them : “ No excuse is necessa ry : nature pleads your justification, since she made you puppies and cowards: but if you attempt todisturb my privacy again, 1 shall be forced to pollute my horse-whip by contact with your hang-dog hides !” And shaking the weapon of castigation menacingly over their shoulders, he turned on his heel, and slowly descended the cap itolean hill, not deigning the intruders even another glance of his proud eye. And they were so thoroughly cowed by his voice and manner as to be heartily content with the separation. Many had been spectators of the scene ; it was repeated with the com mon embellishments of rumor, and thus served to intensify public curiosity to the highest acme of extravagance. One more effort was ventured to lift the veil, though at a safer distance. Inquiries were set on foot in the street where the cot tage was situated, as to its present occu pants ; but the nearest neighbors knew on ly this—that the tenement in question be longed to Col. Hume, a roving slave-dealer who was seldom in the city—that it had been vacant a long while, till just before the meeting of Congress, when a family moved in, who lived in the strictest seclu sion, so that even their names had not transpired. And thus the gossips were again defeated. At length an incident occurred that at tracted all eyes in the galleries, and many from the floor, in the direction of “the handsome,” or as he was now generally called, “ mysterious stranger.” He appear ed one morning in his usual place in the Senate, which commanded a full view of the famous orator of Kentucky, whose classic eloquence always afforded him unmeasured delight. He had ever before, entered the capitol alone, and it had been remarked that he never so much as once cast a glance of admiration, or even notice, towards the numerous batteries of bright eyes, so often levelled at his melancholy countenance; as if his heart had lost its sensibility to the power of love, by the same grief which had left its changeless shadow on the pure marble of his high forehead. It was no wonder, then, that on the occasion of which we now speak, his advent so attracted uni versal atttention, for there came hanging on hisarm a vision of beauty, such as never before, or since, lightened along the air of that brilliant chamber. She was a young girl of not more than sixteen summers —tall, slight, of faultless symmetry in form and feature—the form of a sylph floating in sunshine, the features of an angel beaming with innocence—with raven ringlets, eyes of dark ray; and a face so serenely sweet that it seemed actu ally bathed in starlight, or suffused with the lustre of winged dreams, that never had been darkened by a thought of sin ! There was so striking a similarity be tween the two, that many persons, at first sight, concluded them to be brother and sis ter. The eyes and hair were of the same col or. The exquisite oval—ideal of peerless beauty —was the same in the profile of each; and so was the inimitable charm of contour in the graceful outlines of the body —as also the soft ease and expressive dig nity of every gesture of the limbs—every movement of the muscles. There existed one difference, however, in a point where it might have been least of all expected, on the hypothesis ot the relationship inferred. His complexion was extremely fair—the whiteness of Parian marble, especially on the high, open brow. But hers, without being positively dark, was difficult to de scribe : it seemed indeterminate, flashing, changeful. It varied as one viewed it ir. various positions relating to the fall of light and shadow. In this respect, it resembled those divine madonnas —matchless master pieces of the elder artists who painted from inspiration, rather than by rule. When the solar beams shone full in her face, it looked fair as the lily : but when they touched the fine velvet of its surface ob liquely, a singular hue was revealed, like the tints of the golden orange blushing to the kiss of the sun; and when you saw her by lamp-light, she appeared colorless, pale, almost sallow —yet still beautiful ever more,and always —beautiful beyond speech, or imagination, or any simile of thohght— aye, beautiful as a new-born dream, when the summer rain sings on the house-top, and the beloved one sleeps in the bosom of the dreamer! Day after day, the two came together to the galleries of the Senate ; and the opinion as to their relationship underwent a rapid change, and mair.N for the reason that the manner of “ the mysterious stranger” had itself, first of all, so completely