Newspaper Page Text
/er. ’fTcrcntsklc* Mr. Atkins’sympathies
allbc’i genlisted iVt Miss Eustace Mr. Chaun
tcv’s. of coarse, fcr Miss Leigh. both, how
ever, were too gentlemanly to express tlieii
tidings by word or sign, that at length the
game seemed drawing to a eiose, and again
;n Miss Leigh's favor, when a skilful move on
Miss Eustace’s part, turned the whole face of
the battle. Miss Lcign, ho a ever, sccme 1 no,
aware of it, so intent was she on tne manoeu
vre she hod been performing. Eat Mr. C.iuun
ccy’s heart licat quick, as no saw ad iier dan
ger; and when siic placed her fingers on a
recce, to have moved whicn, would have decid
ed her fate at once, his self-command forsook
him, and uttering an emphatic Ah!” he turn
ed suddenly from the table. He could not
endure to witness her defeat !
Miss Leigh suspended her movement, but
she was 100 much excited to see clearly, and
after u momentary pause, she made the flital
move. The next instant she saw her error —
it was too much —and at the moment when
Mr. Ciiauncey resumed his post, with a flam-
; :ig cheek and flashing eyes, she swept her
arm across the table, exclaiming—
*• 1 vviii never play anotiier r game of chess
whiic 1 live!”
Miss Eustace looked up with an expression
of anxiety on her features; Mr. Atkins with
re.e of undisguised displeasure; while t!.c
< omitciianee of Mr. Ciiauncey spoke amaze
ment and consternation. Miss Leigh instant •
lv !pft the table, and walked toward too iire,
followed by Miss Eustace.
“ Who is the victor to-night, Abby ?” in
quired Mrs. Atkins, raising jaer eyes from her
ook.
“ Neither,” said Miss Eustace, in a very soft
.nd low tone; “we did not finish the game.”
“ You kow better, Miss Eustace!” said Miss
Leigh; “You know you were yourself victo
rious, and I will never play another game of
chess while I live!” llcr voice though but
•lightly raised, had the tone of passionate ex
citement ; and her words wore scarcely ut
tered, ere she burs*, into a paroxism of tears.
Miss Eustace again looked up with an expres
sion of distress —stood suspended a moment
as if in doubt what to do, and then silently left
the room.
“ Are you petrified V* said Mr. Atkins, as
ho turned round, and observed Mr. Ciiauncey,
'van ling immovable beside the chess-tablc, iiis
t yes riveted upon it.
The question of Mr. Atkins roused him,
and drawing out his watch, he said, while his
voice betrayed much emotion—
“lt is later than I thought —I must bid you
good night.”
“O, not yet, Horace,” said Mr. Atkins.
That unlucky game of chess has engrossed
the whole evening. Come, sit down. Susan
will throw aside lier book—‘-Augusta will get
over her defeat—and we will have some ration
id conversation.”
“You will excuse me this evening,” said
Mr. Ciiauncey, and uttering a hasty “good
right,” he left the room.
tie w is scarcely conscious of anything an
t: 1 he lb ind himself in ins own chamber at his
boarding-house. Stirring the oecaying em
bers that lay on the hearth to make them burn
more brightly, he snatched the lately written
letter from his pocket, and laid it upon them.
He watched it as it consumed, until the last
particle was reduced to ashes, and then, draw
ing a long breath, he uttered an emphatic—
“ Thank heaven!”
An hour afterwards he rang bell for a
servant, gave some directions, and at five the
next morning, while the stars were yet bright
in the heavens, he took a seat in the mail coach,
dial whirled him rapidly away from the scene
of liis danger.
“ Wh" l has become of Mr. Chauncey ?” in
quired Mrs. Atkins, the second evening after
the decisive game of chess had been pluved ;
“ lie is staying from us much longer than
usual, I think.”
Miss Leigh looked up with a face of anx
ious inquiry, as Mr. Atkins replied :
“ Indeed I don’t know what has become of
him. I have not had a sight of him since
Tuesday evening. Perhaps,” lie added, laugh
ing, “ perhaps he died of the fright you tiiat
night gave him, Augusta!”
