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poised Ids harpoon with both hands, keenly
eyed the British Captain—shouted in a tre
mendous voice—“ Now for it,” and drew back
his arm as in the act of throwing the fatal
iron!
The Englishman was a brave man—which
is not always the case with bullies—and he
had often marched without flinching, up in the
mouth of a camion. And if he had been in
single combat with an adversary armed with
a sword or a pistol, or even a dagger or a
Queen’s arm, he would have bore himself
manfully. Indeed, he had tilready acquired
an unenviable notoriety as a duelist, and had
killed bis man. But the harpoon was a wea
pon with which' he was altogether unoequain,
rod—and the loud and exulting tone of the
Yankee Captain’s voice soundeJ like a sum
mons to his grave. And when he saw the
stalwart Yankee raise the polished iron—and
pause for an instant as if concentrating all his
strength to give the fatal blow, a panic terror
seized him—his limbs trembled—his features
were of ghastly pallor, and the cold sweat
stood in large drops on his forehead. lie had
not strength to raise his weapon—and when
his grim opponent shouted, ‘Now for it, and
shook his deadly spear, the British officer
forgetting his vows of chivalry—his reputa
tion as an officer, and his honor as a duelist,
threw his harpoon on the ground, fairly turn
ed his back to his enemy, and lied like a frigh
tened courser from the field amid the jeers and
jibes, and the hurrahs of the multitude assem
bled by this time on the spot.
Captain Bigbee’s duelling days were over.
No man would fight with him. after his adven
ture wth the Yankee. He who overwhelmed
with insult and ridicule —and soon found it
advisable to change into another regiment.
Bs.it his story got there before him —and he
was soon sent to “Coventry” as a disgraced
man. He was compelled, although with great
reluctance, to quit the service—and it may
with great truth be said, that he never forgot
the lesson he had received from the veteran
whaler, so long as his name was Bigbee.
THE SACRIFICE— a tai.s of morocco.
The following story, illustrative of the reso
lotion of a Jewish maiden, we cut from the
Detroit Morning Post, to which paper it is con
tributed by a correspondent, who professes to
have been a resident in Morocco at the time
of its occurrence.
The Jews of the Empire of Morocco are
admitted, on all hands, to be among the most
degraded portions of the human family. Po
litically slaves, as the Jews are, in all Mahome
dan countries—their condition here is the more
abject, that their tyrants are the most ignorant
and fanatical of the barbarians. Men are
made to be their own masters. The great
concerns of the active world are intended to
be carried on by men ; and among bodies who
have no agency in them, human nature is not
developed. The human being is not complete.
He does not fulfil his capabilities. A man is
intended by nature to be, not only the lord of
his own household, but a part of the govern
ing power of society. Take from a man his
country —take from him aH concern in the
conduct of public affairs—make him the abso
lute slave to the will of another, and subject to
insult and oppression whenever he goes abroad,
and you strip himof all his virtues. The dig
nity of human nature is lost. Hence politi
cal liberty is the parent of all social blessings,
and patriotism is the mother of all the manly
virtues.
The nature of women, on the contrary, may
be perfectly developed within the domestic cir
cle alone. Her character is not incomplete
because she has no voice in public affairs. In
times of tranquility and enjoyment, the duties
of private life and the various excellencies
which are called into play for dispensing hap
piness within the social circle, abroad, afford
ample scope for every amiable and elegant ac
complishment. When the frown of fortune
is upon us—the convulsions and reverses that
attend tha private history of every family;
poverty, sickness, and mger and difficulty, give
opportunity to those attributes of fortitude, en
ergy, tenderness, and moral heroism, which
elevate the character of woman to that of a
ministering angel. Enough is left to her,
therefore, even where political liberty is un
known, for the display of private excellencies.
Her character will not have that high and in
tellectual tone which distinguishes a highly lib
eral state of society, (and especially the En
glish and American women,) but it may pos
sess all goodness and gentleness. We find,
accordingly, admirable examples of female
virtue and heroism—materials for romance,
where all nobleness and greatness is extinguish
ed among men under the. barbarism of despot
ic governments. How beautifully lias Scott
illustrated this in that inimitable and unique
dramatic portraituie of Rebecca. Amongthe
Jewesses of Barbary, equal characters are per
haps not to be found, but similar fortune is not
uncommon.
