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TERMS, $2,00 PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE. (Driginol For the Southern Literary Gazette. MOONLIGHT IN SPRING. The moonlight creeps from plain to grove, The green to silver turns, and soon The bird of Spring, made glad with love, As grateful for the generous boon, Pours forth his tune. His song finds echoes in my heart, But moves me not like him to sing, K„r 1 have seen my hopes depart, VI v moonlight with my dreams takes wing, And leaves no Spring. Vet, better thus the memories keep, Os bliss that once the heart hath known : They soothe, even while they make us weep, And though the flow’r they brought hath flown, The scent's our own. Thus watching through the night, I see, As glides the moonlight to the grove, The shapes of bliss that brought to me, With dreams that still the heart will move, My boyhood’s love ! [LI,AN. Charleston, April , 1850. For the Southern Literary Gazette. VISIONS. Visions that won me, Why do ye shun me, Now that my heart hath been blessed by your lure ; Why did ye waken Hopes that, forsaken, Leave the poor heart greater griefs than before. Still let me slumber, Still, without number, Weave the dear fancies that gladden the heart! Come with caressing, And, with a blessing, Leave me your memory when hade to depart. He who, with sorrow, Looks for tiie morrow, Well the dear coming of night may implore ; Smiles all Elysian, Cheering his vision. Troubled with sorrow and daylight no more. NOX. Savannah, Ga. (Driginol Coin. For the Southern Literary Gazette. THE MAROON. A LEGEND OF THE CARRIBEES. BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, ESQ. Author of “ The Yeniassee,” etc. IV. The doom was pronounced—the hand of the executioner, —the hand of <>f his most bitter enemy, Juan de Syl va, —was laid upon the shoulder of the victim, —but he refused to yield his liiith to his own fears. lie still hoped against conviction—still shrunk from a belief in that punishment which, to the timid and dependent nature, such as his, seemed to involve terrors much more extreme than any threatened form of death. But when he at last yielded to the conviction which had long been entertained by all around, —unless, per haps, by the woman, his supposed asso ciate in crime, —then the whole strength of his soul, —feeble in its best moments —seemed to give way on the instant. Every show of manhood was forgotten. There was no pride to keep up appear ances—no strggle to maintain a decent show of fortitude and firmness—but the miserable culprit sunk down into the most lamentable imbecility to the shame of all around him. “Mercy! mercy! For the sake of the Blessed Virgin, have mercy upon me. 1 )on Velasquez,” he shrieked rather than pleaded, when the determined as pects of the men appointed to convey him to the boat, and the violent grasp of .Tuan upon his shoulder, silenced all doubts as to the real intentions of his tyrant to carry out his sentence, in full, as it had been delivered. The hard souJed sailors, as much in scorn as in pity, recoiled from the piercing femi nine entreaty of the victim, and left him free for the moment, as if in doubt whether Velasquez might not yield to the supplications which were urged with such a humiliating disregard to man hood. Falling upon his knees, he crawled toward the spot where sat the arbiter of his fate, glowring in the en joyment of that bitter-sweet morsel of revenge which is so grateful to the ma lignant nature. In his eyes —had those of the victim not been blinded by liis own tears—had he not been too base to venture to accompany his en eutreaties by a resolute look upon the face of him upon whose word his fate rested—he might have seen how hope less were all his pleadings. But he saw nothing—as he crawled along the deck to the feet of the tyrant —but the terrible danger which he was anxious to escape. Could he have seen the inex pressible scorn which dilated the nos trils and curled the lips of the woman —could he have heard her bitter find only half suppressed accents of loath ing— muttered between her gnashing teeth! But they could not have changed his nature! “Can he not die! Can he not die! Anything but this! And vet,” she eontinued—herself unconscious that she spoke—“ Yet how should it be that ‘>ne who had not the soul to slay his enemy, in the moment when all that made life precious lay in the blow, — how should it be that he should aim the sifflfiHH Mimi Aim? osum a imiu mmmk wmmm to mmmmL w am aib aib to biimal mwMmmi weapon at his own bloodless heart, though to escape this most loathsome tyranny.” ■’ Beware! was the single word whis pered close beside her ear, from the lips ot Juan de Sylva. “Beware! lest a worse fate befall thee even than his! \V ould’st thou peril life for such a rep tile!” She was silent at the suggestion. Not that she had any fears of death; but, just then, her quick thought and resolute spirit suddenly conceived its own method for escape and vengeance. Other emotions than those of scorn fill ed her bosom, as the whisper of J uan, like