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« Oil,” said I, sitting myself once more be
side her, “ what a time to love, and how sweet
tliis hour to lovers. ’
« Nor would it be less sweet,” sakl she. “ for
its declaration.”
“ Not to you, not now,” said I.
r- Site drew «-loi>g and disturbed breath, and
said, “And veL Doctor, I could love a noble
•g«nf?cfnrm*todistraction. Oh! I could adore
& v him.” *=-
“ Have you ever loved ? said I.
al* A' lose silence was the only answer 1 receiv
ed to my enquin' for some time. At
* she SsuT.* “ If you were interested in it, I might
*tel! vou.”
at least not to understand her,
and still thinking of the old charge preferred
Ufrftinst her of coquetry, I flew otl to some
thing else, until it was at length resumed, and
brought to a close again, by her saying, “Sir,
if vou have any proposals to make, why not do
at ?” This I did not feel prepared for, inas
"ynuch as I had often resolved never to be re
jected by a woman, if it was possible to escape
tt. At length I made another effort to start
home, remarking as 1 took her hand, rather
r.nthoughtedly but very enquiringly, that as
she had agreed to write to me, she must not
•play the coquette with an unsuspecting heart.
Ido not remember of ever witnessing a more
powerful effect exhibited in any person from
the more enunciation ot a few' words, than I
then beheld in her. The countenance which
was before placid and serene, seemed to
change to a cloud in which a portentous storm
■was raging; and eyes that before were mild
and benignant in their beamings, now seemed
to flash \vkh unearthly fire. The next moment
a flood of tears came to her relief, and she cov
ered her eyes with her handkerchief. For
some time" she tried to speak but her voice
seemed charged with some distressing passion.
At length she said, rather angrily, “Sir, how
could you be so cruel to one who had thus con
fided in your goodness. Our communications
must cease from this moment, and cease for
ever. No, I would not write you a sylable, if
it were to save my own life. Nor would I
forgive, were you to ask a thousand pardons.”
i stood almost petrified for some moments,
unable to determine on the proper course of
procedure. I deprecated very much the idea
of losing the esteem of one I loved so well:
•vet, the native pride of my heart, could not
brook the idea of crouching at a woman’s
shrine. So I reached my hat, and said in a
very subdued tone of voice, which partook a
little of sadness, “ Tiien, Miss S , I must
hid you farewell forever. If the asking of a
■thousand pardons might suffice to receive an
absolution at your hands, I might still remain,
and make an effort to obtain so desirable an
end, but since you say even the offence would
I muol, roluotcuit as I am
to do it, leave you to see you never again. But
I hope that there will be some little idle mo
ments of your existence, put in to complete
the links of your destiny, where the remem
brance of your lost friend shall make you feci
to regret the cool and chilling blast which swept
so early over the garden of our affections, and
nipped the lovely flowers of sentiment which
had so lately opened their infant beams to the
vernal sun.”
This earnest appeal to the feelings of an
amiable girl, was productive of the most salu
tary effect in sweeping away the clouds from
herbrow, and causing the tearof anguish which
had fallen so profusely before, to change to
those of sentiment, and all together presented
the picturesque appearance of a beautiful show
.er, falling in the clear sunshine, while a thou
sand prismatic beauties were reflccled on the
pearly drops which descended so gently on the
bosom of the earth. She struggled to speak
hgain'for a moment, but her feelings prevented
her, till at length she offered me her hand, and
took the handkerchief from her face, while her
cheeks, which, were yet bathed in tears, seem
ed heightened almost to the point of fusion,
added much to the interest of the scene. And
those soft blue eyes, shall I ever forget them ?
or their magic influence, as they were rolled
benignly upward, and fixed upon my counte
nance, swimming in the tears of their own cre
ation ? And shall 1 forget the smile so heavenly
sweet that played upon her countenance, as
she said—
“ Doctor, I hope you arc not hurt with me.
It was a freak of bitter anguish that came over
me, to think so dear a friend could suspect me
of coquetry. lam sure you have no crime
to answer for now, if so, "’tis all forgiven. I
can appreciate tlie motive that urged so harsh
an enquiry, hut when you have proved me, you
will find that I am not the gay, heartless thing
some take me to lie.”
