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(Original
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
the death of calhoun.
by WILLIAM C. RICHARDS.
Wf.ll may Columbia’s sons and daughters
mourn,
And burden all their native air with sighs.
For Death hath summoned to his mystic
bourne —
One who was proudly honoured in their eyes;
A statesman wisely great and greatly wise;
Whose fame was like the light of some fair
star.
To which the breath of envy may not rise,
The luslre of its purity to mar—
In Heaven's translucent dome—serenely shin
ing far!
As some tall Apaluchian summit soars
In grandeur far above wtch kindred liill;
Upon whose towering crest the sun outpours
Such glories as our treble vision thrill:
So he, above his fellows, rose to till
A nation’s view with the clear, brilliant light
Os godlike Genius, and majestic Will,
Which wisely fashioned and controlled aright;
The elements wild and strange, that form an
Empire’s might.
If the enraptured eye that scans the peak,
Encrowned and dazzling with the noonday
glow,
Would shrink in fear, irresolute and weak,
To see it sniilleii with the lightning’s blow,
And all its grandeur to the plain brought low ;
How shall we tremble when the champion
falls,
Whom, as our leader, ’twas our pride to know!
Bewildering darkness every eye appals,
And on the faltering heart in vain, for courage
calls!
Our unavailing tears are poured like rain,
A nation’s heart is overwhelmed with grief:
We name the dead—and, naming, weep
again—
For Memory’s tears are pregnant with relief:
Yet tears will not recall the honoured chief,
Whose care was ever for his country’s good;
Whose name inscribed upon the fairest leaf
Os her great archives, fifty years hath stood;
And ever on the page with freshening glory
glowed.
His eye that Hashed with genius, now is dim ;
His lips, that dropped with eloquence, are
cold;
Tile grave hath left 11s nothing now of him—
That it could hide beneath its envious mould.
Yet, as the furnace but refines the gold.
Death hath refined the great soul of the dead,
And his pure memory never shall grow old
* -Jn hearts where virtue’s holy dews are shed,
Till frqm their sacred seat Thought, Love and
Truth are fled !
His name forevermore a household word,
From reverent lips alone shall sweetly sound,
E'en faction’smurmurs shall no more be iteard
With cold dispraise affection’s heart to wound,
Nor foetnan ever to his fame be found !
His country’s gratitude a quenchless flame—
Her limits only can his glory bound ;
Nor they confine it—for a world will claim
An heritage of wealth in his resplendent name!
But ’midst the universal dirge that swells
From fair Columbia’s ocean-girt domain,
One wail a sad and thrilling story tells,
Os special sorrow and peculiar pain :
Now like a surging flood it swells again,
From Carolina’s heart for her great son—
Bleeding for him she loved at every vein.
What wonder that she putteth sackcloth on!
He was her idol-chief—he was her Washington !
ifHir portrait dUnllmj.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
JOSEPH HENRY LUMPKIN.
I’he subject of this sketch was born
in Oglethorpe county, Georgia, on the
2Jid December, 1709, and is conse
quently now in his fifty-first year. He
“its the seventh son of his parents, John
and Lucy Lumpkin, and had two broth
els younger than himself, and one sis
ter. At the age of fifteen, he entered
the Sophomore class in Franklin Col
lege. at Athens, in Georgia, an institu
tion then struggling against manv diffi
eulties. In 1818, the exercises of the
College being entirely suspended on
account of the death of Dr. Finley, the
President of the University, he went to
Princeton, and there joined the. Junior
t lass, hit,lf advanced, and in due time
graduated, receiving the second honor
in his class, a distinction rarely attained
in that University by a student entering
so advanced a class. He was remarka
ble as a close student, and acquired
great proficiency in his studies, espe
cially in the ancient classics—a love for
which he retains to this day. Appreciat
ing the advantages of a generous rivalrv
among the students, shortly after his
I'cturu from Princeton, he organized the
Phi Kappa Society in Franklin College.
He studied Law in Lexington, Geor
gia, with Judge Cobh, and was soon
admitted to the Bar. His success from
the first was flattering —his fees, the
fust year of his practice, amounting to
•uver S2OOO. Soon after his admission
to the Bar, in February, 1821, he was
married to Miss Callender Grieve, the
daughter of John Grieve, a merchant in
Lexington, between whom and himself
a mutual affection had existed aud been
confessed from early childhood.