the hissing of a hateful serpent, filled her ears; and in their sudden con sciousness, she trembled lest her feel ing should declare itself aloud, in spite of the resolute will which she invoked to curl) and keep it in. The emotion which her lips did not declare, was con spicuous, for the instant, on her coun tenance, and remained unseen only in consequence of the absorbing nature of the event in progress at the feet of Ve lasquez. To this spot the abject cul prit had continued to crawl, unrestrain ed by the stern command of his tyrant not to approach him. To his knees he clung, though the latter strove to shake him ofi, and to spurn him away with the members which were too heavily swathed and bandaged to suffer him to use them w ith any efficiency for such a purpose. Ilis pleadings, which wore ot a sort to move loathing rather than P'ty? produced no feeling of either kind in the breast of Velasquez. They pro voked his merriment rather, lie grin ned as he beheld the writhings of the wretched creature before him. He had a sorry jest for all his contortions. Ve rily, the Spanish adventurers of that day in America, were a terrible ban ditti ! Os these, Velasquez was a pro per specimen. V hen his victim ap pealed to him for the sake of his wi dowed mother at Segovia, he answered: “1 shall tell her of thy possessions, Lopez; she shall hear of thy elevation. Site was always a woman of rare am bition. Did 1 not know her in her younger days ? Know’st thou not that she once disposed her mantilla so that she might make a captive of me? Had she done so, verily, it might have been mine own son, for whom this Isle of Lovers hath been found. I shall tell her of thy fortune Lopez. She shall rejoice in thy principality ; and, it may he, will find her way out to thee, seek ing to share in the wealth of thy do minions. Enough now, —take him hence, 1 tell thee; —Juan, son, wilt thou not see the Prince bestowed upon his empire! 1 begin to weary of this gra titude. Again the officers approached, and again they hesitated—all but Juan— as the cries of the wretched imbecile rang through the vessel. The sailors would still have suffered him to urge his prayers for mercy, hut J uan had no such yielding nature, and he knew, bet ter than they, how* profitless were all entreaties. He had resolved, for his own purpose, that there should be no relentings in the brutal spirit of Velas quez. lie left the side of Maria de Pacheco, at the summons of his uncle, and, with his own hand, grappled the victim, while giving the word to the sailors chosen to assist him. But, ris ing to his feet, Lopez dashed away from the grasp of his assailant, and once more rushed in supplication to Velasquez. Ilis terrors gave him wonderful strength and a faculty of speech scarcely less wonderful. 11c was positively eloquent. Never was prayer for mercy more pas sionate, or more pregnant with the best argument in behalf of mercy. They touched all hearts hut the two, alone, whom it had been of any avail to move. These were i mmoveable. Again w r ere his entreaties answered by seurril jest, mocking suggestion and derisive laugh ter. The taste for the sports of the tauridor, who tortures the hull to mad ness before he bestows the coup de (/race, could alone afford any likeness to the sort of pleasure which this sea despot enjoyed in the fruitless agonies of his victim. It was in a sort of de fiance, produced by very shame and despair, that the culprit rose at length to his feet, and folding his arms upon his breast, submitted to his fate, from which, it was evident that no degree of humiliation could possibly suffice to save him. A smile softened the fea tures of Maria de Pacheco. “It is well!” she murmured to her self. “A little sooner and the shame would have been spared to both!” Die victim seemed to hear her ac cents, though not to understand them. He turned a timid glance toward her, but her eye no longer sought his own. She was conscious that other eyes were then keenly fixed on both. The boat was declared to he in readi ness. The month’s store of provisions, accorded by Velasquez, were thrown into her; —the spear and the crossbow followed; and the hands of the seamen, appointed to convey “the Maroon,” were fastened firmly on his shoulder. He was now r subdued to submission, if not reconciled to his late. lie no longer opposed himself to their efforts, and though he still spoke the language of entreaty, it was no longer addressed to his tyrant. “Oh! my countrymen,—Antonio, Pedro—it is you who do me thus—is it you, my countrymen, who help to give me up to such a dreadful doom!” Such w r as the touching appeal, made to ancient comrades, which the poor wretch uttered at the parting moment. They looked downward in silence, but did not relax their hold upon him. “ And I am to perish on that deso late island; —and the people of my own land, leave me to this solitude! They hear the voice of my prayer, and shut their ears against it! lam never more to hear human speech—never more to look upon Christian face—nor call any man brother or friend. Oh! Spaniards, brothers, friends, countrymen!