A young Jewish girl, a few years ago; suf.
sered for her faith, and atoned for a tempora
ry error, with a fortitude and resolution, which
has even in Morocco made her story memora
ble. She was a maiden of no ordinary beau
ty and gentleness, and found herself so perse
cuted within her own family, that existence was
a burthen. At any time, the lives of the Jews
are wretched enough, but hers was rendered in
tolerable by the blows and ill-treatment of a
vixen mother, who, among other cruelties,
wished to compell her into .marriage with a
worthless fellow against her choice. It would
be tedious to go through the detail of her
misery. Her home was a place of torment,
and sue had no otlter refuge—for a maiden is
never safe from insult or violence, beyond the
protection of her owu house and family. Aml
their domestic despotism is such that no friend
or relation would afford her un asylum.
Under tliese circumstances, one evening,
wl*en she had fled from blows and injury with
in doers, end sat herself down outside tlio door
—in tlie dc pers.tiun of lier heart, site formed
tire sudden resolution of escaping from these
torments by turning Mnomt. Tins is not un
common among lire Jewesos. although I have
known no instance of a Jew becoming a Mu»-
•itlmati. lun not aware of nny absolute im
pediment in thn Moorish religion : but tic
. Moors held die Jews in *m:h sovereign can
•oo»|<t, ecarcety applying m llwm tlie epillwt
*r« diet it is doubtful whet tier ilu-v would I#
received. Besides, the Jews, amidst all their
degradation and timidity, are tenacious of their
religion, to a miracle. In becoming renegade,
a Jewess is, of coupe, exempted from the do
minion of her family, is placed within the im
mediate protection of the Moors, ifc admitted to
the privileges of the rest of the women. She is
taken care of and provided with a husband.
The young girl we speak of, went with
this object, up to the Castle, and sat down at
the door of Kaid Mohamed Ben-Abou,one of
the principal military chiefs of the empire.
Kaid Abou is one of the most gentlemany, as
well as the most enlightened, of the Moors.
He endeavored to dissuade her from*her pur
pose, to induce her to return home, and even
with gentle roughness repelled her, but in vain.
She was conveyed to the bashaw, but still ad
hered to her resolution —which the Moors have,
however, a very amiable, and a very reason
able custom in such cases in giving the prose
lyte three days for reflection —thus affording,
time for the evaporation of passion, drunken,
ness, or excitement. If, after that period, the
fatal words are pronounced, and the ceremony
of apostacy is past, the p negade can at no
future time return to his religion, or ever at
tempt to leave the country, without the assur
ance of certain death, if detected. During the
tlnce days of probation, the poor girl’s excite
ment still continued sufficiently violent to sus
tain her resolution in spite of the remonstran
ces of her tribe. She became a Mooress, and
was removed from their power. But alas !
Time and thought cooled the fever of passion :
the desolation of her new world weighed upon
her spirit: remorse and superstitious terror
thronged upon her heart: the Rabbis and big
otted of her sect found means to convey to her
reproach and contempt of her tribe, and to
im tate into action that far more intolerable
self-contempt, which clings to a violated con
science. The dreary world offered no hope
to her, and she determined to atone for her er- i
ror by her death—to die in the religion which
she had insulted. She accordingly presented
herself.to the authorities, and professed her re
cantation. The penalty was well known, but
as the case was singular, the bashaw referred
it to the Emperor, and awaited his pleasure.
Meanwhile the girl was confined in prison.—
I The soldiers who arrived from the Emperor
] had orders to conduct her to his presence.-
She set out on her journey to Morocco, with
! the composure of despair, She knew it was
| the journey to her grave. During its contin
uance (and it was long and fatiguing) she nev
er lost her command. She had been guilty of
one fatal weakness : it was to be her last.
When conducted to the judgment seat, she
| looked around upon the thousands of fanatical
land savage soldiery without wavering, and
i bowed herself before the Emperor, with fheek
'ness undismayed.
Tiie present Emperor (or Sultan as he is
| called) is by no means a cruel or blood-thirsty
j man. On the contrary, in his private habits
[lie is represented as affable and good natuied,
I and in his public or sovereign character, almost
[ uniformly temperate and wise. But, strange
as it rnay seem, the Emperor is os much a
| slave as the meanest of his subjects, to those
| fanatical observations and ancient customs, up
on the tenacious and inviolable support of
which the very existence of the Moors, as a
people, depends. Even he could not, as in the
! present case, wrest an immemorial law of the
Empire without great risk.
“ Demand of her,” said the Sultan, “ if what
has been reported respecting her be true.”
She mildly answered in the affirmative.
“ Is she aware of the penulty, of immediate
death
“ Yes.”
“ But inform her tlmt it is not yet too late.
She is a fool to throw away her life in order
to be reckoned among the dogs of the Empire,
who have deceived her. She shall be provi
ded for, and received among our own women.
Let her look around and choose for herself a
husband, among my chiefs.”
“ I desired merely to die in the religion of
my fathers.”