Enjoying a popularity, not only as
the sou of perhaps the most popular
man of the time in his native county,
hut from his own familiar frankness and
genuine sympathy with the people, he
” as soon called upon to represent them
hi the State Legislature, and for two
.Vears, 1824 and 1825, he held a seat
m the House of Representatives. Al-
yery young man, he
IjeUgnized as one of the leaders oY his
a imm mmk mmm m mtimtom, im iits mb mmm, mb to shiml wmmwwL
party —-the Troup party —then in power, j
With Governor Troup, the head and
front of the party, he was a great per
sonal favorite, and washy him appoint
od an Aid-de-Camp at the period of a
threatened collision between Georgia i
and the General Government. Find
ing. however, that a man of his ardent j
temperament would soon have his
thoughts and affections engrossed in the ;
all-absorbing vortex of politics, with
the most flattering prospects of success ;
before him, he resolutely determined to j
abandon a pursuit, dazzling it is true to
youthful eyes, and enchanting to all. |
hut which he conceived to he incompa
tible with his profession as a lawyer, j
his walk as a Christian, and his domes-!
tie happiness. Under this conviction, j
he ever afterwards refused to accept a 1
nomination from his party for any po-1
litical office.
In 1833, in conjunction with Govern
or Schley and John A. Cuthbert, Esq.,
Judge Lumpkin digested the present
Penal Code of Georgia.
In 1845, he was unanimously elected
to deliver the Annual Commencement j
Oration before the Literary Societies of
Princeton, an honor which, though de-|
dined, was highly appreciated under
the circumstances which attended the
invitation.
The same year (1845.) his health be
ing much impaired from his labors at
the Bar, by the advice of his physician,
he made the usual tour in Europe, with
his wife and youngest daughter, and
returned kite in that year with his phy
sical health much restored. A few
weeks after his return, the Legislature
of Georgia established, what had long
been demanded by the wants of the i
•f
people, a Supreme Court for the cor-!
rection of errors, to consist of three
Judges, of six, four and two years’ term i
of office, respectively. Unsolicited by
him, and without opposition from cither
political party, he was selected as the
Judge for the longest term; and tit the j
urgent request of his personal friends,
(who feared that a return to the excite
ment of his profession would again im- i
pair Itis health,) he accepted the office, j
which he still continues to hold.
In 1846, the Trustees of Franklin j
College established a Professorship of
Rhetoric and Oratory, and immediately j
tendered the chair to Judge Lumpkin.
Feeling constrained to decline the ap
pointment, the Trustees immediately
elected him Professor of Law, which
post, though nominally held by him,
has been as yet but an honorary dis
tinction—the department of Law never
having been organized.
At the Bar, Judge Lumpkin was
mostly distinguished as an advocate—
not because he did not deserve distinc
tion for his deep research, his quick
perception, and his sound judgment of
the law, but because public opinion,
which hesitates to award to one man
more than one excellence, having cheer
fully yielded to him the palm of elo
quence and power as an advocate, was
partially blind to his other attainments.
As an advocate, however, in criminal
causes especially —in opening the foun
tains of the heart —in awakening the
spirit of mercy and charity —in skil
fully grouping the facts in favor of the
hypothesis of innocence—in staying and
driving hack the mad passions of the
human soul, which in the reckless mob,
are generally found arrayed against the
prisoner and crying out “crucify him,
crucify him” —in those higher efforts of
genius and eloquence, for the display of
which our criminal trials furnish fre
quent occasions, we hazard little in say
ing that Judge Lumpkin was without
equal or rival in his native State. Os
an ardent temperament, tkat could see
no obstacle too high to be surmounted
—with a faith full and bounding almost
into credulity—with a heart ever melt
ing at another’s woes —and extending
the mantle of charity over a brother’s
frailties —it was not strange that his
client's cause became his own. Then
► *
by the aid of an imagination stored
with the rich treasures of classic and
’sacred lore—a facility of speech which
asked only for utterance —a voice me
lodious by nature, and rendered doubly
persuasive by the earnestness of his ap
peals—a simplicity and ease in gesture
which knew no rule, save the impulse
of nature —he rarely failed to impart
his own confidence and convictions to
the Jury, who first loved the advocate,
and then the client, for the advocate’s
sake. Efforts of this character, though
they always saved the prisoner unscath
ed, did not deal so gently with himself.
