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(For The Sunny South.] PROPITIATORY. BY GIT HA ERICH. ’Tis the golemn hour of miduight, ind pale-face shadows sleep In the old cathedral arches, where the ghosts their vigils keep; *Tis the solemn hour of midnight, and over the frescoed walls The misty vail of silence with an echoless rustle falls. A silvery radiance steals through the oaken casements high, Affrighting the band of Bpecfcres solemnly gliding by, And rests with a heavenly light on the holy virgin’s shrine, Kissing the beautiful buds that round it their petals twine. Hut hark! a sigh—an echo!—are the shadows weeping there? No, 'tis a suppliant's moan,—'tis the novice Eumile at prayer. The moonbeams lovingly mingle with the fastly falling tear, Revealing a wondrous beauty—but sorrow is also here. Why is the face of marble lifted so pleadingly now? What sorrow is casting its shadow over the youthful brow? What boon dr>es she crave, in that tone so full of a heart’s great woe ? What bitter agony speaks in those accents so soft and low? "Holy, gentle Mother, send thy heavenly peace— Cleanse my sinful heart, bid my w'eeping cease; Take me,soul and mind—all I offer thee; From this night I vow thine till death to be. Mother, hide the past—take my lonely heart; Wash the marks of strife, the scar of sorrow's dart ; Wash away the guilt that clogs my weary soul; Give me strength to turn toward Heaven's goal With a single heart, not the faintest thought Of an earth-born love with the heavenly wrought. One w ild kiss, and then this I also bring,— The moon-beams round the face their golden jewels string; One wild kiss,—alas! caust thou pardon this— That my soul must pause for such human bliss? Then this picture take—guard him with thy care; Though we’re severed here, there'll be no parting there. Listen, Holy Mother—all I offer thee; From this night I vow- thine till death to be.” The long and sable vail falls o’er the marble face; The shadows, half asleep, creep thro’ the dreary space; Ghostly phantoms sit till the gray and misty dawn Through the cathedral arches usher in the morn; Echoes with dreamy sigh tell to the zephyrs fair All they heard last night as the novice knelt at prayer. ♦ * * * * * * Mounting the pilgrim’s path, struggles a weary baud, Watching the steady light gleam from the promised laud. Look at the faces pale,—know you any one there? Look, in the foremost rank—Eumile we saw at prayer. Hope has traced its lines on the smooth and placid brow— No faintest sign of grief or sorrow marks it now. See, the jasper gates unclasp their jewels rare,— Up the pearly streets glides the norice we saw at prayer. (Written for The Sunny South.] THE RING ACCURSED. BY KI TH FAIRFAX. PART FIFTH. CHAPTER VIII. Let us now hastily glance over the life of Beat rice since the day we saw her last, standing be fore her husband, insultingly terming his mother a pauper. We know that Paul had relinquished all right to his costly house and furniture, vest ing her with absolute power to do with it as she would. She had cunningly contrived that he should do this without making the request her self: for she was very careful in those first days, before she knew how much, or rather how little, he had to give. Afterward—ah ! then she showed the real nature within her. From the moment Paul revealed to her the amount of his posses sions. she bent every power of her evil mind to the accomplishment of one purpose. That pur pose was to get a divorce ,n full divorce, with ]K»wer to marry again. She had sold herself, and the purchaser had not gold sufficient wherewith to secure his purchase. So, then, as she had failed here, she wished to be free to make a bet ter bargain. Not for a moment did the thought of the sanctity of the marriage tie restrain her. She had married him for money; he did not have it, and she hated him. Yet another faintly- acknowledged reason she had for wishing to be free; the magnificent beauty, the grand, stately manners of the wealthy Cuban had made as dee]) an impression upon her cold heart as it was capable of receiving. If she had hut met him before her marriage,—but she had not; so, as next best, she must free herself from Paul in order to try the effect of her charms upon him now. Could she doubt what that effect would be? He was constantly at her side—more con stantly than prudence would dictate or propri ety would admit of. His dark, lustrous eyes spoke homage and admiration in every glance. No, there was no room for a single doubt to creep in. And then, too, he was immensely wealthy; no mistake here. She did not rely now. as she had done before, upon a woman’s word; she assured herself that he was worth a million, and then her plotting commenced. How shall we recount her wicked arts?