This was the last and only answer that could
be elicited. To spare her unnecessary pain,
as she was yet speaking, a soldier from behind,
at a private signal of the Emperor, struck the
blow which banished from her eyes the dream-,
like world around her She fell to the ground
a martyr and a corpse.
But what is most remarkable—over the
grave of the Jewish maiden, the Moors them
se/ees have erected a Saint-house, (as it is
termed) which is equally respected with those
of their own saints, scattered throughout the
Empire. There the criminal may take sanc
tuary—and thither the sick, the unfortunate,or
the traveller, starting on a perilous journey,
resort, to offer up their devotive supplications.
Many singular stories are current, of wonder,
ful cures effected, and remarkable interposi
tions of Providence, in favor of pilgrims to that
shrine.
.
DOUBT.
Doubt, when radient smiles are shining,
Bonbt, when Clasping hands are twining,
Doubt, when honied words are flowing.
Doubt, when blushes warm are glowing.
But never doubt that truth sincere
That glistens in a woman's tear.
Doubt, when mirthful tone invites thee,
Doubt, when gayest hopes delight thee,
Doubt, whate'er is fondest, fairest,
Doubt, whate'er is brightest, rarest.
But oh, beleive that truth can live,
| In hearts that suffer and forgive.
We know not by whom the additional stan
zas to “ John Anderson, mv Jo,” were writ,
ten, but the exquisite tone of unalterable affec
tion which pervades them, und the unconscious
ness of time’s progress which that purity of
love engenders, could never have been more
simply or more touchingly expressed :
John Anderson, my jo, John,
They any 'ti* /orly ywir
Bincc I ca'd you my jo, John,
Mince you ca‘d me your dear
I'm sure u canna tie, John,
Nor near me loan ago .
Ir'a hut ■ honeymoon al mats',
John Aiidcraou, my jo.
What Iraida ftiMer than a streak of light-
I mug? Answer— Slander,
TIIE SOUTHERN POST.
From the Kennebeck Journal.
“LET EVERY MAN MIND HIS OWN BUSINESS.”
This is a good maxim, but its application is
sometimes questionable. We have lately seen
it applied to the friends of temperance who
try to stop others from drinking rum. Let
every man drink who chosses, says one, —‘it is
nobody’s business but Ins own.
Well, thought we, as we laid down the pa
per, perhaps it must be so—we cannot force
people to be sober; so as the bell has rung for
nine, we’ll shut up the office, go home and go
to bed. On our way we heard a tremendous
racket in a low, dirty looking building ; and
amid the din, the shrill cry of murder was dis
tinctly heard. We rushed in and found a
great, ragged, brute of a fellow, with blood
shot eyes, mauling his wife and children with
an old ricketty chair. We wrenched his wea
pon from him and tumbled him into a corner,
from which he was too drunk to extricate him
self speedily. We asked him what he meant
by such conduct. “ What is that to you ?”
said he—“ Let every man mind his own busi.
ness.”
We cleared for home and went to bed.—
\bout two or three o’clock m the morning,
we were awakened by a rumpus in the street.
There was loud swearing and cries of “take
him off—he is stabbing me.” We ran out
and found two or three young men, all very
much intoxicated. They had been playing
billiards or some other game at a gambling
house till that late hour, and having been strip,
ped of their money by black-legs, and a good
deal fuddled withal, they were in a very savage
humor, and fell out and quarrelled by the way.
We ventured to say that the places where
they had been ought to be shut up, but one
of them indignantly replied, “Let every man
mind his own business.”
So we went to bed again.
Next morning we went to pay our taxes.
“ Higher than ever,” said we, “how’s this?”
“Oh,” said the treasurer, “ the town has
had so much to pay for paupers.” “ Well,
but what made so many paupers 7” “It was
rum, I suppose.” We asked an old citizen if
nothing could be done by striking at the root
of the matter. “ Perhaps there might,” said
he, “ but then people generally think it is best
to let every one mind his own business.”
While we were at dinner that day, a poor
•woman, pale, dirty and cadaverous, came to
the door. She had two children with her as
haggard as herself. She begged for cold vic
tuals, old clothes—any thing. She did not
tell her story, because she had been there fre
quently before, and told all to the good woman
of the house. We inquired about her case,
and was told it was pretty much like fifty
others within a circuit of a few miles. Her
husband was a poor drunken scamp, who
spent all the money he could get for rum,
while his wife and children were fed in part
from our kitchen. Going from dinner we met
the identical fellow in the street, and asked him
why he did not go to work. What do you
think he said I Why, “ Let every man mind
his own business.”