Like the tempest-tossed mariner feels when
a sudden tornado, which threatened instant
destruction to his vessel, has passed away, and
the clear sun shines once more with placid
i*lumination on the unruffled bosom of the
blue ocean, so did I feel whilst listening to a
language which bespoke so much of sentiment,
uttered by a voice so tremulous, so sweet, so
lieavenly 'sweet. I assured her, that for the
future, I should be more guarded in all my
addresses, and especially in my written com
munications, and that.-if I was ever guilty
again of So fearful a breach of confidence and
esteenV: s ! x> might truly cast me off forever.
the t hrilling incident of that event
ful evening.' I was then induced to re
gard asan-eri in’the history of my life. For
certainly, that which tends to unite ones desti
ny impermeably and forever to an object or
dishevev him from it, deserves to he consider
ed as an important item in the course of events.
Such did I regard, was the tendency of the an
imated scCne described above, to which all
lovers will doubtlessly find a thrilling response
in their own bosoms.
The next day found me wending my way
homeward in a crowded stage coach, which
landed me safely there after one or two severe
up-settings. I Was to remain but a few days,
and then leave for a distant city for the pur
pose of completing my medical education.
And though I expected to give R a pass
ing call, 1 could not resist the temptation of
writing her a hasty communication, and pre
sent an apology for my conduct, in a more dig
nified style. I could not have expec f ed an
answer to this, as I anticipated seeing her in a
few days, at any rate 1 did not receive one, and
had to take up the line of march once more
with some doubt still impending above me, in
relation to its probable reception, and "The
course it would bo necessary for me to pursue
in future.
[to be concluded.]
For the Southern Post.
THE CONSUMPTIVE.
“ She was a being bright in youth and love,
Yet while she shone in beauty’s sky serene,
Her light grew dim, away, before
The eye could gaze and love her brilliancy."
It was the first day of May, 183—, that I
left the small village ot C , in this State,
to proceed on my journey to the mountains,
for the purpose of restoring my health, which
at that time, was in a feeble state. And on
that day I met with one whose image is now
present to my mind, and which no vicissitudes
of life—no lapse of time, can entirely destroy.
The was cold and rainy—the wind
mourned as it passed, in its invisible flight, the
distant mountains, which, when the sky is se
rene, and their lofty summits are towering in
majesty to Heaven, are calculated to absorb the
mind, and dispel the thoughts of gloom, were
hid by the lowering clouds; and, in fact, every
object around was a source of dismal loneli
ness and gloomy thought. And often I thought
of my distant home, and the friends whose
fellowship was love—the dear beings whose
moments of joy were mine—and such recollec
tions commingling with the perception of the
dreary solitude around, produced a state of
mind unenviable indeed. In this frame I tra
velled a few hours, when 1 resolved to stop at
the first house I came to, and endeavor to
drown my spirit of loneliness in company with
those whose hearts were free from the thoughts
which made my own so sad, even though utter
strangers. Finally, I arrived at a neat man
sion on the top of a very high hill, very pictur
esque in its situation, for it was encompassed
by ranges ot exceeding lofty hills, which tow
ered higher, and higher, and grew more indis
tinct in their outlines, until they were losta
mong the distant mountains. Around the
house grew fruit trees of various kinds, which,
although it was unusually cold at the time, had
put forth blossoms and leaves to catch the
cheering rays of spring’s mild sun. Cluster
ing vines clung to the walls, and over each
window spread the yellow jessamine in tender
beauty, while every object wore the aspect of
neatness and plenty. The lady of the house
received me with every mark of politeness, and
ushered me into the parlor, long before the la
dy (who, I afterwards learnt, was a Mrs.