—will you doom me thus—will you desert me thus to the solitude of the sea, which is w orse than any death. Chris tians ! help me —speak for me—save me!” There was a moisture in the eyes of the weather-beaten seamen who stood around him. At this moment the wo man advanced suddenly and stood be fore \ elasquez. Juan beheld her pur pose in her countenance, and w hispered as she passed him, “Beware!” She heard, but did not heed the warning. “ elasquez! —she spoke with firm ness—“ Surely, you have carried this jest far enough. You cannot mean really to devote this wretched man to this place of desolation!” “Jest!” exclaimed the other; “Jest, call you it? By my faith, but you have very merrily described a very se rious ceremonial. Yet, if there he a jest designed at all, 1 see that it hath been omitted. Ho, Juan, bring forth the guitar of our Prince. See you that it be slung about the neck of Don Lo pez. It hath a hand of crimson—truly, the fitting collar for a sovereign. It w ill help him to remember his old songs w hen in the enjoyment of his new seig niory. He shall have his ditty and jest together. It were cruel, Lady mine, to deprive him of that which hath been so much his nightly solace! Eh! what say’st thou ?” The person addressed recoiled as if from the tongue of the viper. She was silent, unless the thought which moved her lips, but did not escape in w'ords, might he construed into speech. “ At all events —it is but death— but death, after all! He hath weapons, and the sea rolls at his feet. He hath but to will, and his exile ends in a moment!” We shorten a scene which was only too painfully protracted. The victim was hurried to the boat. His feet pressed the lonely islet of which he was mockingly declared the Prince. He stood erect, but not in the conscious ness of sway. His eyes were fixed upon the vessel from which he was torn, and in which he saw* nothing but the coun try, the friends, the familiar faces, from which he was forever sundered, lie was unconscious of the mocking per formance, when Juan de Sylva hung the guitar about his neck. The awk ward appendage was no burden to him at such a moment. The faces of those who had placed him upon the sands were turned away. The sound of their parting voices had died away upon his ears. The boat was pushed from the shore—yet he still stood, with a stare of vacant misery in his aspect, upon the spot where they had placed him. Long after the prow of the boat had been turned for the ship, he could be seen in the same place, with the ludi crous decoration upon his breast, while, with still uplifted hands, he seemed to implore the sympathy of his comrades and the mercy of his tyrant. But of neither was he vouchsafed any proofs. Mercy was none —sympathy was pow erless to save. Even she! But of her he dared not tlunk! She had been his fate; and though, in his soul, he dared not blame her, yet when she rose to re collection, it was alw'ys to provoke a sentiment of bitterness which a nobler spirit never could have felt. He saw the boat rejoin the vessel. He saw r once more her broad sails spread forth to catch the breeze. Gradually, they lessened beneath his gaze. The world which held his soul and his hope, grew’ smaller and smaller, contracting to a speck, which, at length, faded utterly away in the deepening haze which gir dled the horizon. Then, when his eyes failed any longer to delude him with a hope, did he fall prostrate upon the sands, in a swooning condition, which, for the time, wholly and happily oblite rated the terrible sense of his desolation. V. It will not he difficult with many per sons, to comprehend how r a condition of utter solitude should not necessarily produce a sense of pain. To the man of great mental resources, and of a habit contemplative and thoughtful, such a condition would be apt rather to sug- CHARLESTON, SATURDAY, MAY 11, 1850. I gest ideas of complete security and re pose, which would be friendly to the ! enjoyment of a favourite indulgence.— | To spirits whom the world has soured —whom the greedy strifes of men have offended, —men of nice sensibilities and jealous affections, whose friendships have proved false, and wounded —as so many deceitful reeds which have bro ken and pierced their sides ; —to the heart of deep and earnest passions rob bed of those upon whom all the heart’s affections have been set; —these, all, might rejoice in an abode from which the trying services, and vexing neces sities, and disquieting obtrusions, of so cial life, w'ere shut out and excluded forever. But Lopez de Levya was not one of these ! He was young, and hand some, and hopeful, and this was his first trouble. The world still loomed out before his vision, the gay and song ful paradise which youthful fancies des cribe it still. There were warm pas sions and eager sympathies in his soul still to he gratified; and though we may not regard him as a person to whom affections of any kind were very necessary, yet had he a bosom filled with those which grow from an intense appetite for praise—which