Having u Hole tu pay in the hunk 111 a few
days we hurried back to the office and began
to turn over the leaves of our big ledger, to
see who owed money which ought to be col
lected. There was Tom Nokes, owed $6,
marked G. T. (gone to Texas.) Had been
good, but took to drink, and ran away in debt.
Bill Swizzle owed 97 50—always loved a
drop, but was formerly considered a moderate
drinker; used to pay for his paper; since sold
his farm and went into trade—sold rum and
was his own largest customer in that line; fell
through—now good for nothing.
Ezekiel Swig owes S3 75—once quite re
spectable —had property —dead, and estate
insolvent —farm in the possession of the man
who sold him his rum.
Benjamin Burster, dead—balance against
himof @9 25, for paper and and advertising—
broke his nock by a fall from his horse.
Sam Cocktail died of delirium tremens; —
owes for three years—lost his property by
gambling and drinking—family very destitute.
Can’t ask them to pay any thing.
Well, thought we, perhaps it is right that eve
ry man should attend to his own business, and
let that of other people alone, but who is to
pay our note in bank? Have we not some
business in this matter ?
EXTRAORDINARY DISCOVERY,
The Chronicle de Paris, relates the follow,
ing extraordinary scene as having taken
place at the Court of Assizes. A youth of
about 19 years wasbro(%ht to trial for having
broken the window of a baker’s shop, and
stolen a two-pound loaf.
The President. —“ Why did you steal the
loaf?’"
Prisoner. —“ I was driven by hunger.”
“ Why did you not buy it ?”
“ Because I had no money.”
“ But you have a gold ring on your finger ;
why did you not sell it ?”
“lama foundling ; when I was taken from
the bank of a ditch, this ring was suspended
from my neck by a silken cord, and ( kept it
in the hope of thereby discovering at least who
were my parents ; I cannot dispose of it.”
The Procureur du Roi (King’s attorney)
made a violent speech against the prisoner,
who was found guilty, and sentenced to im-
I prisonment for five years. Immediately upon
I this, a woman, more worn down by poverty
than age, came forward and made the follow
ing declaration :
“Gentlemen of the jury: Twenty years
ago, a young woman was seduced by a young
man of the same town, who after deceiving,
abandoned her. Poor and distressed, she wa3
obliged to leave her child to the care of Provi.
dence. The child has since grown up, and
the woman and tlie seducer have grown older:
the child in poverty, the woman in misery,
and her seducer in prosjierity. Tliey are all
three now in court. The child is tlie unfortu.
nute prisoner whom you have just pronounced
guilty; the mother is myself; and t lie re sits
tlie fattier !” pointing to the Procureur du
Roi.
EITHER WAV WILL DO.
"Wilt have me Sarah l” said • voting man
u> a modeat girl. "So. Joko," Mid the girl,
“but v«u may have ./* if you will."
BIANCA—AN AUSTRIAN TALE.
The place of the Countess of Florenheim was throng
ed with lordly company. Every splendid saloon had
been throwp open ; but among the beaoteous forms
assembled there, the young Countess herself was the
most admired. It might be that every eye looked in
almost determined admiration upon one ao gentle, and
so distinguished by birth and fortune. But the young
and innocent Bianca was very lovely. The usual ex
pressions of her large hazel eyes was eloquent tender
ness, her features were beautiful, and every movement
of her tall and delicate form was by nature graceful;
tlftugh her dress was adorned by jewels of immense
value, its appearance was less magnificent than simple.
That day she had taken possession of her princely
wealth ; and, for the first time, she appeared as the
mistress ofher own palace; her manner was perfectly
dignified and easy, but during the whole evening, the
rich bloom of her cheek was brightened by a continual
blush.
The Empress remains some hours at the Florenheim
palace, delighted with the appearance and conduct of
the young and noble orphan. The parents of the
Countess had deserved and enjoyed the favor of the
sovereign”, and Maria Theresa loved to distinguish
their child.
Every guest had departed ; and the young Countess
stood alone in her spacious and magnificent saloons.
She pressed her hand for a moment over her eves, for
they ached with the glare of the tapers still blazing
around her. She looked at the beautiful flowers which
hung in fading garlands round the room and sighed.
With a true girlish fancy, she took down along droop
ing branch of roses from the tall candelabra beside her;
the blossoms were all faded—she sighed again ; her
heart had not been in the gaiety and splendor of the
evening, and now she hsd leisure to attend to the silent
thoughts ofher bosom. She thought of her betrothed
husband, and she could not help reproaching herself
for having shared in any way he festivities around her
whilst Ernest Alberti was exposed to the dangers of
war-
As the young Countess was retiring to rest, the ar
rival of a person, who earnestly requested to see her
that very night, was announced ; she hesitated at first,
but after a few moment’s consideration, she consented
to appear. She returned to the deserted saloon and
there waited till the man was introduced to her pre
sence. She recognised at onee the servant of the Count
Alberti, and dismissed her attendants. How often did
she tremble, how often did she turn pale witli horror,
during the short interview! Ernest has fought with his
general officer, against the positive commands of the
Emperor; the general had been mortally wounded,
and Alberti was disgraced; a high reward was upon
his life. He had, however, escaped, his servant knew
not whither.