Coloring the deepest crimson, while the tears
fore c l themselves to her eyes, Miss Leigh re
plied :
At least my hasty temper will frighten all
your friends from your house, Mr. Atkins,
should its effects not prove any more fatal. O,
could my friends know how much my ungov
ernable passions' cost me, they would pity as
much as they blame me !”
“O, do not talk of it, dear Augusta,” said
Miss Eustace, taking her hand. “ Forget it
idl, as we tlo—or remember it only to strive
sifter more self-command for the future. You
remember how much we admired the senti
ment we read yesterday—
-1 Qui sait se posseder, peut commandcr'au monde.’ ”
“O, yes—but all iny efforts cat self-posses
sion are useless,” said Miss Leigh, almost sob
bing; “lean never remember till it is too
late; and then mortification and self-upbraid
ing are my just reward. I would give the
world, Abby,” she added, as she parted the
hair from her friend’s placid brow —“ I would
give the world, had I your equanimity of tem
per!”
“ Well, let us talk no more of it,” said Mr.
Atkins. “To-morrow I will look after the
truant, and learn the cause of liis absence.”
He had scarcely done speaking, when a
servant brought in the letters and papers which
had just arrived by the mail. Looking them
over, Mr. Atkins caught up one, exclaiming—
“ This is curious!—this must be Horace’s
hand-writing, and the post-murk is Boston!”
“ Pray open it,” cried Mrs. Atkins —■“ what
docs he say ?”
“ Why, he says,” answered Mr. Atkins, af
ter rapidly running the letter over —“ be says
that he writes to bid us a “ good-bye,” that lie
could not come to utter in his own person.”
“Good-bye!” cried Mrs. Atkins —“pray
when did he leav* town ?”
“ At five the next morning after lie left us,”
said 37r. Atkins.
“ And how long is lie to be absent ?” Mrs.
Atkins inquired.
“ Uncertain,” answered her husband. “ The
length of las absence will depend on circum
stances. Perhaps we shall not see him again
these three months.”
“This is very singular!” remarked Mrs.
Atkins. “ Does lie say what called him away
in such haste, to be gone for so long a peri
od ?”
“Not a word. The letter seems to have
been written in great haste. I have never
seen such a scroll come from beneath Hor
ace’s hand, lie must have been in great
baste,”
Mr. Atkins then proceeded to open other
letters, and nothing further was said of Mr.
Ciiauncey, or his abrupt departure, bet a
glance at the faces of the trio of ladies would
have proved that the subject was not dismiss
ed from their thoughts. Mrs. Atkins, with]
half-closed eyes, sat looking at the fire, with j
an air of abstraction which showed that site
was endeavoring to unravel the enigma. A1 iss
Leigh’s features wore an expression of blank
disappointment; and after an unsuccessful at
tempt to conceal or control her feelings, she
retired to her chamber. The heightened col
or in Miss Eustace’s cheek was the only thing
about her face that bespoke emotion • but an
eye, fixed intently on the frill that fell over her
bosom, would have seen with what force and
rapidity her heart was beating.
“ Gone!” said Miss Leigh, as she closed the
door of her chamber ; “ Gone for three months!
From mu —forever! Tne die is cast!” She
wept in the bitterness of disnppoijiment and
mortification. Slh* had for many days lieen
hourly expecting the odes of his hand —the
hand she most strongly wished to possess.
She had felt coufi lent of his attachment —she
had told her cousin of her expectations. She
had read his affection, his admiration, in his
eyes, in tire tone of Ills voice. Had she been
deceived ! Had lie tried to deceive her ! O.
no—Horace Chauncev was above deceit. llt
had loved her ! —but like a fool—or rather, l.ke
a furv, she had forced him from her! It must
have been so—that game of chess had .sealed
i;or fate! Such was the. train of thought that
accompanied her tumultuous and compunctious
feelings. Her peace, her happiness, her self
respect were gone ; and the most b.ttor drop
in her cup of sorrow, was the full conscious
ness that she had brought on her own misery
—that she deserved her wretchedness !
From this period, all enjoyment of her visit
to Mrs. Atkins was at an end. She dragged
out a week or two, every solitary moment of
which was spent in bitter self-upbraiding, and
then took an abrupt departure for home. Miss
Eustace would have accompanied her, but to
this M rs. Atkins would not listen fora moment.