could have their gratification only in a world of be ings like himself. It would be impos sible to describe the utter desolation which possessed the bosom of the un happy wretch when he did finally awaken to realize the fact that he was left alone—utterly abandoned by’ his comrades, —upon an obscure islet of the ( arihhean Sea ! It was a long time, indeed, before he could utterly conceive his own situation—along time before he could persuade himself that the stub born and unrelenting spirit of Velas quez had absolutely resolved that such should be his doom. For hours—until the midnight came with its sad and drooping stars, looking down mournful ly’ upon the billows of the ever chiding ocean; —until the daylight dawned, and the red sun, rushing up from the East ern waters, rose angry and fiery, and blazing down upon the little islet with the fiery glance of a destroying despot; —for the first dreary interval, from sun to sun, —he still cherished the hope that this was but a trial of his strength —a cruel experiment upon his youth, and courage ; —and, recovering from the first feelings of consternation, when, at sunset, the dusky white sails of the vessel finally disappeared from sight, the unhappy wretch still flattered him self that, with the morning, he should hail her outline once more upon his horizon, and catch the glitter of her foaming prow coming to his rescue.— And with this hope he clung to the beach all night, lie slept not —how could he sleep ? Even for one night how intense was the desolation of that scene. ’There was the eternal sighing and moaning of the sea, which, toward the morning, subsided into calm and slept on, as if still dreaming of future tempests. And there were voices all around him of strange animalsand wild fowl, —sometimes a chirp, as of an in sect, and sometimes the scream of some passionate bird ; —and, anon, a great plunge in the waters as if of some mighty beast leaving its place of sleep upon the land. It was among the mis fortunes of Lopez de Levya that he was no hero, and ali these sounds in spired him with terror. Not less ter rible to him were those wild, deep mys terious eyes of the stars, slowly pass ing over him, and looking down, as if to see whether he slept, in their pas sage to the deep. Never was night and situation so full of charm, y'et so full of the awful and the terrible. Beau tiful, indeed, surpassingly beautiful and sweet, was the strange wild charm of that highly spiritual mingling of land and ocean ; —that small and lovely islet, just rising above the deep, so thorough ly environed by its rocking billows, shone upon by that wilderness of stars; breathed over by that pure zephyr, glid ing in with perfume and blessing from the South; and haunted by unknown sounds, from strange creatures of the sea and sky, who, in a life of perpetual freedom, could never know the feeling of desolation or of exile. But the wild romance and the won drous beauty of the scene, were lost upon the man who had no higher idea of the possessions of the intellectual na ture than such as could be drawn from association w'ith his fellow. The re gion, unoccupied by man, however beau tiful in itself, could bring no joy, no peace to the bosom of the exile. Ve lasquez knew the real nature of his vic tim. lie well knew that Lopez had no sympathy with the mute existences of sea and sky*; of earth and air ; and of those more exquisite essences, w hich, in such a situation, the imaginative na ture would have joyed to conjure up from the spiritual world, he thought on ly w ith terror and reluctance. He did fancy that voices came to him upon the night air ; —the voices of men and hi a strange, unusual language ; —and he in stantly trembled w'ith fears of the can nibal—the anthropophagi, who were supposed, at that period, to he the only inhabitants of these regions. But the night passed over in securi ty. He opened his eyes upon another day, in the solitude of that wild abode, ere yet the sun had warmed with his gay tints the gray mansions of the East. He opened his eyes upon the sea and sky as before. The billows were roll ing slowly away at his feet, in long low courses, but slightly lifted by the breezes of the dawn. Vainly were his eyes stretched out over the watery waste, in the pathway of the departed vessel. The vast plain of ocean spread away before him unbroken by a speck ; and when the sun rushed up visibly in to the heavens, and laid bare the whole bright circumference of the deep, for many a league, undarkened by r an ob ject—then the conviction of his utter loneliness—his life of future loneliness —forced itself upon the heart of the wretched youth; and flinging himself once more upon the earth, he thrust his fingers into the sands, and cried aloud in the depth of his agony — “ Jesti ! it is true !—it is true !—and 1 am left—left by my people.