Many months passed away, months of doubt and
sorrow to the hapless Bianca. The young deserter
was never heard of; and the festive magnificence
which had flashed for a moment in the palace of the
Countess, entirely disappeared. AH Vienna talked of
her engagement with Ernest, and many pronounced
the Engagement to be dissolved It was said, that the
Empress herself had forbidden the young Countess to
think of the disgraced Alberti. Bianca was certainly
commanded to appear at Court, and she did refuse.
Many of the young courties determined to pay more
than usual attention to the very beautiful and very
wealthy heiress. She appeared, but none presumed to
insult her sorrow with her addresses ; her real, artless
grief, invested her with a dignity which no one dared
to infringe upon. She did not attempt to conceal how
severely the blow had fallen upon her; but her grief,
though silen’, and seeming to claim no interest, was
quietly majestic. Calm and pale, she stood among tne
ladies of the court, an object of respect and admiration
even to the Empress herself.
A year pa*sed away. The general whom Albe'ti
had wounded was not dead but he had met with so
many relapses that his recovery was still pronounced
uncertain. Bianca continued a quiet mourner, but
now her alliance was sought by many of the noblest
houses of Austria ; gently, and firmly, every proposal
was declined. For the first time, the Empress inter
ested herself in the suit of the Prince, one of Bianca’s
enthusiastic admirers. The young Countess did not
repel the confidence which her sovereign sought; she
disclosed with affecting earnestness tbs feelings of her
heart, and the principles on which she acted; before
she quilted the Empress, she perceived that her feelings
were understood, she guessed tha, Ui. principles were
approved. .
The mother of the Count Alberti was living; and
still presided over the household of her son. The Coun
tess Bianca was now a constant visitor at the Alberti
palace; and a few days after the above mentioned in
terview with the Empress, the aged Countess and
Bianca were conversing almost cheerfully together;
they were elated with hope, tor the petitions which hsd
been presented in behalf of Ernest seemed to be suc
cessful. The Empress had herself written to the Coun
tess Alberti, the letler was in Bianca’s hand. Sud
denly a person entered the saloon ; it was the old and
faithful servant of Alberti; he told them new* that al
most overwhelmed them. The young Count bad re
turned ; he had been brought to Vienna with a gang
of desperate banditti; he was said to be the captain of
men who were outlaws, robbers, and murderers.
Alas! alas!” exclaimed the old Countess and she
gazed with a look of heart-broken sorrow on a magnifi
cent portrait of her late husband ; “ this is to be the
end of the house of Alberti. Your only son, my be
loved Conrad, the child of our hopes, will he prove a
shame to his father's name ? It is well you are not
here, it is enough that I survive to witness ourdisgrace.”
“ Ernest will never disgrace you,” cried Bianca ea
gerly. “We know him much better,” she added,
clasping the trembling hands of the Countess, with ten
der affection; “there is much to he explained in this
story, dear, rash Ernest,” she faltered, leaning her head
on the Countess’s shoulder, and burst into tears. * We
know him better; he may be wild and faulty, but he
never will disgrace any one.”
"He never will, you are right,” replied the Countess
“ I spoke hastily. I ought to hope, I ought to believe
better things of my beloved son. Daughter of my
love, I was very wrong to doubt him for a moment;
you judge him righdy. Bless you, bless you, my sweet
Bianca t"
Alberti had been indeed brought to Vienna among
the banditti of Istria : every proof was against him.
He was condemned to be broken on the wheel, and
there seemed no hope that the sentence might be miti
gated. Ernest himsell told an improbable story about
his not being connected with the banditti; but nobody
listened to it, and he mentioned it no more. Bianca
and his mother did believe him. The account was
perfectly true. „
The Countess Alberti, with the young end lovely
friend, used every exerion to prevent the execution ;
but the verdict appeared irrevocable. The day, the
| dreadful day of death was fixed, and they implored an
audience of the Empress; the aged mother, the be
trothed wife, lay at her feet in epeeehleas agony; they
entreated, they clung to her in the delirium of their
gnef. Their gentle eovereign wept with them, ahe en
deavored to conaolve him ; but although her whole
frame trembled, and her voice faltered with agnation
a# ahe replied to their entreaties, her answer left them
quite hopeless. They obtained, however, permission
to see the prisoner before the execution and even this
had been denied to every one.