C ,) came into the room, and commenced
conversing with me upon various subjects,
which had a tendency to drive away sadness,
and produce in its stead, contentment and in
terest. And in fact, I was much interested
with every thing I saw or heard. Mrs. C
was a widow woman, about thirty-five years of
age, of very good mind, and, I thought, bril
liant imagination, improved and refined by a
good education in youth, and by the experi
ence of riper years. Her conversation was
plain, yet indicative of a thorough knowledge
of the world’s business, and the deep things of
the human mind. In her company I soon
felt as if at home, yet ever and anon, a shade
of deep rooted sorrow seemed to spread itself
over her feelings, and check for awhile the ease
and composure of her manners and conversa
tion. I thought perhaps that the husband of
her youth, and companion and hope of her
life, had not long been taken away to the home
of the dead, leaving her alone and widowed,
and her children fatherless. She thought that I
had noticed her feelings, and immediately told
me that her only child was in the lowest stage
of consumption, and a few days perhaps, would
rob her of her comfort here, and hasten her
own existence to an untimely end. When
she had concluded, in an apartment above, I
heard a voice that thrilled in my soul like the
song of the departing saint. We remained
silent, and the angel voice swelled higher in
melody, mingling with the sighing wind, as it
passed to its unknown home. Plaintive in
sorrow, they blended and swept o’er my soul,
leaving my heart in sadness more wretched
than ever. And how many mournful reflec
tions came thronging in upon my desolate
feelings! The theme of her mourning strain
was fraught with the thoughts of the lone man
sion of the dead —of the afflictions of the tie
parting soul, from its mortality here—of tlie
tears and sighs of the bereaved of earth—and
the tones of her voice were tremulous upon her
dying tongue, though in melancholy sweetness
they were richer than the music of the breeze
shaken harp. Her gentle soul melted in the
strain, until she ceased to chant the music of
her deep toned woe, and when she liad finish
;ed. Mrs. C rone hastily from her seat and
retired to a distant room to conceal the feelings
that so much distressed her, and no doubt to
give vent in tears, to her unhappy anxiety,
concerning the fate of her who was her first
horn pledge ofyoutliful love.
1 began to think that I was intrading by re
maining a witness, and a stranger to their sor
rows, consequently, when Mrs. C return
ed, I told her, that although I was weak in
healtli myself, and would willingly shun the
wind and ram, by remaining in some place
shut in from their influence, yet I did not wish
to be a burthen to her, in her house of pain and
distress, and woukl leave immediately. She
insisted upon my staying under the circum
stances, and added, that company was a solace
to her, whilst o’erwhelmed in sorrow. She
told me that Mary would be glad to enjoy the
benefits of company and conversation, in order
to dispel the mdarteholy thought of her ap
proaching dissolution ; and feeling anxious to
learn more of the unfortunate being, who was
young in years, and on tlie verge of Etenity’s
unknown realms—and to see her whom fancy
ro!>ed in innocence and love, before she de
parted hence to mingle with the throng of hap
py saints in the world of light and immortal
youth—l resolved to stay.
Immediately after, the decaying angel en
tered the room, and never before had I beheld
such a lovely being, for she was lovely and
beautiful in the arms of Death. She walked
with a feeble step to a seat opposite me, while
her anxious mother was solicitous to know if
she had experienced any change in her feelings
for the better.
She was tall and delicately framed—her
beautiful black eyes had been robbed of their
sparkling lustre hv disease, yet they were lus
trous still, and expressive of gentleness and
love—lier ample forehead, the seat of an active
mind and vivid imagination, was partly con
cealed- fey curls of jet, which hung in grace
upon her pure white neck—her cheek was
flushed with consumption’s fire —and her deli
cate lips were tinged as the rose in its early
bloom. On such a flower did the destroyer
revel, and such was the secrecy and deception
of liis work, that beauty lingered where his
steps were seen.
Her conversation was of a pleasing melan
choly cast; yet upon some subjects, she seem
ed to forget that the light of her life was pale,
and would dwell with delight upon some fu
ture hour, which hope’s inspiration had paint
ed in gorgeous colors before her. As for my
self, I hoped that she might live to enjoy the
blessings of an unruffled life—that a few more
months would restore her to health and to hap
piness in the company of her fond mother.