—how describe the cold, cruel deliberation with which she strove to ruin her 'husband’s reputation? How well she succeeded we have seen. The evening before Mr. Kendrick’s death, when l’aul checked the vicious words upon her lips with his hand, her quick imagination saw at once the advantage he had given her, and she artfully improved it. As the servant opened the door, we have seen how she fled, with blood stained lips, from her husband's presence, as if in mortal terror. Already the faintly-suggested idea that Dr. Le Roy was fast becoming a drun kard had been widely circulated. No one could tell whence it originated; but his moody looks, his paling cheeks, unsocial manner, and too often wild, sleepless eyes, confirmed the idea. She had stamped him as a drunkard, and now— oh 1 moment of triumph—she branded him as a coward and a brute! Oh! Paul, true type of the Christian Southerner, who can wonder if the burden grew too heavy for mortal endu rance ? The night after this unhappy interview was spent by Beatrice among her heartless, giddy friends; by Paul, in sleepless solitude. When he left his house early in the morning, he was summoned to the death-bed of his friend, and Beatrice, mindful of the fact that he intended to place the amount he had then in hank in his mother’s hands, ordered the carriage, and taking her husband's eheek-book from the drawer in his private desk, deliberately filled out a blank aud signed his name to it! She had no fear; for if she did not value, she at least knew the noble generosity of his soul. She procured the money without difficulty and returned home, to turn her husband’s mother out of the house! This act of cruelty achieved, Beatrice called on Mr. Walker, the lawyer, and had a long inter view with him. That night she passed with the aunt so like herself—not in lamentations over the sudden death of the kind, indulgent man. but in speaking words that were almost congrat ulations over the freedom of one. the prospect- live freedom of the other. As soon as she received her divorce, she rented her house, sold her furniture, and in company with her aunt went to New Orleans, where the balance of the winter was spent by the two young widows in a never-ending round of hollow joys. Amazement would he a word too weak to ex press the feeling of Luis Corderez when he heard of the divorce and the cause for it; for though he had seen Dr. Le Boy but a few times, he had formed a very high opinion of him. He was. however, too gallant a gentleman to express this astonishment. He merely lifted the fair hand of Beatrice to his lips, and declared that she was even more charming as a widow than she was as a wife. The winter passed, and the summer months found Beatrice the belle of a fashionable water ing place, where, in a few days, her party was joined by the handsome Cuban. He, too, was “lionized,” and match-making women spread nets for his feet—not his unwary feet, for he 1 was too wise to be caught. Soon, with a sigh, they desisted, for he was devoted to the beauti ful "young widow. By day, he was her cavalier; by night, her partner in the dance. Beatrice became more and more passionately fond of him, but as yet they were not engaged. Late in the season these stars were eclipsed by others of greater lustre; these were the cele brated inventor, Mr. Drurie, and his richly- gifted daughter. Often they were the guests of Mrs. Kendrick, and evidently sought her soci ety. She could not but be flattered by this evi dent preference, for they were constantly sur rounded by admirers, and she knew that invita tions from" others were often refused that they might accept hers. She began to imagine that Mr. Drurie was attracted by her loveliness, and felt no disposition to check the advances of the wealthy and distinguished widower. His daugh ter, too—strange as it seemed—utterly regardless of her many suitors, would turn coldly away from them all to seek her side. Her hopes ran high. Already, in imagination, she was the queen of society ! Alas, for her hopes! The plain truth was, that both Mr. Drurie and his