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jj£i Q -1 M M A -S U U ±
l' the Southern Literary Messenger.
Ths ot * fijife.
Cmcl id id.
Nina soon became too weak to join our friends
\«elow stairs. Ida shared with me the sad duty of
administering to the meek sufferer, and not tin
■ jneiitlv would ask permission to road to her,
. job .was always readily accorded. The book
selected was the Bible, and with clas
, , .o 1 eves, everv word seemed to
• Ivins girl. The Catli
was not des
vnl of her
i was v cx t-’.tion of a
aif r : i- iU not hii ; ;, u t was not
lU 1 short ti e before Ivu ieath tii t this occur
d. There. ;:i tiinf chamber, oves whos- ihresh
• r e l was hover •, Nna Ge
aave-i abjured the Romish reli on, a cl partook
( ,f the communion . after winch a sweet and holy
i!,n seemed to perv ile her soul: every thought
was detached from earth, and in perfect, uninter
rupted peace, site awaited the approach of- lii
j , s t enemy,” fearing not her conflict. but beiiev
iug die “dark valley and shadow of death” was
~ur a :, as age to the realm* ot uniadui; glory and
midviuc bliss. Every word which fell from her
lies was tinctured with these feelings, and as we
watched her, languishing and withpri lg. like a fair
flower ui'timelv crushed and blighted, such a
glorious halo see .ned play mg around i lie beaut if u I
min, that the tear was quenched, the prayer to
detain her longer amid the cares and tumults of
the world was stilled, and from the ashes of the
hope we so reluctantly yielded, there was kindled
the dame of a Christian’s unmurmuring submis
sion.
“Dearest Ida,” would Nina oftentimes exclaim,
“h id it nut been for you. through Heaven's bles
sing, death would not no ,v wear such a garb to me;
I should shrink from encountering the billows of
that tide which rolls between mo and my promised
inheritance ; but uow all tears, all doubts are
hushed, and all is peace, unspeakable peace.
What has wrought it? The Bible, whose truths
you first unfolded to me — the precious Bible,
which has revealed the glories and columns and
blisssof a Saviour’s love!”
Each day saw Nina more spirit-like, and soon
she was unable to leave her bed. The very spirit
ot sadness seemed breathed over the household;
and the noiseless tread, the whispered word, the
-arkened room, the universal hush of every sound
terrupted only bv ttie low and often labored
breathings of the sufferer, told that the work ot
•utii was going on. Who could count on yeafs,
“!• even days, when all that was most fair and bright
was fading under our gaze—when the wing of the
toiler was darkening the sun-light ot youth and
beauty ? Vet life seemed to nestle lovingly to
tiiat form, and cling graspitigly to that faoric,
"herein it had revelled in such rare loveliness*, yet
Sf > briefly. But death’s progress was not to be
stayed.
Summer was dancing in all its richness on the
flowery earth. In an hour of brightness and mel
ody. the one whom we had cherished so fondly
j' s called hence. Supported on Ida’s bosom,
''*<! gazed on the glowing face of nature. All
"as hushed in that chamber of death; we scarce
ly breathed, lest the spirit which animated that
shadowy form should be frightened from its tene
-1 had looked on death before. I had
shuddered as l viewed its victim. I had feared,
as hie shroud, the narrow coffin, the deep and
sd p nt grave, passed before my mind’s eye. I had
trembled as 1 thought on the eternity that was un
°kling; but mantled in beauty, the destroyer in
spired to terror. I stood beside Nina’s couch,
holding in mine her fevered ami emaciated hand,
and as the pure, bland breeze of evening swept
ov er her transparent brow, stirring the dark, lux
uriant curls, which rested on its marble surface,
the tear gathered to inv eye, as I thought how
®°on the tomb would forever veil from us the loved
,o rni over which we were leaning. A heavenly
smile stole slowly over those beautiful features,
he soft eyes were raised, and the low, sweet voice,
'roke the hushed stillness. Emphatically and
' ’stinctly she spoke: “1 know that my Redeemer
lvet h. and that he shall stand at the latter day
l ‘Pou the earth, and though after my skin worms
A stro y this body, yet in shall 1 see God.”
‘ 10 Paused, and as it were, collecting all her en
ergies, she murmured, “I walk through the valley
’ ‘'shadow of death, yet 1 fear no evil, for Thou
FLORENCE, GA. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 183S.
i art with me.” There were some long breathings,
a convulsive start, a slight gasp, and we looked on
dust! The spirit was infolded in a Saviour’s em
brace !