—to per ish here alone!” We spare his lamentations, —his en treaties, —as if there were still some hu man being ut hand, who might afford him relief and consolation, —to w hom he might appeal for succor and protec tion. Prayer he had none. The name of the Deity, of the Saviour, and the Virgin, were sometimes upon his lips; but the utterance was habitual, as he had been accustomed to employ them in mere idleness and indifference. Three days passed in which despair had full possession of his faculties. In this time he lay crouching upon the beach du ring the day, and gazing vacantly in the direction in which the ship had gone. At night he retreated to higher ground, filled with apprehensions ofgreat mon sters of the sea, —of the seas them selves, —lest, rising suddenly, endued w'ith a human or a fiendish will, they might gather round him w hile he slept, i and hurry him off, beyond escape, to their gloomy abysses. A small clump of trees afforded him the semblance of a shelter. Here he lay from nightfall to dawn, only sleeping in the utter ex haustion of nature, and suffering, at all other times, from every sort of terror. The stars, looking down through the palm leaves overhead, with their mild, sad aspects, seemed to him so many mocking and malignant angels exulting in his condition. The moaning of the sea, and the murmurs of the night-wind, were all so many voices of terror ap pointed to deride him in his desolation, and impress his heart with a sense of unknown dangers. The rush of great wings occasionally along the shore, or the rust le of smaller ones in the houghs above him—perhaps of creatures as timid as himself, —kept him wakeful with constant apprehensions; and, at moments of the midnight, a terrible bellowing, as of some sea-beast rising to the shore, or leaving it with a plunge that echoed throughout the islet, —struck a very palsy to his heart, that, for the time, seemed to silence all its vibra tions. Let us leave the miserable out cast, thus suffering and apprehensive, while we return to the inmates of the vessel by whom he was abandoned. VI. He was not wholly abandoned. Ma ria de Pacheco, the women, who, like himself, was in some degree a victim also to the will, if not the tyranny, of Don Velasquez, was not the creature tamely to submit to injustice, however she might prudently seem to do so.— We need not ask whether there was any real attatchment between herself and the poor creature whom we have seen “ marooned.” It is probable that the degree of regard which she enter tained for him was small. He was not the man to fix the affections, to a very large extent, of a women of so proud and fearles a soul. The feebleness which he laid shown, had probably less ened the attachment of a heart, which, in the possession of large natural cour age of its own, might w'ell despise that of one who had displayed so little. But as little did she love the man of w horn she had become the slave —we may add —almost without her own conscious ness, and at the will of another, by w hom she had been sold at a very ear ly age. She was still comparatively young; hut with advanced intellect, and an experience that left it no longer immature. Born under the burning sky of Andalusia, tutored in the camp of the Gitano, though not of Zingaro race, she had soon acquired an intensi ty of mood w hich was only surpassed by her capacity of subduing it to quiet, under a rigid and controlling will.— Loathing the sway of her tyrant, re volting at his person, she was as little disjxtsed to regard with favor the affec tions w hich had been proffered her, of his more subtle and malignant nephew*. The person of Juan de Silva, graceful and show'y as it was, could not blind her to his heartless vanities, and that dangerous cunning of character, which so admirably co-operated with the mocking and fiendish coldness of his soul. If she loathed Velasquez, she feared, as well as loathed, De Silva; and feared him the more, as, in posses sion of the secret of his infidelity to his uncle, she was yet made fully conscious of the truth of his boast, that any rev elation of it, which she might make to the latter, would avail but little against him. But, though anxious, she was not the woman to despair! She re volted too greatly at her own condi tion of restraint, bondage and denial, to yield even temporarily to despon dency. t In the moment that saw her feeble and wretched lover consigned to the lonely islet of the Caribbees, she made a secret resolve to avenge his fate or to peril her own person upon her vengeance. She clearly had no absorbing passion for the victim. It was evident that she could still main tain a prudent restraint upon her feel ings at the moment of their greatest tri al ; —but the highest and proudest heart needs something for affection—some other one upon which to lean for sym pathy—and which, at least, makes a show of responsive interest in its affec tions. It was thus that she had turned a willing car to the professed devotion of Lopez de Levya,—to his tastes and his gentleness, contrasting as they did with the brutality of all around her, and making her somewhat indifferent to his feebleness of will and lack of courage. But she had not fancied his imbecility to be so great as the hour of trial had show'll it. Though scorning