“No, no, Abby,” said she ; “it must not be !
I cannot part with you both at once ; and one
day must not be taken from the time that your
! mother allotted for your visit, unless by provi
| dential appointment.”
“Whom suppose you I saw alighting from
the stage-coach just now?” said Mr. Atkins
with much animation, as he came into tea one
evening, about a fortnight after Miss Leigh’s
departure.
“ Horace Ciiauncev!” said Mrs. Atkins.
“ Horace Ciuiuncev !” repeated Mr. Atkins,
“ llow came you to think of him ?”
“ Because there is no one likely to arrive
here, whom I should be so glad to see,” Mrs.
Atkins replied.
“Well, you arecorrect in your conjecture,”
said Mr. Atkins. “It was Horace, and he
has promised to look in upon us for a few min
utes in the course of the evening. But you
need not look so much moved, Abbv; for I
dare say nothing will happen to drive him away
to-night.”
“ There is nothing pleasant in the recollec
tion of the last time I saw him,” said Miss
Eustace. She blushed as she was speaking,
at the disingeniousness which led her to permit
Mr. Atkins to ascribe her emotion to a wrong
cause. She felt as if
“L’art le plus innocent, tient de la perfidic.”
But it was not art —it was nature. The love
in a woman’s heart likes not to lie looked up
on, at least not until it may with propriety be
expresssed. It is a littlo treasure which she
feels to he all her own—a treasure she has a
right to conceal from all eyes. Timidity, deli
! cacy, natural female reserve, arc the causes of
this concealment, rather than want of ingen
iousness. In the most perfect solitude she
would blush to clothe in sound the words *' I
love,” though she might constantly he conscious
of the fact—constantly have her eye fixed on
the image of the beloved object engraven on
her heart. The woman who can, to a third
! person, speak freely of her love, loves not as
j woman is capable of loving!
. As expected, 3/r. Ciiauncey came in before
tlie evening was far advanced, and though on
his first appearance, his manner was not quite
as calm and collected as usual, his embarrass
ment soon wore away, and his visit, instead of
being one of a few minutes, was lengthened to
a couple of horn’s.
“ You need no new invitation to favor us
with frequent visits, Mr. Chauncey,” said Mrs.
Atkins, as he was taking leave ; “ those you
formerly received were for life.” .
Notwithstanding the kindness and delicacy
of this remark, Mr. Chauncey for awhile was
less frequently to be seen at his friend’s than
formerly. lie was not a pining but
he had received a shock from which he could
not at once recover. His was not a heart
that could long continue to love, after the be
loved object had ceased to command his re
spect. To marry 3/iss Leigh, to look to her
to make his home the abode of peace, serenity
and joy, was impossible ; and after this full
conviction of bis judgment, to spend his time
in sighing for her loss would be puerile. Yet
apart from every selfish consideration, he did
mourn, that a woman possessing such quali
ties as she possessed, and who might be all that
the heart or the judgment could require, should
be spoiled by the indulgence of one baneful
passion.
Even at tlie time when be yielded himself
most completely to Miss Leigh’s attractions,
the contrast between her temper and that of
Mis.s Eustace would force itself upon him. At
the moment of the destruction of the pyramid,
the leather screen came fully before bis mem
ory ; and the different expressions of the two
young ladies’ faces, when Mr. Atkins ventured
to propose some improvement in the mode of
wearing their riding-caps, were vividly paint
ed to his imagination. He strove, however,
to persuade himself, that it was unreasonable
to expect in one person a combination of all
the excellent and lovely qualities that are divi
ded among tlie sex ; and lie endeavored to
believe, that that candor which was so ready
to acknowledge a fault, was even more desira
ble than uniform sweetness of temper. Butt
the veil had been rudely torn from bis eyes;
his sophistry had all been overthrown—and j
after one struggle, he was him-eif again—re
stored to the full conviction, that one great de
lect will spoil a character.
It was not long, however before Mr. Chaun
cey’s visits at his friend’s house were as fre
quent as ever, though the character of his en
joyment was changed. He was no longer
engrossed !>v one exciting object, and there
was anew quietness breathing about Ills
friend’s fire-side., that rendered their rich nor
•al and intellectual pleasures truly delightful.