In the stillness of midnight I stole with noise
less tread lo the room where lay w hat had been so
lovely in life—lovely even in death. The smile
had not departed from the colorless lips; the fair
wan hands were folded on the breast, and between
the taper lingers drooped a while rose, the image
of lile dwelling in the bosom of death. I knelt
bedside the beautilul corpse, and over the pale
cheek, scarce distinguishable from the cold white
shroud on which it rested, streamed my tears.—
From the ebon tress which passed over the noble
brow, 1 severed one soft curl—then casting one
look at the dead, I returned to my chamber. One
more night of melancholy watching bedside our
“beloved and blest,” and we committed her to the
breast of earth, there to repose till the resurrec
tion morn!
Though long years have passed since the event
I have just recorded;though changes upon changes
have thronged my pathway, the memory of Nina
Geuovesi, and her untimely end, is fresh amid
the desolation which has imbittered my life.—
Her grave stands solitary and alone, and the ever
greens clambering over the marble tablet which
marks it, half conceal the name which tells her
the daughter of a sunnier clime. The flowers of
spring blossom earliest there ; the gorgeous sun
bea in, the rays ot the smiling stars, “Heaven’s
golden alphabet,” repose on its verdant turf, with
glorious lustre, and in the blythe carol of the
winged songster, as he speeds by, there dwells no
note of sadness for the early fate of one who
sleeps beneath the green and flowery mound!
*** * ' *
Time passed on, and his cold wing had chilled
more than one emotion of my bosom; but my in
tercouse with Idaslumbered not, and mv affection
for her lost none of its freshness. For three
years het married life was unclouded; and the
birth ol a lovely little girl, during this period,
awakened in both parentes an intensity of ten
derness, of which only a parent can form an ade
quate conception. That of Gerald seemed
strangely tinged with melancholy, and as he
sometimes stopped to caress his beautiful child,
as it slumbered on the bosom of his not less
beautiful wife, or as sparkling with smiles, it
iprang to his embrace, Ida had morn than once
marked the tearful eye and quivering lip which he
in vain strove to conceal. 1 low in the very noon
tide of their happiness, their could exist one shade
of sadness, Ida could not conceive. That Ger
ald could feel aught but joyful gratitude, at that
gift which had cemented then - own ties, and
promised to be “the rainbow to their future
years,” she could not doubt—that his lave x>r Her
continued fadeless, she hesitated not to believe.
What secret and untold grief preyed on his heart,
then ? It was a question she could not solve; and
with the intuitve delicacy of woman, she shrank
from soliciting th<* confidence her husband had
thought proper to witliold from her.
She had one day sung her cherub to its “rosy
rest,” ami the fair child, cradled in her arms, re
posed in a calm of dreamless slumber. With a
mother’s rapture, she gazed on its budding love
liness, aud hearkened to its soft, gentle breathings.
She arose, and leaning over the chairof her hus
band, who sat thoughtfully at some distance from
her, held to his view the smiling babe —“How
beautiful, dear Gerald,” she exclaimed, as she
tenderly placed her precious burden on his lap
and rested her own arm affectionately on his shoul
der; “how beautiful; only see how glowingly the
rose mantles to that soft cheek; and the brow,
dearest, is so like your own, so serene amid the
dark, rich curls!” and the silken ringlets which
had escaped from the baby’s cap, were gently put
aside, and Ida leaned over and kissed its white
forehead, with maternal fondness. Gerald smiled,
for who could resist affection, clad as it was in its
most fascinating girb? He passed his arm ten
derly around the waist of his wife, and looked
witli a father’s pride on that beauty of which she
spoke so enthusiastically. There were visible
only the beams of tenderness and joy in his dark
eye. lie stooped over the babe, and scarcely
touched with his lips her velvet cheek, lest he
might awaken hot; but as he did so, there was
breathed a half-smothered sigh, which the quick
ear of Ida was not slow in detecting.
“What language speaks in that sigh?” asked
she, half reproachfully, half playfully; “how
should the voice of regret be heard here ?” and
she glanced affectionately towards her husband
and child.