They left him nervous, excited, sleep
less, in short prostrated; and to this
cause may be attributed that loss of
health which drove him from the Bar
to the Bench.
His decisions as Judge have elevated
him as a jurist, in the estimation of the
Bar of his own State. Robbed of oj>
portunity to display that eloquence
which overshadowed every other quali
ty at the Bar, his long and constant
study ( literally , viginti annorum lucu
bratlones) prominently attracted the at
tention of those who thought they knew
him well. We might still, we believe,
however, apply to him a remark made
by himself of a distinguished Judge
and philanthropist, in our sister State
of South Carolina, that “it may be
justly said that his official worth would
be more highly appreciated, were it not
in some degree obscured by his private
virtues.”
To him, and his associates, Judge
Warner and Judge Nisbet, much is due
from Georgia for the wisdom, ability
and firmness with which they have es
tablished permanently in the affections
of the people, the Court over whose
infancy they were called to preside.
Contending with unusual difficulties, in
addition to those naturally to be ex
pected from anew system, they suc
ceeded almost immediately in firmly
establishing in the popular heart a mea
sure repudiated more than once by the
people.
Asa Christian philanthropist, Judge
Lumpkin is well known. The cause of
his Master and of his fellow man, finds
ever a willing advocate in him. His
early and long connection with the tem
perance movement, has acquired for
him the distinction of being the Apostle
of Temperance in Georgia. Thousands
in and out of Georgia have listened to
his appeals in this cause. But his phil
anthropy is not confined to any one ob
ject. Whenever, and in whatever shape
the cause of humanity presents its
claims, a friend and an ally will be
found in him.
A Georgian by birth, it is not to be
supposed that a man of Judge Lump
kin's temperament would be slow to
discover her onward progress—to speak
forth her praises. A true friend of
“progress,” he rejoices in her advance
ment, and every scheme which will ele
vate, improve, or benefit her people,
finds in his heart a generous sympathy.
In his own words, “Civilization must
advance. The improvements of society,
diffusing plenty and prosperity, know
ledge and refinement and morality all
around, must not, cannot be restrained.
Public opinion has willed it—decreed
it—and there is no power to which to
appeal. Vox populi vox dei .”
The beauty of his character, how
ever, appears in its true light, only in
his private life, and more especially in
his domestic relations. We feel that
we are intruding on sacred ground, and
must tread lightly. He has a peculiar
faculty of attaching to himself the
young. No student ever read a course
of law in his office that did not remem
ber him afterwards as a dear and re
spected friend. No young man can as
sociate long with him without feeling
his character and his aspirations elevat
ed. Asa neighbor, he is ever beloved
and more especially by the poor. As
a master —believing slavery to be an
institution wisely ordained of God—he
seeks to fulfil his duties towards his
servants, as a part of his household.
To his exemplary conduct as a hus
band and father, the devotion of his
family bears witness in language which
cannot be misunderstood, in summing
CHARLESTON, SATURDAY, MAY 4. 1850.
up his private character, we cannot do
better than insert the tribute of praise
paid to him by another Georgian, dis
tinguished for public acts, hut still more
distinguished for private virtues, who
lately, in vindicating the conduct of
Judge Lumpkin in a matter of courtesy,
declared him “as mild, as amiable, and
as benevolent a man as any who exists.”
(Original Cults.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE MAROON.
A LEGEND OF THE CARRIBEES.
BY w. GILMORE SIMMS, ESQ.
Author of “ The Yemassee,” etc.
I.