changed. The beautiful being at his side had dissipa ted the cloud of melancholy from his coun tenance, by the brilliance of ‘that starlight smile” of hers, and he looked more cheer ful, contented, happy; because, perhaps, he now looked alone on her who appeared to fill both sight and soul. He would sit and gaze upon her face for hours in suc cession, bound in tlie speechless spell of that delicious trance which no feeling ever burning in the human breast but one could bring; he experienced the glance of no other eyes; was conscious of no alien ex istence : heard no voice save her silvery whisper : time and space had vanished from his world—the world itself was gone—and she was his universe! All this his fascina- | ted look revealed : a child could not mistake its meaning. The character of the tie be tween them could then be read as in the j light of sunbeams. They were lovers: their very life was love! But who was she, so young, so beauti- [ ful, so gorgeously attired, so flashing with ; jewels of gold and starry stones even to ! the summit of the dazzling wreath that nodded in her raven hair l Who was she, that did not belong to the solar sphere of fashion, but yet eclipsed its brightest plan ets, as the queen-moon doth the feeble twinklers of the firmament 1 Who was j she, whose incomparable charms had pow- j er to thaw the polar ice candied over “ the mysterious stranger’s” misanthropic heart, filling his eye with fire, clothing his iron lip with smiles, and bowing his proud knees to wonder and adore at her feet ? Such was the new enigma, which, no (Edipus among the gossips of two dozen States then at Washington could solve. It was only known that for the time being 1 she resided in the same cottage which shel tered her lover—so alleged some spies who j had followed their footsteps. It was known that they always appeared together—that they delighted in morning and evening ram bles, and in moonlight walks—when the dappled dawn came in the east, the eve ning’s blush glowed in the west, and the stars were burning in the blue expanse of heaven—nothing more. Shall we inform the reader? Not now, for he will learn hereafter from themselves. There was, also another and far deeper problem, that concerned, not the public, but the lovers—a problem that concerns infi nitely all lovers, and happy, indeed, are those who solve it soon. Did they know who each was, respectively ? Alas ! no. Had he been thoroughly acquainted with the history of that angelic creature, though as pure from the taint of sin as any being of mortal mould, he would have fled from her presence as from the deadliest poison : while had she possessed on her part, alike knowledge of all the past, she would have shudered at the contact of his fingers, as at the touch of inexpiable pollution, al though a more lofty and chivalrous soul than his never animated a form of organ ized atoms! The clear truth of the se quel will explain and justify this seeming paradox. CHAPTER 11. ANOTHER ARRIVAL —MORE MYSTERY. The session of Congress was drawing to wards its close. There had been several days of the sweetest sunshine, which were succeeded by an evening of storm and darkness as unusual for the latitude, as so late in the season; and it was amidst rat tling hail and the howls of a hurricane la den with snow, that the fast train of cars from Baltimore came shrieking and roaring in fire and thunder to the goal. Among the passengers set down from a coach at the steps of Gadsby’s, was a man whose appearance would have attracted notice in any city of the world. He was some fifty years of age, of a lofty and commanding person, with dark hair, which swept in long masses far below his shoul ders: his black, piercing eyes, gleamed with a fierce, almost lurid light, beneath jutting, craggy brows, like two live coals in a pit—eyes whose keen, restless glances, sinister and furtive, were aggravated rather than relieved by the marble pallor of his features, white as those of a corpse, and, although regular, painfully disagreeable, from their expression of truculent stern ness—heightened still more by thin, sneer ing lips, with a cold smile writhing there, always, like a snake in its coil! and re vealing two rows of dazzling but singular ly sharp-pointed teeth—the teeth of a beast of prey. His upper lip was clos'ely shav en. With that exception, his face had re mained for years intact by scathing steel, and hence, had yielded an immense crop of coal-black beard, which flowed in festoons half-way down his breast, after the fashion of certain rare religious fanatics. A