his weak ness, she sympathized in his cruel des tiny. The respite which had been given him from death, by the capricious ty ranny of Velasquez, suggested to her mind a hope of his future extrication. Food had been left with him sufficient for a month. What might not be done, in that space of time, by a subtle thought and a determined spirit ? In a moment, Maria de Pacheco had her plans conceived, and her soul nerved to the prosecution of a single purpose. But she had an opponent, not less sub tle than herself, in the person of J uan de Silva; and the keen, scrutinizing eye which he fixed upon her, as she turned from the spot upon w hich Lopez had been left, seemed to denote an indistinct conception of the purpose which had passed that very instant through her soul. But she was not dis couraged by this fear. “Well,” said he in a whisper, “you see how hopeless is the struggle!— What is left for you, but—■” and a smile of mixed fondness and signifi cance closed the sentence. The ready expression of the woman’s face was made to accord happily with the single word with which she furnished an equal ly expressive conclusion: “ Death!” “No!no !” said he. “ You will not die—you shall not! You shall live to be tar more truly the mistress of the Dian de Burgos, than she finds you now. Why should we be enemies, Maria ?” “Beware! your uncle’s eye is upon us!” lie turned away, and this single sen tence, as it seemed to denote a disposi tion to make a secret between them, brought a fresh hope to the soul of the young man. He smiled, and glided to his uncle. Maria smiled also, but it was with a sterner feeling—not a less hopeful one, perhaps, but one in which bitterness was a much more positive ingredient than delight. “ 1 must bathe his vigilance,” she muttered to herself. “ lie only need i be feared, and he must be met and vanquished ! Ay ! but how ! How ! I must manage this—and 1 will!” Her eyes followed his retreating form as she spoke. They noted quickly the jaunty air of selfconceit which marked his movements; they scorned the showy and quaintly cut garments which he wore, and the profuse decorations of his neck and breast —and the quick in stincts of the woman at once suggested an answer to her doubts. “ Kow, but through his vanity! lie would be loved, as he would be ad mired and watched. Well!—he shall be loved, loved as he desires! The j task is a hard one enough truly—but it shall be done! J uan de Silva, you shall be loved! You, at least, shall believe it —you will believe it; and this will suffice!” In this she expressed a portion of her policy. It will be all that we need to show’ at present. How she pursued this policy —by what constant, hourly practices —by what adroit feminine arts —and with what fixedness of purpose — need only be suggested. The details would be too numerous. But she was encouraged to perseverance by success. She had reason to believe that she had succeeded in disarming the jealousies, and in awakening the hopes, of her en emy. They both maintained a judi cious regard for the exactions of Velas quez; but there w r ere hours when he slept, or w hen he suffered, w'hen they might throw’ aside their caution, and THIRD VOLUME-NO. 2 WHOLE NO. 102. speak together without fear or inter ruption. It is by no means strange that the most artful should he imposed upon by arts such as he himself em ploys. But what is so blind as vanity? What creature so easily baited as the. self-w orshipper, w hen the food tendered him is that which increases his love of self. To make such a one satisfied with himself, is most surely to gain his confidence in you —to persuade him that he is as much ail object of your idolatry as of his own, is to obtain ac cess to the few open avenues which con duct to liis affections. Mt iria de Pacheco had not been vain ly tutored in the arts of the Gitano. Beautiful in person, graceful in carriage, skilled equally in the song, the dance and the story, she put in exercise all her powers of attraction, to bind more securely the spells which she aimed to put upon the creature whom she yet loathed with most complete aversion. In two w'eeks after “ the marooning” of o her timid lover, she had succeeded in possessing Juan de Silva with the no tion that the victim ceased to lie re membered. So credulous do the most vigilant and suspicious become, when blinded by an absorbing passion. The two w'ere alone together on the vessel’s deck, as she swept, one gloomy night, along the w aste of sea in silence. Don Velasquez had but a little before been conveyed below*. He slept! Ma ria had ministered to him in song and story as was her wont, with Juan be side her. The departure of Velasquez had left them free to resume a conver sation which had been begun before. — He had been emboldened by the tenor of a previous dialogue. Ilis hand grasp ed tliat of the lad)'. She sutlered him to retain it. He carried it to his lips. It was not withdrawn ; hut, could her features have been seen, through the dim veil of night which covered them, the infatuated youth beside her, blind ed by her