The waters of the Carribean sea,
subject to some of the wildest vicissi
tudes that ever sweep the billows of
the western hemisphere, were never
more placid and lovely to the eye than
on the morning of the 26th of August,
in the year of grace one thousand five
hundred and thirty-two. The exquisite
calm of heaven—that delicious serenity
and repose of atmosphere which seem
never so lovely or so perfect as in those
latitudes where the capricious winds
may, at any moment, lash themselves
and the ocean into immitigable fury,
and where nothing is long secure against
their violence—appeared to rest, with
the bosom of the halcyon, upon the
mighty deeps of sea. The sky was
without a cloud—the breeze, soft and
spicy as it borne fresh, ott the very in
stant, from the aromatic islands of the
east, was gentle without languor, and
just sufficed to waft along, under easy
sail, the high-pooped Spanish hark that
might he seen to form, as it were, a
natural and becoming portion of the
vast and beguiling picture. She alone
stood up, careering over the watery
waste, relieving its monotonous revels,
and looming out, beyond her natural
size, in comparison with the uniform
smoothness of the waters. A swift
and well built vessel of the time, was
the “ Diana de Burgos,” named after
a favorite beauty of old Spain. She
had taxed all the genius of the archi
tect of that day, in her modeling, to
do honor to her namesake. And he
had succeeded—so perfectly succeeded,
that the emulous little bark had alrea- I
dy acquired a peculiar reputation, such
as that enjoyed by the Baltimore clip- !
per of modern periods, for exquisite
grace of air, and unparalleled fleetness
of foot. She was the pride of the wa
ters, and cleft them, or passed over
them, as if endued with all the con
sciousness of the young aid haughty
beauty whose name had not been ta
ken by her in vain. Os her deeds, of
her peculiar employment, in the wes
tern hemisphere, we shall say nothing.
At that wild period, we know very
well what was the usual history in the
new world, as well upon the ocean as
the land. “No peace beyond the line,”
was the common proverb of license*
among the rovers of all the European
nations; and our “ Diana de Burgos”
carried within her graceful girdle all
the requisite resources for deeds of
strength and violence. Her loveliness
of model did not conflict with her ca
pacity for fight; and a single glance
upon the swarthy groups that covered
her deck, would satisfy any sceptic,
without farther search, that she had al
ready enjoyed no inconsiderable expe
rience in the trade of war. Could her
polished decks have spoken out, what
revelations of blood and terror mi"ht
a
they not have made! But her past
history is nothing to us. It is enough
that she still possesses sufficient mate
rials of interest for a startling and a
touching narrative. At the moment
when we ascend her sides—in that calm
and lovely day—in that serene and de
licious atmosphere—with that broad
deep ocean, as smooth as it could well
appear, to comport with the necessary
degree of animation which, to form a
picture, such a prospect seems to re
quire, and, at the same time to disarm
every sense of danger in the bosom of
the most apprehensive—we shall find
that no such calm and serenity prevail
among her inmates. We discover
them grouped about in small parties
along her deck, here leaning against
her masts, there crouched among bulk
and cordage —variously placed in dif
ferent attitudes—a hundred sturdy sea
men and soldiers, speaking little—an
occasional word or sentence only—hut
all looking as if thoroughly informed
and anxious in relation to some matter
of evidently increasing interest. The
broken sentences to \vhich we listen—
the half-uttered inquiry the faltering
suggestion have no meaning for our
ears, though clearly of ready compre
hension by all around. Happily, a
stir takes place among them ; they rise
to their feet—the group separate ; there
is a sudden show of restraint, as from
the approach of authority. A word
has gone forth which leads to expecta
tion, and the eagerness, but partially
suppressed, which now, in every vis
| ages *.dlows prompt upon its fornft/r |
simple look of doubt and anxiety, may
well encouage us to hope for the grati
fication of our own curiosity. Pa
tience, the door of the cabin is thrown
open!
The group which appears within is
one to add somewhat to the interest of
expectation. In the foreground ap
pears a person seated in a chair, one of
those ancient high-backed fabrics used,
about that period, in all European
countries which had reached any de
gree of civilization. This person is a
man of countenance more striking than
impressive. lie is, we may he per
mitted to say at once, the captain of
the Diana—Don Velasquez de Tornel
—a personage, short and corpulent,
with great hands and limbs, a neck
thick and short like that of a bull, aud
.of a face plethoric and fiery red. Uis
features are dark and fierce, and marked
by the signs of an angry passion, the
appearace of which lie seems labouring
to suppress. His eyes are small, in
tense, and catlike of expression, keen,
vigilant, and cunning. His nose is
short and sharp, his lips thick, and
marked, at moments, by a slight qui
ver, which betrays the secret emotion.