An unforeseen circumstance saved the life of AlSerU.
The captain of tha banditti, who had nut twan taken
With his companions, heard that Ernest was condemn
ed 'o die. Ife had been once e man of honor htmeelf;
and he gave himaetf up to luauee, and proved clearly
that the Count had not joined his band, and had always
indignantly refused when asked to join it. The sen
tence was, therefore, changed, and the noble and gal
lant Count Ernest was condemned, in the prime of
manhood, to become a workman for life, in the quick
silver mines of Idria.
The first surprise, which made known to the aged
Counters her son’s safety, was joyful; but her grief
soon returned as she thought upon the dreadtul termi
nation which awaited all her hopes for him. But Bi
anca was young and ardent, and the worst that could
happen was a joy to her. She devoted her whole heart,
and every energy ofher mind, to a plan which she in
stantly resolved to execute ; which was, to accompany
herbetrothed and share his imprisonment. Not only
the mother of Count Alberti, but even the Empress her
self endeavored to dissuade the lovely Bianca from such
a rash resolution. Thev pictured to her her own title
and fortune—that the moment she married Alberti, her
estates and title would be forfeited to the crown, and
she be the simple wife of an Idrian miner; and that
she would be obliged to perform even the duties of a
menial servant to her husband.
“Countess Bianta of Florenhem," continued the
Empress, “can you dare to undertake such a sacrifice?
Are you aware that your mind may now be upheld by
an uncertain enthusiasm? Have you thought upon
the drear, dull calm of poverty, and decaying health ?
Do yon feel assured, that when the first tumultuous
feelings have worn themselves out, when there are
none around to wonder at your extraordinary devotion
to Alberti, when your name will bq almost forgotten,
indeed, by all but a few friends whom you will never
behold again, do you think that you will then rejoice
at the decision you have made ? When, perhaps, your
husband may be dying in the morning of age, with no
attendant but a weak, helpless wife, who may be then
too ill even to stand beside him ; then what will you
feelings be ?”
The Empress repeated her question, for the words
which preceded it had absorbed Bianca’9 thoughts.
She pictured to herself the young and vigorous Ernest
wastingaway, dying in her presence ; she forgot her
self, and all but his sufferings. Slowly she raised her
head as the Empress again addressed her. “ What
will my feelings be ? Ah ! I can scarcely imagine
what they will be. Sorrow, certainly sorrow, but only
for him, that must be the prevading feeling at such a
moment. Happiness,” her whole face brightened with
smiles as she spoke, “ real joy on the own account, to
know that I am with him then, to hope, to believe, that
I shall soon be with bim/oretter." Bianca continued
to speak, and it was evident that her mind had antici
pated and dwelt on the miseries that awaited the wife
of Alberti.
Maria Theresa listened to hear with profound atten
tion ; she asked once again, “ Do you determine to
follow Ernest Alberti to the mines of Idria as his wife,
and to resign your rank and possessions ?”
Bianca sunk on tier knee, she raised her clasped
hands, and exclaimed, “I am but too favored by God
and my sovereign, if I may follow him. I resign my
rank and property, with joy, with gratitude." '
Again,once again, the Empress fixed on Bianca an
earnest and searching look, and appeared t-> think
deeply. “I am satisfied—l am quite satisfied,” she
said at length, and the sternness of her look disappear
ed; “I cannot countenance, but I shall not oppose
your marriage.”
Bianca had been comparatively calm before, but now
she covered her face with her hands, and sobbed al
most hysterically. Maria Theresa would have raised
her, but Bianca sprang up from the ground, her face
beaming with delight, though the tears hung upon her
cheeks. “Oh ! forgive me,” she said eagerly, “ your
i.; s i...cot ~111 me. Do not mistake my tears
for sorrow, I am so happy that I must weep.”
Bianca went, and with her husband, to the mines.
The dismal hut of a workman in the mines of Idria,
was but a poor exchange for the magnificent palace ot
the Count Alberti, on the banks of the Danube, which
was now confiscated to the crown; though a small
estate was given to the venerable and respected Coun
tess during herlife. But Bianca smiled with a smile of
satisfied happiness, as, leaning on her husband's arm
she stopped belore the hut which was to be their future
home. •
The miner's hut became daily a more happy abode ;
the eyes of its inhabitants were soon accustomed to the
dim light, that had seemed so wrapt in darkness when
they first entered the mines, gradually dawned into dis
tinctness and light. Bianca began to look with real
pleasure on the walls and rude furniture of her too nar
row room. She had no time to spend in use'ess sor
row, for she was continually employed in the necessa
ry duties of her situation ; she performed with cheerful
alacrity the most menial offices, she repaired her hus
band’s clothes, and she was delighted if she could some
times take from an old shelf, one of the few books she
had brought with her. The days passed on rapidly ;
and as the young pair knelt down at ihe close of every
evening, their praises and thanksgivings were as fer
vent as their prayers. Ernest had not been surprised
at the high and virtuous enthusiasm which had enabled
Bianca to support, at first, all the severe trials they un
derwent without shrinking; but he was surprised to
find that in 'he calm, the dull hopeless calm, of undi
minished hardship her spirit never sank; her sweetness
of temper and unrepining gentleness rather increased.