daughter remembered the name they had seen upon the bracelet,—aye, and they recognized the jewel on her arm; hence they sought her side, hoping to hear from her lips the name which neither of them wished to utter—the i name of Paul LeKoy. At the end of the season, they returned to New York, where Mrs. Ken drick, who could well afford it, took a handsome house, and furnished it in magnificent style. ’Twas here, in September, her hopes received their death-blow; the visits of Mr. Drurie and his daughter suddenly ceased. They had found Paul Le Roy—or at least they had heard from him, and readily recognized his enemy in the dashing widow, Mrs. Beatrice Warner. The winter was half spent, the holidays were approaching, and yet Luis and'Beatrice had en tered upon no formal engagement of marriage. One evening they sat alone in a little parlor which was devoted to Beatrice’s own use. She delighted in luxury, and Mrs. Kendrick, with the wealthy nephew in prospect, indulged her to the utmost extent of her power. Beatrice was reclining, in 'a most artfully artless attitude, in the soft depths of a large chair, the pale-blue velvet of its cushions contrasting beautifully i with her pure blonde beauty. Luis Corderez sat very near her, liis hand clasping hers. “You look dull this evening, Luis,” she said, softly caressing the hand that clasped hers. “Yes,” he replied, rousing from a deep rev erie. I received a letter to-day from Cuba. My j superintendent is dead, and I must return home for a short time to look over his accounts and appoint another agent.” For an instant the bright blood rushed to the ! cheeks of Beatrice, and then receding, left them : very white - . “How long will you he gone?” she asked hur riedly. “At least until July,” he answered, kissing her hand. “Until July? And this is December! Oh, Luis!” She bent her head upon his hand and sobbed out the words. “Will you, then, miss me so much?” he asked, bowing his stately head and kissing her cheek. “You know that I will. Do not go.” “Ah ! not with my own will, but I really must go. Does six months seem so very long a time?” “An eternity !” she exclaimed. “And then— and then—you might forget me !” “Ah! is it that you fear? Nay,” he said lightly, “I can never forget so charming a 1 face.” She paused a few moments, as if collecting her courage for some desperate course of action; then, lifting her tear-stained face from his bosom, said: “Luis, why may I not go with you?” He started, hut quickly repressing the emo tion. whatever it was, said: “I would only be too happy to have you go with me. but I dared not propose it.” “Then you do love me?” said Beatrice, lifting her eyes to his. “Have I not told you so a thousand times? Can you doubt it ? Surely I would not have been ever at your side, as I have been, if I had not loved you. I may tell you now, Beatrice, that I have wished for this moment from the first time we met. Sometimes I have dared to hope that you loved me; and then again your cold man ner, your utterly unconscious look, would put the hope to flight. But now,” he continued, caressing her boldly, “now that you are willing to leave all and go with me, I am sure that you love me!” , She withdrew a little from his encircling arms as she asked: “When must you go?’' “I will leave New York on the twenty-sixth— day after to-morrow.” “ Then we will have to be married to-morrow,” said Beatrice, with a bright blush. “ Married!” echoed Corderez, dropping his hands from her waist. Beatrice looked up in surprise. “Do you not wish to be married here?” “Married !” he repeated again. “Do you wish to wait until we reach Cuba?” she asked, clinging to his arm, frightened—she knew not why. He took her hand in his and answered gravely: “ Pardon me. Beatrice; we have misunderstood each other. It is best to speak plainly. I do not expect to marry you !” She fell back into her chair—not mercifully bereft of feeling, hut keenly alive to the insult and her own torture, for she loved him. “It is true that I love yon.” continued Luis, but I could never, never marry a woman who had herself sought a divorce from her husband. Of course, Beatrice, we both know that Dr. Le Roy was a gentleman, and neither a drunkard nor a coward. When you got tired of me.” he added with a sneer," “you might sully my name as you did his, and I would be sure to kill you for it. madame !” His eyes flashed with a little of the terrible temper he controlled so well. Here was her hour of retribution !