A thin, hut grisly beard overspreads
his chin and cheeks, lie would seem
to he a person about fifty years of age
—a man of strifes and violence, of
quick and irritable temper, and of rest
less, Unforgiving moods. 11 is feet are
wrapped in bandages of flannel, and
suggest the true reason why lie remains
seated at a time when his thoughts and
passions would seem disposed to goad
him into the most eager exercise. Thus
seated, he is wheeled out upon the deck
by his attendants ; while, slowly fol
lowing him, appears a female whose
highly expressive features, and wildly
peculiar beauty, make her less an ob
ject of interest than study. Her per
son is small, hut highly formed ; com
manding, from its ease of carriage, its
erectness, the holt I defiance in her eye,
and the imperious curling of her lip.
The style of her beauty is not of the
noblest order. It possesses but little
of the spiritual, but is of a kind more
likely to secure admiration during an
age, and in a region, where the passions
learn to triumph and command in the
absence of the sentiments. She takes
her place tit a little distance in front of
the spot occupied by Velasquez. Her
arms folded across her breast, she pre
serves tin erect posture, while her eyes,
neither gazing upon, nor averted from
him,- seem to be filled with a twofold
expression of wounded pride and lurk
ing anxiety, llis glance surveys her
keenly and unreservedly. There is a
mixture of tenderness and suspicion in
his gaze, while the sinister smile which
now curls his lips, gives to his whole
countenance the air of a brooding and
sleepless malignity. This silent watch
is so prolonged as to be painful; but
her features never swerve ; nor does
her expression alter. She looks as
she did when she took her first posi
tion. There is evidently a motive for
this inflexibility, which she maintains
without faltering, so long as his eye is
upon her. But when he turns away
and summons the pilot to his side, then,
it is seen, that her breast heaves as if
to throw off the oppressive burden of
self-constraint —then it is that her cheek
[tales and lip quivers, and all her coun
tenance betrays a fear which it has hi
therto been its business to suppress.
But a few words are spoken by the
captain to his pilot; a question is asked
—a command is given ; and while the
latter is retiring, he is reminded—to
“ see that all things are in readiness,
and to keep a bright look out.” The
pilot withdrawn, the eyes of Velasquez
once more, hut slowly, address them
selves to the lady. But she has recov
ered from the momentary emotion
which oppressed her. Her features are
once more inflexible ; her look is stea
dy ; she has nerved herself to a reso
lute endurance of his gaze; and the
muscles of her face, like the strings of
her soul, are rendered tenacious by a
will which his would vainly endeavor
to overcome. Failing in this sort of
examination, he addressed her—seem
ingly resuming a dialogue which the
previous scene had interrupted.
“ You have answered clearly, Ma
ria ! It is well for us both that you
did so. It would have been a grief to
me that I should visit your head with
my wrath, even though it should be
shown—Madre de Dios !—that you
had merited it by such a crime as this.
For, did I not pluck you from the ac
cursed gypsy—have I not made you a
lady, and bestowed my love upon you ?
It were a crime against God if you had
been false to me !”
“I have answered you Don Velas
quez !”
“ So you have, my beauty—so you
have ! But it is not enough to answer.
Must one look angry because one is
virtuous—eh ?”
“ But to be wrongfully accused—to
be wrongfully threatened ! ”
“ Oh! oh! one gets used to such
things, if all other things go right. Os
I course I know that you are innocent.
But how did I know it then ? For you
will admit, my life, that the affair
looked very suspicious. There was I,
groaning in my agony with this ac
cursed pain,.and where were you? Ah!
well! you were not with this whelp of
a musician. You did not sit looking
up into his face while he was stretch
ing his throat against the wind, and
singing nonsense to his silly guitar ?