“It is not that I am ungrateful, my love,” re
plied Gerald, “for those blessings which heaven
has scattered so richly on my pathway. I ought
to be happv, and were it not for one dark remem
brance, which is ever throwing its shadow over me,
I should be so. The cup of life, though wreath
ed vvith hope’s bright flowers, holds bitterness in
its draught, and as I look on my blessings, the
thought of earth’s ‘pale changes’ comes over me,
with an intensity I cannot banish. I strive to
chase these phantoms from my mind, and your
affection, mine, own, is clasped like armour to my
heart, with almost a death grasp, to ward off the
fangs of that viper, which is struggling to banquet
ou my vitals.”
The entrance of Mr. V interrupted this
conversation, which was becoming so painfully in
teresting to Ida. She received her child from
the arms of its father, and casting a look of min
gled sadness and love upon her husband, hurried
from the room. The words of Gerald implied he
was not happy ! She brooded on that reflection
with bitterness and tears, and who can tell the
crowd of overpowering thoughts which came
rushing over her heart, when in the hour of lone
liness she recalled the confession he had made—
those words so fraught with agony to her. et
she swerved not from the wife’s duty, and his tones
of endearment (for he was always, even in his sad
dest hours, touchingly kind in his manner to her.)
melted on her ear with the same sweet influences,
which had given to the early years of her mar
riage such “magic of bliss.”
The despondency of Gerald Wv men red daily,
and seemed to affect his health. He grew ibift
anil pale, and soon Ida ceased to remember her
ows griefs, amid engrossing attendance on her
husband, whose mental uneasiness prostrated him
soon on a bed of sickness. For weeks she watch
ed around his couch of Suffering, oft-times scarce
daring to hope life yet lingered ; aud in the long, si
lent melancholly hours of night, she hung over his
pillow, with that anguish of soul, before which
words are powerless, while her heart was lifted in
voiceless prayer to the God of her youth, in the
delirium ol lever she slood by his side, unshrink
ingly, with utiblanching cheek, though another
name was mingled with her own, in his wander
ings. “Emily! Emily !” would he reiterate—his
voice softening into tenderness as he dwell on the
name—“iny beautiful, my lost oue ! why did they
tear you from me?—ah !*but I remember now;
they told me the clanking chain kept you from
j murdering me ! but 1 would not believe them—
and when they put the form 1 had loved so well, in
the deep grave, I wept —oh! such tears! shall I
ever shed such again! But Ida is mine now—
and—and—and—but she shall not die. They
shall uot tear her away from my arms.” Then
with exhaustion he would sink back on his pil
low, looking so death-like, Ida trembled lest his
spirit might have passed as the tide of memory
rolled over him. But he lived yet; and when—
altera night of such deep slumber, that Ida al
most feared death had come in that guise, so un
moved, almost breathless lie lay—he awoke, weak
and feeble, but with calmness and perfect renova
tion of his mental faculties, Ida felt a measure of
gratitude which found expression in that fervency
ot payer known only to the sincere believer.
Each day now witnessed improvement in Ger
ald’s health and spirits, and in proportion as the
excitement of Ida’s auxiety yielded to the almost
certain hope of her husband’s recovery, the traces
ol Lei until t ing vigils might be read in her faded
cheek and languid eye. But her heart was light;
the emotions of joy, gratitude and love filled it
to overflowing. In tlie fond smiles of her hus
band she saw the assurance of returning happi
ness. and of the cloud which had flitted across
the sky of their affection, she forbore to think.—
Her confinement to the sick chamber of Gerald
had been uninterrupted, but as his strength re
turned, and he was enabled to dispense more fre
quently with her attendance, he used to insist
that she would sometimes exchange her duties
there, for the advantages of air and exercise;
which she so much needed.
One morning, when Mr. V —was paying his
accustomed visit at Gerald’s room, he proposed
that he should take h:s daughter a short drive,
saying she would be refreshed by the excursion,
and that Gerald would not require her attention
for at least tho space of an hour or two. Ida
b gan to excuse herself, but Gerald seconded Mr.
\ ——s proposal with so much earnestness, (hat
she assented, and prepared to accompany her fa
ther The weather was unusually bright and
calm for the season—stern winter having just sunk
the lance point —and Ida acknowledged the in
fluences of the soft breeze, as bearin, the fra
grance of early spring, it breathed upon her pale
cheek. But the thought of her husband’s loneli
ness, rendered her anxious and impatient, and af
ter a ride of an hour, she prevailed on her lather
to return. It was earlier than Gerald expected
her, and on hastening to his chamber, she entered
so noiselessly that he did not arise to welcome her,
and indeed seemed unconscious of her approach.