Formerly his visits had had all the excitement
of pleasure; on returning home he had needed
repose; now they had the soothing e fleet o :
happiness, and if he went weary, he returned
home re (Vos lied.
During several of his earlier visits, Miss
Eustace was as silent as she had formerly '
!>eeii ; but. gradually her friends were draw
ing her out by addressing themselves to her.
or asking her opinion; and Mr. Chauncey
himself was becoming interested in eliciting
her remarks. She did not awaken his admi
ration, like Miss Leigh ; but he soon became
ensible, that if what she said was less shining,
it was generally better digested ; and if she
had less wit herself, she more heartily enjoyed
the wit of others. If he did not leave her so
ciety dazzled by her brilliancy, he found that
what she said called forth thought and reflec
tion: and if her observations had less force
and fire than her friend’s, they would better
bear examination. Her lustre was mild, not
overpowering; and her influence upon the
heart and mind, like the dews of a summer’s
evening descending on the flowers—noiseless,
gentle, insensible —but invigorating and re
freshing.
That dreamy recollection, too—that strange
association of certain expressions of her coun
tenance with some bygone pleasure, which he
iiad experienced on their first acquaintance,
but which had been lost sight of while he was
engrossed by Miss Leigh, was returning with
increased force upon him, and awakened a pe
culiar interest. It was something undefina
ble, untangible; but still something that gave
a throb to the heart whenever it crossed him.
Yet so quiet was Miss Eustace’s influence;
so different the feelings she awakened from
those excited by Miss Leigh, that his heart was
a captive while he yet suspected not his loss of
freedom.
One evening on entering his friend’s parlor,
he found Miss Eustace alone, Mr. and Mrs.
Atkins having gone out for an hour. She
was standing at a window, partially screened
from view by the heavy folds of the window
curtain. She took no notice of his entrance,
supposing it one of the family who came in ;
but he immediately joined her remarking—
“ You seem lost in thought, Miss Eustace.
Will you permit me to participate in your re
flections?”
“ I was looking forth on the beauties of the
evening,” said Miss Eustace.
It was a glorious night. The moon, clear
as a pearl, was riding high in the heavens, and
looking down on the earth, which seemed hush
ed to perfect peace—and every star that could
make itself visible in the presence of the queen
of night, was sparkling like a diamond.
“ It is indeed a night to awaken admiration,
and inspire poetry,” said Mr. Chauncey. “ Has
not the music visited you ?”
“ I believe not,” said Miss Eustace. “ The
influence of such a night on my heart is like
that of music ; I think it is feeling, not thought,
that it inspires. O, could one communicate
feelings without the intervention of words—
could they throw them on paper without the
mechanical drudgery of expressing them, what
a volume would there be to read !” She rais
ed her face towards him while speaking, beam
ing with the inspiration of the soul. 9
“ Who is it! what is it! that you are per
petually bringing athwart my imagination—
my memory ?” said Mr. Chauncey, abruptly.
“ I seem to have had a pre-existence, in which
you were known to me 1”
Miss Eustace made no reply. The sud
denness of the question made her heart beat
tumultuously —painfully; and the intensity of
her feeling produced a sensation of faintness ;
but she supported herself against the window
frame, and her agitation M as unnoticed.
“ I have it—that must be it!” exclaimed Mr.
Ciiauncey, after a moment’s abstraction—
“ Gen. Gardner! —Years ago, when quite a
boy, I spent a week at his house. He had a
lovely little daughter— her name, too was Ab
by—l have neither seen nor heard from her
since; but she strongly resembled you ! The
same lovely expression animated her features !
Am 1 not right ?”
Scarcely able to command voice enough to
speak, Miss Eustace replied—“l believe Gen.
Gardner never bad a daughter.”
“O, you must be mistaken!” said Mr.
Ciiauncey. “It has all come as fiesli to my
memory as the events of yesterday. Mv fa
ther went a long journey, took me with him as
far as the General’s, and left me until his re
turn. I was with his lovely little daughter,
daily, for a week ; and remember asking her
before I came away, if she would not be my
wile when she became a woman !”
“ Most true !” thought Mm Eustace, trem
bling from head to foot, “and you followed
the question by a kiss.”