Another trial was approaching. Bianca, the young
and tender Bianca, was about to become a mother;
and one evening, on returning to his work, Ernest
found his wife busily engaged with her needle. He
sat down beside her, and sighed ; but Bianca was sing
ing merrily, and she only left off singing to embrace her
husband with smiles, he thought the sweetest smiles he
had ever seen.
The wife of one of the miners, whom Bianca had vi
sited when lying ill of a dangerous disease, kindly of
fered to attend her during her confinement; and from
the arms of this woman Ernest received his first born
son ; the child, who, bom under different circumstan
ces, would have been welcomed with all the care and
splendor of noble rank. But he forgot this, in his joy
that Bianca was safe; and stole on tiptoe to the room
where she was lying. She had been listening for his
footstep, and as he approached, he saw in the gloom of
the chamber her white amis stretched towards him.
“ I have been thanking God in my thoughts.” said
Bianca, after her husband had bent down to kiss her,
"but lam so weak ! Dear Ernest kneel down beside
the bed, and offer up my blessings with your own."—
Surprising strength seemed to have been given »o this
delicate mother, by Him “who tempers the wind to
the shorn lamb;” and she recovered rapidly from her
illness.
Shortly after this an express arrived from Vienna in
quiring if Alberti or his wife were still alive. A few
hour* after, another person arrived in the same haste,
,nd on the same errand; they were, the one a near re
la lion of Bianca, the other Alberti's fellow soldier and
most intimate friend. Pardon had at langth been grant
ed to the young exile, at the petition of the general offi
cer, whom he had wounded ; and Alberti was recalled
by the Empreaa herself to the Court of Vienna.
The bearers of these happy tidings immediately de
fended into the mine*. As they approached Alberti’*
hut the light which glimmered through some apertures
in the (haltered door, induced them to look at its in
mates before they entered Though dressed in a dark,
ooarae garment, and waated away to an almost incre
dible slighmeae, still enough of her former loveliness |
remained to tell them, that the pallid female they be- 1
held wss the young Countess; and the heart admired
her more, as ahe sat leaning over her husband, and
holding up to hi* kisses her small infant, her dark hair
aare'eialv parted, and bound round her pale brow,
•etmmg to b*o but in her husband's lovt-ihan when
elegance had vied with diamonds; and in full health
and beauty, she had been the one gazed at and admi
red in the midst of the noblest aod fairest company of
Vienna. The door was still unopened, for Bianca was
singing to her husband ; she had chosen a aong which
her hearers had last listened to in her own splendid sa
loon, on the last night she had sung there; the soft
complaining notes of her voice had seemed out of place
i there, where all was careless mirth and festivity; but
its tone was suited to that dark s litude—it was like the
song of hope in the cave of despair.
There were many hearts that sorrowed over the de
parture of the young Alberti and his wife frem the
! mines of Idria. The miners, with whom they had liv- -
l ed so long, had learned to love them, at a time, when *
roo many a heart had almost forgotten to love and to-'
hope; had learned from their kind words, but more -
oil! much more from their beautiful example, to shake
off the dreadful bands of despair, and daily to seek,
and to find, a peace which passed all understanding.
Ernest and Bianca had taught them to feel how happy,,
how cheerful a thing religion is! Was it then surpri
sing that, at their departure, their poor companions
should crowd around them, and weep with mournful
gratitude, as Ernest distributed among them his work
ing tools, and the simple furnitute of his small hut?
Was it surprising, that Bianca and her husband, as
they sat on the green grass, with waving trees and a
cloudless sky above them, while the summer breeze
bore with it full tides of freshness and fragrance from
their magnificent gardens, and they beheld the pure
rose color of health begin to tingo the cheek of their
delicate child : was it surprising that they should turn
with feelings of affectionate sorrow to the dark and
dreary mines of Idria?
I must not forget to mention, that Ernest and his wifa
were publicly reinstated in all their titles and posses
sions. A short time after their return to Vienna, they
made their first appearance at Court for that purpose.