He was sitting with his face buried in his hands,
and yn a table near rested the miniatuie of
a very young and exceedingly beautiful girl. Ida
leaned over the shoulder of her husband, and as
her eye glanced momentarily upon it, the rich
crimson leaped into her cheek, leaving it as sud
denly deathly pale ; she stood transfixed; she could
not speak—her breath came faintly through her
closed lips —the room swam before her like the
shadowy objects in a dream, and she swooned. —
When she recovered, she was supported ou the
breast oi her husband. With a shuddering re
membrance of the past, she looked towards the
table. The picture, in all its glow of young beau
ty, was still there. “Then it was icality, and not
the phantasm of imagination!” The recollection
of Gerald’s confession of unhappiness, the name
so fondly repeated in his delirium, connected with
such passionate expressions of tenderness, rushed
like lightening through her mind; scathing
in its passage every bright anticipation she had
dared to foster. The “thick, warm tears” gushed
to her eyes, but she quickly checked them, and
with assumed calmness, attempted to disengage
herself from Gerald’s arms, saying “the exertion
of riding had exhausted her, and exchanging so
suddenly the cold air without for the close warm
temperature of a sick chamber, had occasioned
her swoon. “Not, so, my love,” whispered Ger
ald, as he twined his arms more closely round her.
“Leave me not yet —1 have something to say to
you, which should not be deferred,” and as he
spoke he glanced towards the fatal miniature—lda
trembled. Gerald resumed—“l have long wished,
mv dear Ida, to communicate to you some circum
stances connected with my history, but which are
of so painful a nature and awaken such bitterness
of anguish, that I have always shrunk from dwel
ling on them—however, after the event of this
morning, in justice to myself, 1 can have no farther
concealment from you. Listen to me, and jon
shall hear what has been the hushed secret of m v
soul, what has haunted my dreams, engrossed
every thought of my bosom, stilled every hope of!
happiness which I tremblingly cherished, aud is
slowly drinking the lifeblood of my heart.” Ho
paused, and extended his arm towards the table,
grasped the picture, and placed it in Ida’s hand.
“Think you that beautiful ?’ tremulously inquir
ed he. It represented, as I have before said, one
in extreme youth ; the long, sunny hair waved on
the timnJed shoulders, unconfined, save by a nar
row lilet of blue, which vied with the clear ceru
lean of the beaming eyes. In the rounded cheek,
the tint of summer’s sunset seemed to linger, and
the ruby lips appeared almost bursting into a
glorious and exqusite smile. Hut the radiance of
loveliness rested in the expression—it was indes
cribable. Hope was there, with her kindling in-
WaUtifully with a thousand
otedV irtVigttttegsv that one could have looked
fVHßtfttf Wfc young creature, without de
lihittg Mbit Was shadowed forth iu the seraphic
cottttitnance-. Ida gazed long on it, aud as she
restored it to Gerald, expressed her admiration it*
a tone calm, through sorrowful. “Such,” said
he, “was oue whom I loved with all the fervor anfl
impassioned devotion of boyhood, and her woh
drous beauty and endearing qualities commanded
my affection long after her bitter fate had severed
us farnnd wide. In the glow of day, her memory
is wafted to me, as I remember her, ‘mantled with
lair loveliness’—in the deep Sublimity of night, I
hear again her accents of tenderness and love,
which never failed to awaken an echo in uiy bo
som—then the remembrance of her dark destiny
flits belore me, filling uiy soul with uncontrollable
anguish.”
“And her name?” asked Ida, iu a voice of iiv
repressive anxiety. “Was Emily," replied he;
ar.d her heart seemed to stand still, as be slowly
and tenderly pronounced tho name. Gerald ap
parently observed not her agitation, for which sho
was grateful. Woman, even in her first romance
ot passion, with inherent delicacy, veils from the
eye ol the beloved oue, the deep bright fount of
love, which is ever bubbling up iu her heart’s
depths—conceals how inseparably
“Her life is ever twiued
With other lives, aud by no ftortby WicA
May thence be shaken.”