“ You are acquainted with the General’s
family,” continued 37r. Chauncey, “and yet
you say he never had a daughter ! But you
must be mistaken ! 1!e certainly had one then,
if lie lias one no longer !”
“ 1 cannot be mistaken sir,” said 3/iss Eus
tace, in tones that were scarcely audible, “as
I have passed n udi ol’ my time there from in
fancy.”
“Then it was yourself,” cried 3/r. Chaun
cev, “ your own self that I saw there ! Ain 1
not right! Do you not remember it?”
“ 1 do,” 3/iss Eustace had just voice enough
to utter.
“ And did you remember me when we first
methcie?’’ inquired 3/r. Ciiauncey, with ea
geincss.
“ I did,” said 3/iss Eustace.
“ And why,” he cried, “ why did you never
-peak of our former acquaintance? Win
could you not kindly recall rnv earlier enjoy
ment of vour society ?”
M:>s Eustace could make no answer. She
‘•-•It as if about to betray her heart’s most hid
den secret; as if Mr. Chauncey would read
her whole soul, should she attempt to uttei
another syllable. Her trembling limbs#’ could
no longer support her, and with an unsteady
motion she crossed the room, and seated her
self on the sofa.
The attachment of Miss Eustace to Mr.
Chauncey was rather an mslinrt than a •pas
sion. She was but eight years old when she
met him at Gen. Gardner’s, and she had never
seen him since, until they met at Mr. Atkins’;
yet the little attentions he then paid her, which
were the very first she had received from one
of the other sex. and which had a peculiar deli
cacy for the attentions of a youth of sixteen,
made an indelible impression on her feelings.
The strange question he asked her was ever
awake in her heart—the kiss he imprinted ever
warm on her cheek ! She would have felt it
profanation to have had it displaced by one
from tiny other lips. But though she had nev
er since seen, she had very frequently heard of
him; and the sound of his name, a name she
herself never uttered, was ever music to her
ear ; and for the ten long years during which
they had been separated, his image had filled
her whole soul. For Abbv Eustace to have
loved another would have been inimpossible !
Her love for Horace Chauncey was a part of
her very being!
Mr. Chauncey did not instantly follow Miss
Eustace to the sofa. He wished to look at
his heart—to still its emotions ere lie went
further. But one look showed him that he
loved her wholly, entirely, undividedly; the
sight of her agitation encouraged his hope—
and advancing to the hack of the sofa, and lean
ingover it, he said, in the softest tone —
“ Now that you are a woman, may I repeat
the request of my boyhood ?—Will you be my
wife ?”
Miss Eustace spoke not a word, but her eyes
met those of her lover ; —language on cither
side was unnecessary—both felt that tlicv lov
ed and were beloved—that they were one for
ever !
Something more than a year afler this event
ful moment, Mr. and Mrs. Chauncey were
spending a social evening with their friends,
in the same pleasant parlor in which their
hearts had first lveen opened to each other.
In the course of conversation, Mrs. Atkins
made known the fact, that, her cousin Miss
Leigh, was on the verge of matrimony.
“ 1 pity her husband,” said Mr. Chauncey.
“ Pitv him!” exclaimed Mr. Atkins ; “for
what ? I dare say he considers himself one of
the most fortunate fellows alive!”
“ Undoubtedly he does,” said Mr, Cb*un
cey; “ but it will be a miracle if he ever cn.
joys domestic happiness.”
“ Why ?” demanded Mrs. Atkins. “ Sure
ly Augusta lias many valuable and attractive
qualities.”
“I grant it,” said 3/r. Chauncey, “and ac
knowledge that I once felt their ’force. But
should a woman combine in her own charac
ter all the valuable qualities in the world, she
could not secure happiness to her husband
where they allied to a temper like hers.” '
“ Is not that going too far, Horace ?” asked
Mr. Atkins—“ Is it not laying too much stress
on temper ?”
“ I think not,” answered 3/r. Chauncey.
“ Early in life my mother often spoke to me
of the importance of good temper. Her re.
marks, which made a deep impression, led me
to careful observation—and lam convinced
that could we accurately learn the detailed hisl
tory of any one, from the cradle of his infancy"
to the grave in which he was laid at threescore
years and ten, we should find that temper, his
own, or that of others, had occasioned three
fourths of the unhappiness lie had endured.
