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mrnrn aara® ♦ 1 Tfi ■ 3 r i'--- mayMsJJ*""’ . SUB TERMS, 82,00 PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE. (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