Yet I knew the power of the destroying hand—
I knew his deceitfulness, and hope died within
me. Could ouch a DeautifUl being, who had
not lived seventeen summers, go away and Ix3
forgotten in the earth’s cold bosom ?—could
those eyes grow dim, and that tender heart be
stilled ?—could her dulcit voice be hushed in
the silence of death?—could that immortal
mind he divorced from its companion so soon,
and fly away to unknown worlds ? Such re
flections occupied my mind, while we were
conversing, and Ix3fore she retired, a secret in
fluence crept o’er my feelings, impressing her
worth, and youth and destiny upon my lieart;
and I hoped that she might live, and I be per
mitted to dwell in her presence forever—and
if she had to die, I thought I should be blessed
if I eouldVatch around her dying pillow—to
gaze on the beautiful star, till its light had van
ished away. .
After Mary had retired, Mrs. C remark
ed to me, that she feared that Mary was sink
ing fast—that although her lips were blooming,
and her cheeks were roseate in youth, yet con
sumption’s fires burned within, and soon, per
haps suddenly, her flower would droop its head
and die.
I learned that her husband had died three
years before, when Mary was at the celebrated
school in Sm, in a sifter State, whither
she had gone a few months before, to polish
her naturally strong mind, and prepare herself
for the severer duties of after life. Os an affa
ble disposition, and gentle, and friendly in all
her intercourse with her youthful associates—
she soon became a great favorite with them,
and beloved by the older portion of her ac
quaintances. Her progress in science reflect
ed honor upon her talents, and gained for her
the approbation and esteem of those who had
charge of her infant mind, and were training
her for usefulness , and ornament in society.
Mary regarded education as a guide through
the troubles of life—and a power to overcome
all obstacles, and break down all barriers—a
jewel in affluence, and a solace in misfortunes;
while many young ladies, in this our day, spend
money, and health, and youth, for the purpose
of acquiring a few pert sayings, graceful tear
ing, and other parlour exercises—without
judgment to direct them in the path of useful
ness, and without prudence to protect them
from the contempt of others. Consequently,
by continual application, and actuated by a
hope to honor the memory of her deceased fa
ther, she soon attained a high stand in the in
stitution, aud received the first honors of her
Alma Mater for her skill and knowledge in all
tte branches of polite literature.
After rem; vising «t school about two years,
she returned to the home of her childhood—
the pride of her mother, and hope of her de
clining years. Her teauties were rich in the
buoyancy of youth, her soul was mild as the
gentle dove—and her mind was a star that
shod its influence wliere’er she wept. Her
name wae tlie theme of love end beauty—and ;
as she and her mother strolled on Sabbath to
the house of prayer, to give thanks unto Him,
who was the husband of the widow, and the
father to the fatherless—many were the happy
friends who thronged to salute tee object of
their love. Then she was happy—then her
gentle soul could drink at the fountains of in
nocent pleasure, and revel in the fulness of
joy. But soon the spoiler came. A rose jut t
budding out in the spring of life, the cold wind
of disease bent its blushing beauty down. Con
sumption seized her for its prey—the morning
of her existence was clouded—the night of her
future was dark',' for the sun of her life was set
ting.
With melancholy feelings I retired to rest
that night—and in the morning I hid adieu to
the disconsolate mother, to pursue my journey,
resolved in my mind, to stop when 1 returned,
and learn the fate of tlie beautiful Mary.
After an absence of four weeks, I stopped
at the gate of the yard—every object looked
lonely and sad—no being could 1 see—and
the thought flashed across mv mind, that Mary
was dead. I walked slow ly to the door of the
mansion, and gently knocked ; in a few mo
ments the door was opened, and Mrs. C -
invited me in. I knew from her countenance
that her treasure had fled—that she was heart
stricken and alone, with no comfort in her af
fection, save the consoling power of faith in
tlie goodness and mercy of Him, whose prom
ise can heal the broken hearted here.