Neither poverty nor toil, pain nor sickness'
disappointment nor the loss of friends,—neil
tlier, nor all of these together, have caused so
many hours of bitterness in this sorrowing
world, as ill-temper. It is the scorpion atnoncr
the passions—it stings the deepest, the most
envenomed wounds that are inflicted on human
happiness!”
“ I rather think you are right, Horace,” said
3/r. Atkins, after sitting for a lew minutes in
silent abstraction—“ I rather think you are
right; and if so,” he playfully added, “ I real,
ly sympathize with you an account of Abbv’s
unhappy temper!”
“A bin’s unhappy temper!” repeated 3/r.
Chauncey. while his eyes beamed v'ith unuttcr.
able complacency and love as they rested upon
her. “ Look at her, Charles. Picture to
yourself that face inflamed and distorted bv
passion ! Imagine your own wife so disfigur.
i'd ! Is not the picture horrible? Whoever
imagined a woman as she should be, without
investing her with meekness, gentleness, pa.
fience, forbearance, as tlie genuine character,
isties of her sex ? When destitute of these, she
lenies her nature—counteracts the very de.
-ign of her creation !”
“ But vow will grant,” said 3/r. Atkins,
••that some women are born with much strong, j
cr passions than others: will you make no al
low. inre for these ?”
“ Not the least,” said 3/r. Chauncey. “I
have no belief in ungovernable passions. I
would as soon excuse a thief for his stealing, or
i drunkard for his intemperance, as a sensible
woman for indulging a bod temper, on tie
-core of natural infirmity. At the point of
danger, a. double guard must be placed. Eve
ry woman owes this, not only to herself, but
•:o her friends. She was made to lighten cure;
to soothe corroded feelings; to console tie
afflicted ; to sympathize with tlie sufi’erirg;
and, by her gentle influence, to allay the stormy
and conflicting elements that agitate the mom
mgged nature of man ! Instead of this, shall
she permit her own angry passions to le the
whirlwind that shall raise the stoim? The wo.
man who does this, should be disowned of her
sex, like those who abandon themselves to any
other vicious inclination. An ill-tempered
man is a tyrantbut an ill-tempered woman
is a monster *”
PUNISHMENT FOR BLASPHEMY IN THE 10TH
CENTURY.
An extraordinary and humiliating spectacle
was witnessed by hundreds in the city of But
ton on the 7th of April, 16718. Abr.er Knee
land appeared bcfoic the Supreme Court of
Massachusetts on Saturday morning, to ie
ecive sentence upon the conviction of the “in
famous crime” of publishing his peculiar beta
on matters of religion !
This remarkable persecution of an unfortu
nate individual for opinion’s sake, which
been persisted in for lour years, will stamp
another indelliblc page of shame on Massa
chusetts. It will loan ai.otl cr chapter to h
placed beside those that relate to the dark I
workings of superstition, religious bigotryl
intolerance, when, under sanction of law, tlo I
ministers of justice hung four Quakers in
and nineteen witches in ICP2.
In Massachusetts they punish a man foriV-l
nying God, though he denies that he ever^l
nied him. The Court and Attorney
insist they know Knee-lard’s religious creeil
better than he does himself. They will co l
take his word for it, that lie does bel'cve » , I
God, for while they are about to imprison I'#!
for denying the existence of a God, l:c op : r l
proclaims before them and th.c world, that h|
docs believe in a God, nn-j charges them '>l
blaspheming his God The sentence th I
construe into a dcr.jal of God, he insists * n |
not deny God, v n d this point of consiew* j
to be decidqy by tl-.e critical construct^l
the court, not by the p el : c f an( i intent of «*■
criminal!
The court, which is composed of os Sl j
blc, learned, and excellent men as exist - J
where, evidently enter into this business *'■
extreme reluctance. They are unqucsWJ
bly, as sincere in their belief that it is «
duty to punish Kneeland for publishing ■
opinions, as he is in maintaining these H
ions, and it is as much an anomaly in t‘ iC J
man understanding, that men so crlig' llf J
and learned and meritorious as arc the J u
of the Supreme Court, can punish a nrtO 'H
proeJaiming his religious belief or dist»lK , ||