deep scar across his aquiline nose completed the portrait of his unique person, whose power of bone and muscle seemed enormous as the Titans of the antedeluvian epoch. As to the rest, he was attired in splendid clothing, and wore a profusion of costly jewelry, but had with him no visible bag- j Rage. The officious runners of the hotel hus tled up to the stranger before he was well 1 out of the coach ; hut he repelled their of- I fers of service with a fierce oath, and a fiercer frown, drew near the lamp hanging at the door, that struggled fitfully against the tempest, pulled out his gold watch, and mutterins: some inaudible curse about the time, walked away rapidly through the pitchy darkness up the Avenue. After i proceeding a hundred yards, he turned to the left, and hurried along a narrow street leading out into one of the most remote, but quiet and beautiful, of the suburbs.— He paused at the door of a large English cottage, gave a hasty pull at the bell-han dle, and the next minute, a gruff voice de manded—“ Who’s there?” “ Open the door, or I’ll send a pistol bullet through the shutter, to teach you who is here,” answered the stranger, in the stern tones of one accustomed to be j obeyed. “Oh, it’s dear master back again,” said the person within, tremulously essaying to feign accents of joy. Instantly, the key grated in the lock, the bolt recoiled with a harsh noise, the door flew open, and a huge negro, holding a wax candie, welcomed the stranger with obsequious bows and a great display of teeth. “Is there any one in the parlor ?” asked the master—for such he evidently was—in a low voice. “ No, master Colonel, nothing but a good fire,” replied the slave. “Is Henry Beaufort here yet?” “Yes, master, and dead in love with Alice May. They are to be married next week.” At the reception of this intelligence, a strange smile, like the fiery flash of some infernal meteor, illuminated the master’s stern features. He said not a word, how ever. hut led the way to a small but ele gantly furnished parlor. Here, dashing the snow from his fur cap, he presented the slave a hunch of keys, and ordered— “Go, Bill, unlock my large trunk—you know where it is, in the attic—and bring me a fresh suit of clothes : these are stiff with ice, as the nose of the north pole.— Be careful not to awaken any one, and see if a light be burning in Beaufort’s room.” “ Well, master,” said Bill, hurrying to obey. As slave left the parlor, the master drew from his pocket a flask of brandy, and, having swallowed a vast draught, muttered to himself— “Ah! I need such diabolical stimulus to keep my purpose steady. ‘Tis the arch fiend's own work—to ruin a confiding friend, and—the daughter of the only be ing I ever loved on earth! But who has pitied me ? My revenge is yet incomplete! and I shall need money—money —l must die worth millions, and be buried in a cof fin of yellow gold—ha! ha! ha!” And he laughed the laugh of a demon. In a brief space, the slave returned with the new supply of raiment. His master asked hastily, “ Is Beaufort asleep ?” “No,” answered Bill; “I listened at the key-hole, and heard him reading. 1 guess he won’t sleep much to-night.” “ Why ?” inquired the master, eagerly. “ Because he got a letter this evening, that made him cry like a child. I heard Alice telling one of the girls, that old Beaufort is dead, and has appointed Henry his sole heir. He ’ going hack to New Orleans, to take charge of the big store.” “ If you lie, I’ll murder you,” exclaimed the master, bounding to his feet like one distracted, and seizing the slave’s throat, as if about to execute his savage menace. “1 swear before God it is ti ue,” declared Bill, in tones of mingled truth and terror, impossible to doubt. “Then the devil himself aids his own,”, said the other, with a look of hellish joy, as he hurried to change his dress. Then, tracing a few lines on a piece of paper with his lead pencil, he told the negro to take it to Beaufort, and wait for his an swer. In a short time, Bill returned with Beaufort's request that the gentleman should be conducted to his room. As the stranger approached, the youth sprang forward with animated features, ami grasping warmly the other’s hand, said, in a voice trembling with emotion— “ Welcome, Colonel Hume—welcome, preserver of my life. In heaven’s name, what kind wind has blown you here so unexpectedly ?” i “ Business, boy,” replied the other; “ the only winds that move my old sails now, are the trade winds. I came in the j cars of to-night, and 1 leave in the first train of the morrow; but I could not deny