I gathered from her relation of the circum
stances, that Mary’s health declined rapidly
for about two weeks after I left, when one
stormy night her strength failed, and every
symptom indicated speedy dissolution. Her
tears and prayers went before the altar of Hea
ven’s mercy, and her plaints were heard there,
pleading for her dying 'Lavy. Tlie poor suf
ferer, in meek submission to the will of Hea
ven, was composed and beautiful in death. No
pains tortured her tender frame, hut in fecu.'s
ness she sung an anthem of triumph, confident
that in a few more fleeting moments, her im
mortal tongue would swell higher notes in the
great choir of Heaven, in fellowship with those
who would live and sing throughout Eternity’s
day. The poor unhappy mother said she
watched her fleeting breath, till at last Mary
gazed upon her, and a tear gathered in her
closing eye, when amid the howling wind—
without a groan, the spirit of her first born
fled above the flying storm, to the saint’s ever
lasting rest. <■ W.
Warrcnton, Geo.
For the SouthernTPoet.
THE FORSAKEN MAID.
As through a lonely path I Grayed,
I saw a charming, lovely maid ;
With pensive air her head she raised
And on a beauteous rose she gazed.
“ Ah, could I live,” said she, “ alone,
Be like this ro3e, by all unknown ;
He whom I love is far away—
I find no pleasure with the gay,
But soon my sorrows will be o’er,
And soon this rose will bloom no more ;
Now winter comes with rapid pace,
And soon will rob its native grace ;
It looks quite pretty in bloom to-day,
To-morrow perhaps it fades awey—
And such indeed is beauty’s power,
Like thee she falls, poor, trifling flower.”
Now, while she stood with form so light,
I gazed with rapture on the sight—
A form, I thought, of finest mould,
A better, none could ne’er behold—
And gloomy thoughts stole on me, said,
This looks like a deserted maid !
Why does she leave her rural cot
To tread this dark, this lonely spot—
I’ll try to soften all her care,
Each thought, each wish, each feeling share—
And as I spoke she turned aside
And strove in vain her shame to hide.
“ Most honored Miss, why leave your bower,
Why do you weep o’er this lone flower,
Why do you look so much distressed,
Are you by grief and wo oppressed ?”
’Twas then I saw her tearful eye
Look upwards to her native sky—
And said, “ I am a contrite maid,
By one that’s false I am betrayed ;
Who said that I alone should share
His strong affection, as his early care ;
But he’s proved false, and I’m undone,
A poor, a lost, forsaken one ;
But when my soul shall leave this clay,
Oh ! kindly hear my bones away—
In a dark charnel lay me not —
But in some green, lone, sunny spot,
Where the wild rose I love so dear,
May shed its balmy influence there ;
And whispering winds the graas shall wave
Quite gently o’er my silent grave.
MUZA.
Mr. Clarke, operator at Apothecaries’ Hall,
has been engaged by the Admiralty, in analys
ing fourteen hundred and sixty-seven sacks of
flour, which were lying in warehouse at Hull,
lie took samples from each sack,.and in some
he found that upwards of a third was plaster
of paris and ground bones, two of the most
abominable ingredients, and which the stom
ach of neither man nor beast is capable of di
gesting. lie sent specimens of this stuff bak
ed, in many of its processes, to the Lords of
the Admiralty. The person who owned it,
aud who was about to send it to Spain or Por
tugal. was fined in the penalty of ten thousand
pounds. Mr. Clarke has also analysed Sou
chong tea, and found there was twenty-five
per cent, of led ore in it.
FRENCH LITERARY LADIES.
MADAME GEOFFRIN.
* * * * Madame Geoffrin’s husband li
the husbands of many other distinguS
‘ blues,’ was a thoroughly insignificant
age—a perfect cipher in his own hoie*
Grimm tells some amusing stories of him h
was in the habit of borrowing books of aft
who, by way of joke, lent him the same bi
several times over. It happened to be a \-r
ume of Father Labat’s Travels. Monsit°'
Geoffrin, with the most perfect
it over every time it was lent him. »\y
sir,” said his friend, “how do you like th
travels?” “Oh, very good—very good j r .
deed ; but I think the author given a little ;*
repetition.” A literary foreigner, who y
frequently dined at Madame Geoffrin’s witW
knowing lier husband, asked her one day, ts.
ter a long ahsenoe from Paris, what had i*
come of tlie poor gentleman he used to meet
there, and who always sat without opening t
lips. “Oh,” said the lady, “that was rrn
husband ; he is dead.”