Gerald clasped the picture in its case, after gazing
fondly on it, and resumed his seat. Wheu bo
spoke again, his voice wasstartling, it its deep and
hollow tones. “I have said,’’ continued he, “that
1 loved that Bright being on whose resemblance
you have just looked. Loved—oh! God! how
worshppingly, how exclusively, who can know,
who conceive ? In the entire and uninterrupted
happiness, which Ibr years marked this affection,
a thought of change never intruded, and it was
long before the threatened and lowering tbnipfeit;
which had gathered so slowly, yet so darkly over
the fair face of my dream-like existence, burst
forth in irrepressible violence, devasting aud deso
lating every sacred tie—blasting every basis iu
liie’s pilgrimage. There was ofttimes a wildness
m the eye of Emily, before which I quailed—«
fierceness even iu tile demonstrations of her love,
at which I trembled, but I ascribed it to tho wor
kings of that noble intellect, that glorious mind,
which were as Worthy of adoralion as the beauti
tul temple which enshrined the rare gifts.
“Well dd l remember the feeling of agony
aifii which I rest myself from her for the firs!
time, when I bade adieu to the scenes of my
boyhood for the more tumultuous career of my
collegiate course. I was an orphan, but tho
sacredness of every feeling seemed concentrated
iu my love for her.
“5 ears passed, and my ouly enjoyment wits
poring over the burning professions of her uuwau
mg affection, traced in her own lair aud delicate
characters, it was now drawing towards the close
ol my last year at college. Emily had not written to
me at all of late, and though I had continue
scrupulously punctual in my letters to her, days,
weeks, mouths rolled by, and I hailed not one iu
return. This was inexplicable, and when, at
length, I was emancipated from the frowning walls
ol my university, 1 hurried homewards, oppressed
by a thousand indefinable apprehensions, whose
shad !ws 1 strove in vain to cast from me. It was
evening when I reached Park. The weather
was stormy aud tempestuous, and as I drove with
i rapid pace through the long avenues which led
to the bouse, the old trees bent with a melancholy,
iirge-like moaning, to the angry blast which
swept onwards. ‘lsEmily well ?’ asked I hastily;
as i bounded up the noble staircase, and was met
ou the landing place by one of the domestics. I
had arrived unexpectedly, and fotmd no one wai
ting in the hall to receive uie, 1 hrtd therefore as
cended, unbidden and unwelcomed. ‘ls Emily
well ?’ repeated J, as the old anil faithful servant
turned from me, to conceal the tears which gath
ered iu her dim eyes, and to hide the expression
of agony which crossed her time-worn features^
1 seized her by the arm with a grasp which seemed!
to startle her by its fierceness. She turned tow
ards me; ‘old woman,’ muttered I, in an intensity
of apprehension, which almost deprived me of
breath, ‘old woman, tell me the worst—is Emily
dead ?’ and my voice sank into a whisper, a cold
ness benumbed my heart, a sickly dread came
over me, as m_y worst fears found Utterance.
“ ‘Not dead !’ replied she, ‘but a living tomb ii»
more fearful than the sepulchre of the dead !’*l re
leased not my grasp—‘Explain,’ said 1, ‘why is it
Ido not see your young mistress?’ She burst
into tears, and between the sobs which seemed to
come from her soul’s depths, 1 learned,—lean
down to iffe, Ida,—that Emily was a maniac, a
raving, furious maniac! Oh! Heavens! the
agony of that montent— I can not tell how I sur
vived if .'—there came a few scalding drops, wrung
from my heart’s angttsh—btft I could not weep—
the fountain of tears wag quenched—the fire of
heaven seemed to have scathed my bosom. I,
laid my burning brow on the cold floor, where I
had prostrated myself; and in that moment, 1
the events of the past, the images of Vanished
hrfuis, flitted before my nientafl vision, anil seemed
to taunt me as they passed, f arose; thp fearful,
appalling calm of sorrow Ward on life.' ‘Lead u:°
to her— quick’—rfdded I, its the old womnto seemed
t » hesitate—‘instantly.’ There was that' in my
tone, which intimidated Her intd obedience, i
followed her through the Icfng, dim passages of
that old mansion, with a firm step. She lon to
wards a portion of the building which had not
been tenanted since my remembrance; and its
crumbling dilapidation told that time’s footstep
had crushed it in Lis passage. We ascended a
narrow and winding stairway—she paused:—‘lf I
dare remonstrate,’ urged she, hesitatingly—l
waved my hand with an impatience I could not
control,—‘Continue—l see her, if my life is the
forfeit.’ We proceeded, and before a door on
which the damps of years had rested, she stopped.
Blip applied a key to it, find as it slowly grated ori_
ts lung**, I involuntarily and rttgerfy urifui*
I.—No. Z%.