At the imperial command, all the princes and nobles
of Austria, gorgeously dressed, and blazing with gold
and jewels, were assembled. Through the midst of
these, guiding the steps of his feeble and venerable mo
ther, Alberti advanced to the throne. A deep blush
seemed fixed upon his manly features, and the hand
| that supported his infirm parent, trembled more than
the wasted fingers he tenderly clasped. The Empress
herself hung the order of the Golden Fleece round his
I neck, and gave into his hands the sword which he had
, before forfeited ; but as she did so, her tears fell upon
the golden scabbard ; the young soldier kissed them off
with quivering lips. But soon every eye was turned to
the wife of Alberti, who, with her young child sleeping
in her arms, and supported by the noble-minded Gen
eral, who had obtained her husband's pardon, next ap
proached. Bianca had nut forgotten that she was only
the wife of an Idrian miner, and no costly ornament
adorned her simple dress. Not a tinge of color had yet
returned to her cheeks of marble paleness, and a sha
dowy languor still remained about her hazel eyes ; but
her delicately-shaped lips had almost tegained their soft
crimson dye, and the dark-brown hair, confined by a
single ribbon, shone a9 brightly as the beautiful braid
ed tresses around her. She wore a loose dressof whits
silk, adorned only with a fresh cluster of roses (for since
she left the mines, she was more fond than ever of
flowers.) Every eye was fixed on her, and the Em
press turned coldly from the glittering forms beside her,
to the simple Bianca, Descending from the throne-
Maria Theresa hastened to raise her ere she should
kneel; and kissing her with the tend er affection of a
dt ar and intimate friend, she led the trembling Bianca
to the highest step of the throne. There she turned to
the whole assembly, and looking as a queen as she
spoke, said—
“ This is the person whom we should all respect as
the brightest ornament of our Court. This is the wife,
ladies of Austria, whom I, your monarch, hold up as
your example—whom I am proud to consider far our
superior in the duties of a wife. Shall wa not learn of
her, to turn away from the false pleasures of vanity
and splendor, and like her, to act up, modestly but
firmly, to that high religious principle, which proves
true nobility of soul. Count Alberti,” continued the
Empress, “every husband may envy your residence
in the mines of Idria. May God bless you both, and
make you as happy, with the rank and wealth to which
I now fully restore you, as you were in the hut of an
Idrian miner.”
CENTENARY OF METHODISM.
The present year, being the first centenary
of Methodism, is celebrated as such by the
followers of Wesley throughout the world. In
England more than a million dollars had been
contributed as a thank-offering at the last ac
counts, and a much largbr sutli is anticipated
during the year.
In the United States, the Methodist Episco
pal Church have resolved on a similar cele
bration, and in various parts of the country the
work has commenced. At the late New
York conference it was resolved that sub
scriptions be opened in all the churches,
and the first preparatory meeting for the city of
New York was held on Monday in the Greene
street and Forsyth street churches.
The Rev. Bishop Waugh presided, assisted
by twelve vice presidents. Dr. Palmer and
John B. Hall were appointed secretaries ; and
after very able and spirit-stirring addresses by
the Rev. Mr. Janes, Rev, Dr. Bond, of Balti
more, Rey- C. A. Davis, Rev. Dr. Bangs, and
others, the centenary contributions were soli
cited, and we learn that more than seven
thousand dollars were received in subscrip
tions and donations, in sums varying from a
thousand dollars to ten cents. This amount
is to be increased by similar met tings in all
the churc’tes.
The whole centenary fund is to bo divided
between the superannuated preachers and the
widows and orphans of deceased preachers,
the cause of education and Christian missions
at home and abroad. N. Y- Com- Adt,
EQUALITY.
I dream’d, that buried in my feilow clay,
Close by a common beggar’s side I lay
And, as so mean a neighbor shocked my pride,
Thus, like a corpse of consequence, I cried :
“ Scoundrel, begone! and henceforth touch me not.
More manners learn—and, at a distance, rot"
“ How, scoundrel!” in a haughtier tone cried he;
“ Proud lump of dirt, I scorn thy words and thee;
Here all are equal; now thy case is mine;
This is my rotting place and that is thine.”
“SWEET POESY.” . ,
The poets don’t all live in Wisconsin. A
correspondent has sent us a sublirqe pflusion
of which the first stanta runneth thus ;
Old Uncle Bam ! Old Unci* Bam!
Wliat an ass you are got to be am ;
For you’ve been *o long plundr’d and ride ed
it'* a w onder you an't long ago died'ed '
Young man, you had better get down. I* ®
dangerous to climb so very high.
The publication of tlie Ncw-York Tran*
cript ha* been discontinued.