myself the pleasure of seeing my young ‘ poet, who had such a passion for suicide, when I fished him out of the Mississippi!” As Col. Hume finished the sentence, a : striking change passed over the counte nance of Beaufort. At first, there came a | flash of anger; then, an expression un speakably mournful, which was imme diately replaced by a look of frank and even joyous confidence. He rejoined : “lam glad, my dear Col onel, that you have alluded to that act of melancholy madness. [ wish to relate a few facts in my biography, which may, perhaps, alter your opinion, somewhat, in my favor, and soften the memory of my seeming insanity—that is to say, if you have the leisure and desire to hear me.” “ It will afford rne the greatest pleasure,” said the other, scarcely suppressing an im perceptible sneer: but added—“Be as brief as possible; I have some business yet to ; adjust to-night, and must be away in the ; morning with the first scream of the steam whistle for Baltimore.” “Then, I will begin at once,” replied Beaufort, and shall not detain you long.” Col. Hume lit a perfumed cigar, crossed j his massive legs, and waited with assumed j nonchalance, the development of the prom- ; ised story. CHAPTER 111. THE REMINISCENCE —THE FALSEHOOD AND THE MARRIAGE. “Os my parentage,” began Beaufort, “it is unnecessary to speak. At a tender age. I was adopted by Isaac Beaufort, a bache- j lor and wealthy merchant of New Orleans, who educated me as his own son, and promised to make me his heir. While a boy, 1 was generally treated with sufficient humanity, though the millionaire was oft en pettishly harsh, and rated me for what he termed ray romantic disposition. How ever, I never had much cause to complain of his outward conduct. The source of my earliest sorrow lay in a region beyond his control, The gloom of a melancholy that darkened the young day of my life’s golden prime, was a shadow shot from the depths of my own soul. “The first desire 1 can remember, was an insatiable and perpetual yearning lor love. I cared not for Mr. Beaufort’s cof fers of wealth, or presents of jeweled trin kets : what 1 wanted, was a warm place in his heart. This, 1 felt, 1 did not and ‘ could not possess. He was not my father. He was proud of me, as of a fine horse, or an intelligent dog—nothing more. Oh! you cannot conceive the desert solitude, the icy desolation of such an ardent, lov ing spirit as mine, at an age when the fire - of fancy and of feeling was burning fresh from its birth-star, to know itself alone—a separate atom in the great-peopled uni- ; verse!—to see bright eyes beaming, and hear soft lips murmuring kisses, for others —never for ine!” The young man paused an instant, and passed his hand across his eyes, as if to hide a tear, and then proceeded : “To fill the vacuum that ought to have been occupied by warmer attachments 1 formed several juvenile friendships, which ‘ all terminated unfortunately, and 1 can see it clearly enough now, from my own fault. My situation hail rendered me jealous, ex acting, and distrustful: and every succeed ing rupture with my bosom’s mates deep- i ened the festering wounds of vanity and ! aflection alike. “ After 1 had completed my collegiate course, graduating with the highest hon ors, an event happened, which, at first, promised to exercise a most favorable in fluence on my feelings and fortune. 1 was ushered into fashionable society in New Orleans, anil it being publicly understood that 1 was the destined heir of Mr. Beau fort’s immense estate, the flattering atten tions lavished upon me were extravagant, and almost oppressive. For the most part, 1 valued these hollow and selfish courte sies as they deserved, ami with a single exception, credited them to the proper ac count on the mercantile ledgers of ‘ Beau fort & Co.,’ not on pty own private and personal journal. But the exception was different. “ Among my professed female admirers was a young lady belonging to one of the wealthiest aristocracies of the city, as beau tiful as she was accomplished. Her man ner, in ten thousand trifles, looks, tones, blushes, which seemed to say nothing, and yet to me their fascinated victim—as 1 deemed —revealed everything, declared that she loved me. I eagerly grasped this new and tempting aliment proffered to my old yet undecayed passion for sympathy. I had tried many of my own sex and found their friendship frail as a weed : and I said to myself—‘l will now prove the virtue of an angel, whose very sighs are the burn ing breath of love, whose heart is the liv ing mirror and counterpart of mine!’ I proposed, was accepted and we swore vows of eternal constancy. The bright moon saw it all, and the stars smiled as if them selves were lovers.” “It became necessary to consult my adopting father, as to the future alliance. To my astonishment and regret he refused his approbation, and urged a reason, which, alas! I was soon destined to find, but too well founded. The merchant’s sagacity had penetrated the veil of my seraph's as sumed character. He said, with a mock ing laugh, that Miss Julia was a natural flirt, with no more heart than a dry oyster shell, and cared not a fig for aught save my fortune: and he proposed a plan to convince me of the fact: ‘he would pub licly give out that he hail altered his will to my prejudice, and that I should write my charmer to that effect, when her an swer he, he was sure, would satisfy me as to the correctness of his opinion: I was happy to make the experiment, firm in my assurance of her fidelity, as in the belief of a God! “Accordingly, I dispatched a note con taining the intelligence, and awaited the result without a pang of doubt. I would have periled my immortal soul on her truth: I had supposed it impossible for even a friend to break such vows as we had plighted. She did not keep me long in sus pense. Her answer was a most admirable specimen of calligraphy : her fairy hand had not trembled while tracing those lines of atrocious perjury. ‘ She regretted, that I had misunderstood a matter —all jest on her part to while away some hours of en nui—as an affair of earnest!’ “ It was a wonder that my sensitive na ture and morbid vanity ever sustained the shock. It was like the fall of a thunder bolt from a cloudless sky, as apalling as j unexpected. 1 was attacked by a delirious fever, and for weeks, vibrated, like a wa vering pendulum, betwixt life and death. The first thing 1 can remember as reason resumed its trembling throne, in the dim twilight of consciousness, was an unutter able loathing for life; thegoiden sunbeams of mellow autumn flashing through the stained glass of my sick chamber, resem bled the glare of burning sulphur; the blue sky seemed soiled with streaks of dark ness; and the very air was foul, thick and noisome, as the odors from a sepulchre! Thus do our foolish fancies make or mar the beauties of nature —nature that exter ! nal dream of the waking soul, as ideal as any vison of dewy sleep ! “ As soon as I was convalescent in body, but, if possible, more diseased than ever in mind, my physician advised travel. My adopting father kindly fitted me out to | spend a winter at Washington, and 1 em barked, as you remember, on the same boat with yourself, then an entire stranger, i for Louisville. “It was on the third evening of our voy age, that the dark thought of suicide first entered my gloomy imagination. The boat had stopped to wood, about sunset, near a picturesque bluff, on the summit of which, half-hidden among sheltering vinesand fa ‘ ding verdure, stood a lovely cottage, bright and beautiful as a bird in its bower. I was pacing alone the hurricane deck which j commanded a view of the interior of the : cabin. A youth and maiden w r ere seated ’ near the door, so intently engaged in con versation that they failed to notice me.— ! The character of their discourse could nql j be mistaken : love, like the play of sum mer lightning, beamed in every look : their faces were glowing in crimson flame : their very eyes glittered with joy, like stars. I had enjoyed before, during the afternoon, a chance gleam of cheerfulness: that vis ion dashed it all away. It was like a glimpse into their own forbidden garden by the lost exiles of Eden ! Here was a pure stream of love watering humble hearts in the wilderness of woods —love, the on ly life-beverage for which my spirit had ev er panted—dear, delicious love, the nectar of the starry spheres, the cup that intoxi cated immortals, the talismanic word en graven on the highest walls of unascended heaven —love, in the dim forest-shades, de nied to me, the denizen of the great city, fanned my thirst when a boy, and hurled from my parched lips, as a full-grown man; The incident was simple in itself; but the power of exterior things to bewitch or wound us, depends, ever, more on our weakness than on our strength. That cot. tage-scene, which in other moods of mind, would have melted into my heart, soft and soothing as a baptism of celestial dew, ac tually stunned me, like a blow of a ham. iner—maddened me —for when 1 turned away to avoid the sight, the declining sun looked like a lurid meteor floating in a sea