You did not prefer listening to him to
tending on me, and, of course, Juan
must have been mistaken in supposing
that you suffered him—that you were
willing that he should—ah! never
mind ! It is not easy to speak of such
things without choking—but when this
whelp of a musician did put his arms
about you, it was only his imperti
nence, and you properly repulsed
him—”
“ ITas not Antonio already assured
you of this ?” demanded the lady, cold
ly. *
“ True—true ! ”
“ And Perez ?”
“ Very true —and Juan, I say, must
have been mistaken.”
“ lie is a wretch! ”
“ Nay, nay, do not abuse the child—
my own sister’s child'—has good eyes,
too ; but, nevertheless, did not see —
was mistaken—saw this Lopez pre
sume—this guitar player—but did not
see, as Antonio and Perez did, that you
resented this presumption—that you
frowned and threatened ! But what an
atrocious impertinence that such a poor,
puny, beardless beast of a boy should
thus behave himself. Is it not mon
strous ? But he shall sweat for it!
should he not? Can such an outrage
be excused? What think you,'my
life—should not this wretch of a musi
cian suffer ?—Say ? answ'er me !”
The lady replied by a vacant stare.
“Ah ! I see ! You feel the enormi
ty of his offence. You have not words
sufficient to declare it. Well ! you
will be better able to acknowledge the
propriety of the punishment I will in
flict upon him.”
These words were accompanied by a
hideous grin. The tyrant readily con
ceived all the torture which he inflict
ed. He watched eagerly the features
of the person he addressed, anxious to
extort from them some acknowledge
ment of the heart’s inward suffering •
and seemed chagrined to perceive the
steadiness of aspect with which the
woman bore his scrutiny.
“ Truly, my life,” he continued, with
less than usual of that cat-like play of
feature which declared his peculiar ma
lice, “truly, my life, it pleases me to
perceive that you have no sympathies
for this monster of a musician. I did
fear 1 confess, I did fear—that, though
you might not have erred with him,
you might have been foolish enough,
through some misplaced sentiment of
feminine tenderness, to have interposed
and pleaded against his punishment.
That would have been a weakness, my
beautiful Gitano. We must punish
such enormous guilt. We must pun
ish it as it deserves! We must so
punish such an offender as that he shall
never so offend again !”
He paused—and gazed steadily upon
the woman ! But she too well knew
the cool malignity of the tyrant —his
peculiar and unrelenting nature—to suf
fer herself to be deceived by the ob
vious lure which he threw out that she
should implore mercy for the criminal
of whom he spoke. She also felt the
importance of maintaining the same
settled indifference and coldness of as
pect as before. He allowed some
lengthened moments to intervene, and
resumed but with evident disappoint
ment :
“ And you have nothing to say, my
life ?”
“ Nothing!”
“ Madre de Dios ? But it is so pre
cious to me, that you so thoroughly ae
| knowledge my justice. Ho ! there—
; Juan ! —bring forth this vile singer,
this wretch of a guitar player—this au
dacious musician ! He shall vex no
longer with his midnight strummings,
the sweet quiet of our Lady of Burgos
—our chaste Diana—whom he makes
i unhappy by his presumption. See to
it, Juan ! bring him forth quickly !”
11.
There might have been seen, for a
single moment, while the eye of Don
Velasquez was averted, a convulsive
quiver upon the lips of the woman.
Her arms somewhat sunk in that mo
ment, and were clasped together with
a spasmodic intensity ; yet the action
was too gently performed —the move
ment quite too slight—to fix the re
gards of the person whose glance she
| chiefly feared. In that brief moment —
j in those slightly expressed emotions —
it could be seen that she felt her worst
struggle was at hand. But it could be,
seen, also, that she was possessed of
wondrous faculties for endurance. In
what school she had acquired this ca.
pacity, it needs not that we shoidd ask
—it is enough that passion, too, has its
power of self-restraint, as w r ell as vir
tue—and is never so intense, perhaps,
THIRD VOLUME—AO, 1 WHOLE NO. 101.
as when it is subjected, by its own
will, to the check of denial and delay.
In the heart of the woman, this power
of self-restraint, once acquired, is per
haps far more complete than in the
heart of the man—if, for no other rea
son than that of her habitual subjec
tion to the will of a superior, and the
habitual exercise of a policy in society
which is not necessary to him by whom
society is controlled or commanded.