She was celebrated for her bon-mts, n ;
which many arc preserved by Grimm and oth
er writers of the day. The Count de Coigny
was one day at her table, telling, as was his
wont, interminable stories. Some dish being
set before him, he took a little clasp-knife from
his pocket and began to help himself, prosing
away all the while. “M. le Comte,” said
Madame Geoffrin at last, out of patience, “at
dinner we should have large knives and little
stories.” One of lier literary friends, M. de
Rulhiero, having threatened to publish some
very imprudent remarks on tlie conduct ofthe
court of Russia, from the sale of which he ex.
pected to make a large profit, she offered him
a handsome sum to put liis manuscript in the
fire, from a good-natured wish to keep him
from getting himself into trouble. The author
began to talk in a high tone about honor and
independence, and the baseness of taking mo.
ncy as a bribe for suppressing the truth. “Well,
well,” said she, with a quiet smile, “ say your,
self how much more you must have.”
THE MARQUISE DU DEFFANT.
* * * * Besides Pont de Vesle, she had
another lover, the President Henault, the his.
torian. There is an amusing anecdote of their
liaison, which has the advantage, too, of being
authentic. They were both complaining one
day of the continual interruptions they met with
from the society in which they lived. “What
a pleasant thing it would he,” said Madame dn
Defiant, “ to have a whole day to ourselves!”
The lover eagerly caught at the idea, and it
was determined to put it in execution. They
found a small apartment in the Tuilleries, be
longing to a friend, which was unoccupied;
and there they resolved, like Seged, the Empe
ror of Ethiopia, to spend a happy day. They
arrived accordingly, in separate carriages,
about eleven in the forenoon ; ordered their
carriages to return at twelve at night, and be
spoke dinner from a traileur. The morning
was spent entirely to the satisfaction of both
parties, in the usual conversation of lovers.
“ Well!” they could not help saying every
now and then, “ were every day like this, life
would really he too short!”
Dinner came, was heartily partaken of, and
sentiment gave way to wit and gaiety. About
six the Marquise looked at her watch.
“ Athalie is to be played to-night, and the
new .actress is to make her appearance.”
“ I must own,” said the President, “ that
were I not here. I should regret not seeing her.
“ Take care, President; what you say is an
expression of regret. Were you as happy as
you profess to be, you never would have
thought of the possibility of going to see the
new actress.”
The President defended himself, and in turn
became the accuser. “Is it for you to com
plain of me, when you were the first to look at
your watch, and to remark that Athalie was to
be acted to-night ? There ought to be no
watches for people who are happy.”
The dispute went on. The loving pair got
more and more out of humor with each other;
and by seven o’clock would lx>th of them have
been very glad to separate. But that was im
possible.
“Ah !” cried the Marquise, “ I can never
stay here till twelve o’clock ; four hours lon
ger—what a penance !”
The Marquise went and sat down behind 8
screen, leaving the rest of the room to tlie
President. Piqued at this, tte gentleman seizes
a pen, writes a note full of reproaches, and
throws it over the screen. The lady picks it
up, goes in search of pen, ink, and pajier, and
writes an answer in the sharpest terms. At
last the happy hour of twelve struck ; and each
hurried ofi separately, resolved never again to
try such an experiment.
Her death was characteristic of herself and
her society. “Her dearest friends,” says
* •rimm, “ Madame dc Luxembourg, Madame
de Choiseul, and Madame de Cambise, were
constantly with her in her last illness. Through
an extraordinary excess of attachment these
ladies played at 100 every evening in her bed*
room till she had drawn her last breath.” Ano
ther writer says that ter visiters happened, in
the middle of their game, to discover that she
was dead, but sat stiil, and played it out with
great composure.
Lore. —At three years we love our moth
ers—at six, our fathers—at ten, holidays—at
sixteen, dress—at twenty, our sweet-hearts —
at twenty-five, our wives—at fortv, our chil*
dren—und at sixty, ourselves.