—Paul avenged by the one for whom she had deserted him ’. “Oh ! Luis!” It was all she said; but her voice was so plead ing. and she looked so lovely in her grief, that Corderez determined to deceive her to the end. “Do you not know that Cuba is a Catholic country, and that my marriage with you while Dr. Le Roy still lives would not be recognized by my relatives nor my church?” Yery little he eared about either. He had given his true reason first. He would have been afraid to trust his name in her keeping. 7 ; “And if Paul were dead?” exclaimed Beat rice, eagerly. “Ah ! then, indeed ” he said with a sweet smile, again taking her in his arms. It was enough. She threw her arms about his neck, and he clasped her to his deceitful heart. All night long she plotted. Doubtless, she would not have hesitated to place a poisoned cup in the hands of Paul, if it had been in her power to do so. but it was not. In the morning she saw her way clear, hut she could do noth ing this day, for Luis was going away to-morrow, and she jealously guarded each moment of his stay. On the morning of the twenty-sixth, she prepared the papers we have seen in Paul's hand and despatched them immediately. In bidding her good-bye. Luis Corderez whis pered with his last kiss: “I will return in May.” “And by that time Paul will have been for months dead !” she thought, triumphantly, The package sent, she waited, with what pa tience she could command, to read of his death in the Philadelphia papers. Upon the last night of the year, she exclaimed impatiently: “I will look in the papers but once more. I believe his name is already forgotten, and that this notice here, of the suicide of an unknown man, refers to him.” CHAPTER IX. While Paul was absent from the house on the afternoon of the twenty-eighth, Yliss Tillie’s long-eXpeeted and dearly-loved friends arrived. Ylr. Drurie brought his daughter to them and hastened away to attend to some important busi ness. Lora was to remain all night, and as twi light fell, Yliss Bessie hurried away, “on hospi- • table thoughts intent,” leaving Yliss Tillie to entertain, or rather he entertained by their guest. YYhen Paul came in, Yliss Tillie had hurried to meet him, at first to tell the good news; but he had not seemed to notice her, and so she went hack to Lora, who little thought it was Paul whose low voice she heard speaking these words: “ YVho can think of me now?” “ YVhnt a mournful voice !” she said whisper- ingly to Yliss Tillie. “Yes,” was the low reply; “ it is our boarder. He is that sad my heart aches for him. ” “Is he in trouble?” asked Lora. “Well, yes, he is in trouble; but they never say anything about it, and I don’t know what has happened, but he looks to me as if he was just about heart-broken.” “How much the heart may hear and yet not break,” said Lora, unconsciouly raising her ' voice. At that moment, Paul had wet his handker chief with chloroform, and was about to bury his face amid the fumes of the death-dealing : drug. The words caught his ear; he listened. “ This is the twenty-eighth of December,” said Yliss Tillie. “Just three years ago you came home and told us there was a prospect of suc cess. How wonderful it is! Nobody ever dreamed of such a success as this.” “Papa did !” exclaimed the same sweet, grave voice that had attracted his attention at first. “He dreamed of just such a success for many years. Dear papa ! he deserves all the good that has fallen to his lot.’ t “That he does !” warmly assented Yliss Tillie, and then her thoughts again returned to the past. “You went away again the next after noon, Yliss Drurie, and we have never seen you since until to-day. Three years, and you have never forgotten us ! How odd that you should come back on the very day you came that time to tell the good news !” “ Yes,” replied the strange voice, “ it is rather ; singular. But I can tell you something else about this date, Ylis Tillie. that is more singu lar still. I have written it down, and it will just suit your taste, for it borders on the mysterious.” Paul dropped his handkerchief and listened. “ What can the stranger have ta say about the ; twenty-eighth of December,?” he thought won- deringly. “ Oh ! let me hear it at once !” exclaimed Yliss Tillie. “ Here is your desk; I know you have it there.” A merry laugh rang through the room, and the sweet voice spoke again. “You are as eager as ever about my stories, Yliss Tillie. But this is not a story; it is only a dream, but a very strange one. Now. I will tell you where I was, and then read the first paper. I was in New Orleans. Papa and I had been to the theatre, and when we returned home, : we sat by the fire, talking and drinking some chocolate. Presently, papa got up to go into his own room, and just as he reached the door, he turned round and said: ‘Just one year ago, my child, we were walking the wet, cold streets of Philadelphia. It is the twenty-eighth of De cember.’ Papa went out, and I sat thinking over his words. I drew this locket from my bosom—I will show you what is in it some day, Miss Tillie—and while I looked at it, the little clock upon my mantle rang out the first stroke of twelve. Now I will read: “‘Suddenly a thick mist rose before me; sweet music saluted my ears; the air was heavy with rich, oppressive perfumes. Bright flowers were tossed among the clouds before me, and presently they fell together in a half wreath that formed an arch above the head of the one whose picture I had been gazing at. The music rose and fell in waves of delicious harmony, hut be neath it all my inner self detected a low sigh of sorrow. Delighted, I gazed upon the lovely vis ion that faded while I looked. The soft music ; was displaced by a death-like silence. The fra grance and warmth gave place to a glowing heat that seemed as a breath of a fiery furnace.” Paul started to his feet. She was speaking of his wedding-night. Had she also seen the vis ion that passed before him ? He listened in tently. “I was standing upon the edge of a mighty desert. The sands were shifting uneasily at my feet like a river of molten gold. The sun hung burning in the sky—not a tree, not a cloud to temper its fierce heat. This was the region of Desolation. Here no tender rain-drops might fall, no song of birds echo through the frightful silence, no human being live ! A terrible con sciousness filled my heart that the being whom I had just seen surrounded by music and flow ers. must walk bare-headed, bare-footed and alone through this scorching wilderness of de spair. Yly breath came hot and quick. I turned to fly, when afar off upon the shivering sand I saw a human form, and a faint voice called me. Impelled by an irresistible impulse, I faced the terrible desert; I flew towards the struggling form. He fell: I reached out my hands toward him and he rose wearily to his feet. I saw his pale face, his wild eyes; oh ! how changed—and yet the same one whose eyes had smiled upon me from amid the flowers ! I heard every la bored breath: I knew that he was nearly ex hausted. And as I looked, a white hand threw a wreath of poisoned flowers in his path. Again he fell, more heavily than before. I rushed for ward; I lifted his head upon my arm: the ghast liness of death was clouding his face. I raised him to my bosom and clasped him in my arms. He opened his blue eyes and smiled upon me. YVith my assistance he regained his feet: he placed his left hand upon my arm, and in a moment he was strong. I noticed now, for the first time, a quaint ring upon the litttle finger of his left hand. I knew instantly that I must ex amine it closely—note every detail of its con struction : but alas ! the hand suddenly vanished from sight. I was alone.” The clear voice ceased, and Yliss Tillie ex claimed: “Is that all?” “All for this time. Yliss Tillie. I awoke from the dream, if dream it were, and the clock had not yet finished striking twelve; so my vision had passed like a flash of thought. I wrote the account of it, as you see here, and put the date, December 28, 1850, upon it. Now hear the rest of this ‘strange, eventful history.’ The next December (that is, last year), I was in London. My father had been in England all summer, and we were just preparing to return home. YVe had been to a real old English Christmas frolic that lasted four days, and we were almost tired of merry-making. YVe were to leave for Liverpool on the morning of the twenty-ninth, and I sat up very late the night before, arranging some delicate, frail treasures I had purchased, in a heavy trunk. At ten minutes to. twelve I sat down to rest, and dismissed my sleepy waiting- maid. I was not thinking of the date, but I was thinking of my picture, wondering if I would ever see him—I may acknowledge to you, Yliss Tillie, that I had seen him hut once, and he