The individual named Juan now
made his appearance. He was what is
called, ordinarily, a handsome youth;
with smooth features, long, oily and
somewhat curling locks, which evident
ly demanded much of his attention—
and a person which, though very slight
ly, was yet very symmetrically made.
But the intelligence of his countenance
was that of cunning rather than of
thought; and in his small gray eyes,
there might be seen a something of the
malignant and cat-like expression which
made so conspicuous a feature in those
of his uncle. He was showily habited,
with a gay cloak of silk, falling grace
fully from his shoulders, in addition to
the ordinary doublet, which he also
wore, of a rich description of cloth,
with slashed sleeves, and a great ruts
at either wrist. A heavy gold chain
about his neck, with a shining agnus
dei, ostentatiously displayed, rather dis
covered his love of ornament than any
very decided religious feeling in his
breast. But without detailing the sev
eral parts of his costume, it will suf
fice to say that he was a sort of a sea
dandy, thought well of his person, and,
for reasons of his own, was disposed to
make the most of it. His manner was
full of consequence and confidence,
and, as he approached his uncle, it
might be seen that he possessed no
small share of influence in determining
the character of the latter’s counsels.
He drew nigh to him and whispered a
few moments in his ear.
“ Be it so. my son ! be it so !” said
the other kindly, and with a sudden
brightening of the features. Had the
eye of Don Velasquez, at that mo
ment, been directed suddenly to the
features of the lady, he would have
been somewhat gratified, as well as
informed, by their frequent and exces
sive changes. On the appearance of
the youth, Juan, she had addressed to
him a single glance of equal bitterness
and scorn ; and, while he stooped and
whispered in the ears of his uncle, her
look was that of a loathing such as one
would naturally feel at contact, sud
denly, with a reptile equally hideous
and dangerous. But her features, un
der the control of a most watchful
will, resumed their look of icy indif
ference before her tyrant could detect
their changes.
The whispered dialogue with Juan
over, the latter drew nigh to the lady,
and proceeded to whisper in her ear
also. She recoiled from him with un
qualified disgust.
“Beware!” he exclaimed, hut in sub
dued accents, “ Beware, Maria, you are
on the eve of the precipice, and a sin
gle word may incur for you the fate of
your favorite.”
“Assure me of that and I welcome
it,” she answered, with a sudden re
sumption of all the vivacity which
could be made to gather in an eye of
unexampled brilliancy and beauty.
The youth smiled spitefully, but said,
“You are wild! That fate would real
ize no hopes for either of you. It would
be death, and something worse than
death—denial to the grave, and, of
course, beyond it. But lam not now
speaking of your death. It is through
me, Maria, that you live. Nay, you
live—need I tell you that ? —because 1
love!”
“What! if 1 proclaim you where you
stand, the villain that you are,” an
swered the lady in accents similarly
subdued with his own.
“It would avail you nothing! He
would regard it only as a mode of es
cape, which, in your desperation, you
seek to adopt. Does it need still that
l should prove to you how completely
1 control his ear and fashion his will.”
“Alas! no! But what is the pur
pose, as he understands it, of this whis
pered conference with me!”
“Ah! that is my secret,” the other
answered with a smile—“enough, that
I speak of anything but that! My true
purpose is with you. and for you, and
myself! I will save this favorite of
yours —save him unharmed aboard the
vessel, with probably no greater pen
alty than close imprisonment, and”—
he spoke this with a grin—“ peahaps a
denial of his guitar. I w ill do this,
Maria, if you will become wise as I
would have you—if—”
“I understand you—but that is im
possible! I tell you, Juan de Silva, 1 j
loathe you too much to keep terms with
you. You have gone too far—you have
shown me too vile an aspect —too ser
pent-like a tooth, for me to suffer your
near approach, save as a most hateful
and hated enemy. I will brave any
fate before I suffer this!”
“ Beware! your words but doom your
favorite.”
“Be it so! Had he been the man l
thought him, it had never come to this.
It had been your fate not his, or mine!