had never looked upon my face—and I dimly heard the clock strike. As if conjured up by the weird hour of midnight, a bright scene rose before me. I was in a large, well-kept garden. Soft clouds swept over the bright winter sky and evergreen trees rustled in the gentle air. I was kneeling on the ground beneath the shadow of a large bush, my eyes fixed upon a magnificent pile of ruins in the distance. Suddenly I heard voices and looked up. A tall, handsome gentleman— bearing a strong likeness to my picture, and yet it was not he—stood before me. He was mag nificently dressed in a rich costume of the olden time, and upon the lace collar his dark, waving hair hung in heavy masses. He was smiling pleasantly as his dark-blue eye rested upon a lady at his side. She, too, was elegantly dressed, and wore her dark hair, interwoven with rich jewels, in a towering mass upon her head. I brushed my own hair from my eyes, and saw with astonishment that my own locks were no longer brown, hut bright yellow! As I gazed, my identity became changed; I was no longer myself, and yet I possessed the same thoughts and feelings. It was the body that was changed; the soul remained the same. “ The lady moved, and I, who was not myself, saw upon the first finger of her left nand, the ring which I had tried to see in the desert. An insane desire to possess it filled my heart. I sprang to my feet, impelled by a power which I was unable to resist. She recoiled before me. “ ‘ Give me the ring!’ I gasped; ‘ it is mine *’ “‘Describe it!’ she replied, with a cruel sneer. “‘Alas! I cannot!’ I cried despairingly. ‘I pray thee let me see it!’ “ ‘ Thou shalt never see it !’she replied haugh tily. ‘ Yline be the task to stand between hap piness and thee until thou canst describe it!’ j “She waved her hand towards me and the mysterious ring fell from her hand to the ground. I sprang forward to secure it. but she placed her foot upon it, and like lionesses at bay we faced each other. Terrible passions raged in our hearts, and I knew that the fatal I ring was the unhallowed cause of all. ‘‘‘The ring is accursed !’ said the gentleman with a groan. “ ‘Aye, it is accursed,’ I answered; ‘and ac cursed be its wearer until this fair fiend’s will ■ he fulfilled, and one ludcn'own shall see it unseen!’ 1 I turned and fled from the spot. Again I was I myself, and my dark tresses swept around me as in an agony of tears I threw myself upon the soft, green grass beside a softly-flowing river. For a time I rested here, then rising, I entered a large and handsome house where visions of \ beauty greeted me on every side. The time of I I year seemed suddenly to change; the cold wind whistled wildly without, but all was warmth and luxury within. I threw myself upon a sofa; I felt that some terrible calamity threatened me; my heart seemed breaking; all grew dark before me, and then a hand, a right hand, lifted my head and the left hand held out to me an olive branch. I saw the ring, and unheeding the em blem of peace, I grasped the hand, determined ! | to see and be able to describe the ring upon which I felt all my happiness as well as his de- , pended. I saw it—marked every peculiarity 1 and stamped its image indelibly upon my mem ory. YY'hile I held the hand in mine, a«oft mist 1 rose before me, and slender, shapely fingers strove to tear our hands apart. I tightened my clasp and cried aloud, ‘True love endureth all things.’ YY T hile yet my words lingered on my lips, from the mist I saw the forms of two women appear, their hands clasped in love and peace. One was the haughty, dark-haired lady, the other myself, and yet not myself, for long golden hair swept to the waist and the blue eyes were like the skies of summer. They were the two who had stood face to face in the garden. “Slowly they floated toward me; and now I saw that the owner of the left hand—he whom I had found dying in despair upon the desert—he whom I had seen surrounded by flowers—stood beside me. For a moment the misty hands were extended in benediction, and I knew that the future would he blessed to us, and then the hand of the blonde, without touching us, swept the ring from my companion’s finger, and it was forever lost to mortal eye ! Then my soul was filled with a rapturous joy, such as angels in heaven may feel. That strong left arm encircled me and I was at rest. During all this time I had not spoken to the one beside me. nor he to ! me; but I was happy, for I had seen the ring with its ticisted bands of reel and yellow gold, its spark ling sapphire, with its three quaint devices ranged on it. ” There was a moment’s pause, and then the ; sweet-voiced stranger spoke again: “I awoke from my dream with a start, and again, as before, I made a record of the vis ion, and put down the date, December 28, 1851. i That waS last year, Yliss Tillie, and I must ac knowledge that I have waited for this day with some impatience and curiosity. Y'ou shall watch with me to-night, and if again the original of my picture appears ” The door communicating with the parlor was thrown open, and Paul Le Roy advanced into the circle of light, his left hand extended, but the words he would have spoken dying upon his lips. Lora Drurie sprang forward and seized his hand, her eyes riveted upon the ring he wore. The bands of red and yellow gold, the supernatural splendor of the sapphire, the re markable characters of the dream ring were all there! (TO BE CONTINUED.) Genius. Alexander Hamilton remarked to an intimate friend: “ YIen give me some credit for genius. All the genius I have lies just in this: YY'hen I have a subject in hand I study it profoundly. Day and night it is before me. I explore it in all its bearings. My mind becomes pervaded with it. Then the effort which I make, the peo ple are pleased to call the fruit of genius. It is the fruit of labor and thought.” Ylr. YY T ebster once replied to a gentleman who pressed him to speak on a subject of great importance: “The subject interests me deeply, but I have not time. There, sir,” pointing to a huge pile of letters on the table, “ is a pile of unanswered letters to which I must reply before the close of the' ses sion (which was then three days off.) I have no time to master the subject so as to do it justice.” “ But. Ylr. YY'ebster, a few words from you would do much to awaken public attention to it.” “ If there is so much weight in my words as you rep resent, it is because I do not ever allow myself to speak on any subject until my mind is imbued with it.” Demosthenes was once urged to make a speech on a sudden and great emergency. “I am not prepared,” said he. and obstinately re fused. The law of labor is equally binding on genius and mediocrity. [For The Sunny South.] Most Sublime Death in History. BY DOUGLAS. YY'hen Leonidas devoted himself to death at Thermopyke, he did no more than myriads have done in the thousands of. the wars of history. There were numerous cases in the late war be tween the States of courage as deliberate, as de voted, as desperate. So the Roman sentinel stood at Pompeii, where authority had placed him, and though all had fled, an 1 the earth quaked and heaven rained fire, he stood erect and left his noble hones standing as an erect skeleton, to be dug out eighteen hundred years after, a monument of the disciplined courage that conquered the world. So Chambourne, at YVaterloo, greater than Le onidas, hurled the historic word of scorn when summoned to surrender. Death was to him no stern fate, met by Spartan king iu a key-pass and he the sentinel. Chambourne was an ob- , scure soldier. The battle was lost; his emperor had fled. The contagious melting of a great host in panic fear did not reach the lofty swell ing of the heart nor shade the seraphic courage of this obscure man. He scorned to take life,— he embraced death in the very joy of battle. So Crockett, greater than Chambourne, noble "as the Spartan king, truer than the Roman sen tinel, met alone, when all were dead around him, and fought single-handed an army, dying in the Alamo, on a pile of twenty-three of his en emies. Ancient history has held up as a model of de voted courage Leonidas at Thermopylae. Arner- i ica has perpetuated the Roman example in last ing marble, guarding the entrance to her Capi tol. Y'ictor Hugo has painted in immortal words that inspires each Frenchman, the glorious man who triumphed over the defeat of YY’aterloo. All Texans hold the Alamo a shrine, and many a prevailing battle-cry has drawn inspiration from her ruined walls. ; But lo ! a greater and a braver one has been with us. Y'irginia justly claims the most sub lime death in history. The presence of no human enemy mftved the heart, no soldier’s dis cipline steeled the nerves, no grand occasion called forth superior powers, no supreme neces sity of battling for life, where “no quarter” is