: He deserves all that he finds, failing
himself, and failing me, at the proper
moment. Hark you, the dtigger which
his fingers clutched, when your felon
hand rested upon his shoulder, was put
into them by mine; and the name
which my lips uttered when 1 gave it
him, was that of Juan de Silva. And
l yet he struck not, but tamely submit
ted. sacrificing himself and me. Now,
that vou have heard all. judge for your
self what terms there can be between
us!”
The lofty, if not noble scorn which fill
ed her features at this narrative, height
ened wondrously the beaut) of her
countenance. Her companion, though
evidently moved by her word*, could
not forbear betraying, with ope.fiadmi
ration of his gaze, how much it stimu
cl [g *, “\ lh
lated his passion. He spoke, aftei a
brief moment, lost in jjjc absorbing
pleasure of his gaze.
“I can forgive you, adore
you still. That this Loptz-was thus
base and insensible, should surely satis
fy you that he was not meant to enjoy,
or to deserve, a heart like yours. Be
mine, and all is yours! I jun here the
master. I can save this creature —will
save him, for 1 fear him not, but—l
must have your assurance.*
“Never! Juan de SilvaJ, Never!
“Beware!”
“Never!”
“Once again, beware! Ton
tate his fate!” {
“1 should precipitate myself upon a
worse, if 1 sought to save him upon
these conditions. I loathe qud hate you,
Juan de Silva; too mucLtiie iSjmdure
your smiles, your favors, th^“ Uel l>like
and revolting coil of your venomous
embrace.”
“You have doomed him!” was the
sullen answer from the scarcely parted
lips of the youth. “ His fate is sealed
forever!”
He was about to turn away.
“Stay!” was the eager whisper of the
woman.
“ Well.”
“What is that fate?” wa -‘the faintly
spoken inquiry that reached his ears.
“You will know soon enough. His
hour approaches.” *
“And I too am prepared for mine!
I too can perish!” were the muttered
accents which reached the retreating
ears of the scowling Juan. He turned
and fixed a simple glance, upon her
pallid hut proud features. The glance
was one of equal hate and mockery.
It helped to strengthen her, and her
high spirit prepared itself for the worst.
I.
“ I was right, sir,“ said Juan aloud,
as he returned to the seat of his uncle,
who had been watching with some cu
riosity the progress of this conference,
of which he heard not, of course, a
single syllable. “She is prudent and
sensible. She will not interpose with
prayer or argument to baulk the ends
of justice. She will not meddle with
his fate.”
There was something like disappoint
ment in the dark, malignant features of
V elasquez.
“ \et did she seem exceedingly slow
in coming to her resolution?”
“By no means, sir. She q;as prompt
enough; but— ’ here the sentence was
concluded in a whisper that cached on
ly the cars of Velasquez—“tint it was
my policy to persuade her, if possible,
that her entreaties might avert his fate.
Could l have succeeded, it might have
served to confirm and strengthen our
suspicions. But she is firm—she may
be guiltless! But of the, guilt of Lo
pez there can be no doubt. She de
nies not that.”
Juan had his own motives for this
statement. He did not despair, vet,
of finally overcoming the resolution of
the woman. llis passion, in this, some
what baffled his judgment;. But of this
hereafter.
“Well, there is nothing left but to
punish the one. Bring him forth.”
Juan retired—the anxious soul of
the lady followed his parting footsteps,
lint her eyes maintained a steady and
unfaltering gaze, as before, neither rest
ing upon nor absolutely shrinking from
the countenance of Velasquez. The
pilot was again summoned to the side
of the latter.
“ Well ?’ was the brief but intelligi
gible inquiry. It Mas sufficiently un
derstood.
“We approach, Senor,” ‘
“Good! see to your skip.”
The pilot disappeared;—®, bustle an
nounced new parties to the ‘scene, and,
preceded bv Juan, a youth came for
ward under the conduct of tw*o soldiers,
lie was manacled hand and foot, and
moved with difficulty. * JV- rattling oY
the chains was heard, it smote upon
the soul of the woman, hut, she turned
not once her head. The eyes of Ve
lasquez were upon her. A savage grin
lighted up his dark, satame countenance,
and left no doubt in the minds of those
who beheld that he meditated a purpose