i the cry, made the hero more heroic. In the ! midst of profound peace, in a court of justice, in the capital of the State, a crowded assembly is suddenly crushed as by a holt from heaven with a portion of the falling building. Beams, rubbish and dust crush and choke the victims. To some, rescue was impossible, and Death in , horrid form meets them in that dark place. There is no possibility of muscular effort to inspire the heart to meet the grim monster—but a dread ful waiting his approach. Under these awful and soul-whelming circum stances, a human heart in a crushed body, with t lungs and throat and eyes filled with lime and dust and sand, breaks forth in a grand, tri umphal death-song,—“O death, where is thy sting ? O grave, where is thy victory ?” and was silent forever. This is not only the most sublime death in history, hut these words are the most eloquent, the grandest and most sublime that ever passed mere human lips. HE WAS SHOOK. HE LOVED A WOMAN OVER FORTY. “ YY’lia't I want to know,” said a white-headed : young man of twenty, as he stood before the ser geant in charge of the Detroit Central Station, “what I came here for, was to get some advice.” “Proceed,” said the sergeant.” “Y'ou know Nancy Thompson, don’t you.” “Never heard of her.” “YYell, she’s a widder over forty years old, and I’ve been boarding with her.” “ Y’es.” “And w - e were engaged to he married.” “YY'hew!” whistled the officer. “I don’t blame you,” continued the young man, in a broken voice. “I’m only twenty and she’s forty, hut a man can’t always tell when he’s going to make a fool of himself.” “ And you fell in love ?” “I did that, and as soon aft- we get through talking, I’m going out to hire some one to kick me over to Canada and hack. Yes, sir, fell dead in love,—loved a woman of over forty.” “And what followed?” “YVhat follered? YVhy, what allers follers? I’m human, same’s anybody else, and when I love, I love like a locomotive on a down grade. YVhat do you think I did in just six weeks by the watch ? YVent to the theater sixteen times, out sleigh-riding twelve times, had three parties, went to three lectures, and took her out to eat oysters ten or eleven times. Fact, sir,—cost me dum near two hundred dollars.” “ But it was all for love,” replied the sergeant. “I thought so, and what else did I do? Bought her a forty dollar bonnet, a ten dollar bracelet, a five dollar ring, a seven dollar set of jewelry, a new dress, and gave her a five dollar gold piece with a hole in it! Yes, sir; I drew five hundred dollars from the hank—every red I had—and used it all up on her.” “And then.?” “She purtended to love back, and when I sqnoze her hand, she smiled and smiled and looked heaps of love at me. She’d lean on my arm, and talk about Cupid, and git off poetry by the rod, and it was plainly understood that we were to be married in June. Oh, she knew her biz, and she slid around me as the Bengal tiger does around a lamb!” “Did she break oft the engagement?” “Last night,” said the young man, swallow ing the lump in his throat, “ she told me she’d been trifling with me all along. She said she was engaged to another man, and she could never be more than a sister to me ! I tell you, sergeant, you could have knocked me down with a straw ! I braced up after awhile and called her a hypocrite, when she called me a white- headed idiot, and the boarders threw me out of doors. “Five hundred dollars gone, and I’m a wrecked man.” He blew his nose, wiped his eyes and contin ued: “I don’t want to drown myself; the water is awful cold, and perhaps I can get over this. I want them presents back, and I’ll go to Muske gon and try and forget her. It’s wrenched me all to pieces, and I can never love again. YVere you ever shook, sergeant ?” “No, never.” “ Then you don’t know the anguish — the griping around the heart. It cuts like a knife, and all I can think of is being laid out in a cof fin, my right hand holding a hunch of roses and my left resting on my heart.” “You are young—you may outgrow it.” “ I may—1 may; hut it’s so awful sudden and hits so hard that I feel as if I’d fallen from a house. Go to the house, sergeant, and see if you can’t get them things hack. If I’in alive, I’ll he around agin to-morrer, and if I don t come, you may keep the things for your kindness. I’m white-headed, but I’m tender-hearted, and I want to retire behind some bam and sit down aud think.” J And he retired. \