charms, and beguiled by her arts, would have shrunk with fear from the deej) and vindictive loathing which they betrayed, even while she submit ted so quietly to his caresses. The se cret thought of J uan de Silva was one of delighted vanity. Could that thought but iiave found its way into speech, it would have congratulated himself upon the admirable address which lie himself had shown, in subduing a spirit which he had hitherto found invincible. He did suffer some words to escape him which conveyed to her mind this idea ; and she compressed her lips more close ly together, with difficulty maintaining the silence, which, if broken at that mo ment, would have overwhelmed him with her loathing and her scorn. “ You have forgiven me all, Maria?” he whispered tenderly, fully assured of her answer. “ What was there to be forgiven ?” “ The fate of Lopez!” A slight convulsive shiver passed over the form of the woman, and it re quired a strong effort to keep from withdrawing herself from his embrace, w ith a show of horror such as one might express in detaching himself from the folds of a serpent. He continued : “ But it was in iny devotion that 1 sought to destroy. It was because you were so loved, that he was so much hated. I was well assured that, for so mean a spirit, you could not long have suffered pain, and now” “You w ere right,” she said, interrupt ing him ; “right—but you?—what is your spirit, Juan?” “ My spirit!” “Yes! your spirit! your courage, your pride, your character? Your per son is pleasing to the eye —your tal ents to the mind! You have grace, beauty and accomplishments, but” “ But what!” The vanity of the youth had taken the alarm. lie spoke eagerly and with anxiety. She hesitated to reply, the better to increase this anxiety ; and he renewed his entreaties for explanation. She at length gave it. “ Shall 1 always he loved by the su bordinate ? Shall the person whom I love, be always the creature of anoth er’s win r “You mistake, my Maria. You should know by this time, that I can do what I please with my uncle.” “Why, so you may, hut in what manner is it done ? By treachery,— by falsehood, —by meanness, —by de scending to low arts and petty false hoods. Let the truth hut reach the ears of Velasquez, and he will maroon you as quickly its he did Lopez de Levya.” “ Perhaps so—but there’s no reason that the truth shall reach his ears ?” “ That may he, hut shall we live al ways in terror of the truth—always in the base security of a lie. I tell you, Juan de Silva, such is my spirit, that I demand in the object of my devo tion, manliness of soul—the courage of speech without fear—the spirit to act without subterfuge—the will to com mand for himself, and through himseif, and not as the mere creature of another! And, why should you, and with your I talents for command —why should you i be the lackey of your uncle ?—that fee ble despot, w'ho—but no! no! —what need? You will not, you cannot under stand the nature which 1 feel —the spirit which sways sovereign in my soul! “Ay, Maria, but 1 do feel, I do un derstand you.” “Impossible, Juan, or you would rather be with me the sole possessor ot some desolate isle such as that given to Lopez de Levya, than —” “But how, if w r e be sole here—here, with the lovely Dian de Burgos for our palace, and the seas of the west for our empire ?” She laid her finger upon her w’rist— but a single singe lowly mur mured in his ears : “This w'ere, indeed, something, but 1 tell you, .Juan de Silva, you are not the man for this. Your uncle! ” “ And if I prove to you that I am, Maria—if I show you that I can fling aside my scruples when it will serve my purpose to do so; and that no ties which deny me the gratification cf my pas sions, have the power to keep my af fections—if, in short, I can say to you, Maria de Pacheco, the Dian de Bur gos, henceforward, is mine solely—wilt thou share with me the sovereignty?” “Alas! Juan, I should dread lest old age seize me, ere I ascend my throne!” “Demonios! but another week shall not pass ere thou hast it all!” “Were it so ! —but —.” The pause w r as full of meaning. “ Wilt thou promise me, Maria! —” “Will I not?” “ And thou wilt deny me no more, if I show thee that no voice speaks in au thority here but mine ?” “Show me that Juan —make thyself supreme, and thou shalt be as a sover eign over Maria de Pacheco, as thou wilt then be over the Dian de Burgos. But thy uncle!” “ Speak not of him! Enough!— Think’st thou I love this servitude any more than thou dost ? Think’st thou it better pleases me than thee that I should minister to one, brutal and bed ridden, whose feebleness checks our ad venture and lessens our spoils.” “ But how wilt thou ” “ Nay, sweet, let not the manner of the thing disturb thee. Better, indeed, that thou should’t not know. Thou shalt see if 1 lack manliness. Thou shalt see if I fail when the moment needs. lam no Lopez de Levya—no mere singer, my Maria. Ah ! if I prove not myself worthy of thy spirit—if I show thee not! Thou didst not know me, Maria—thou doubtest still—thou dost not know me yet. Yes, I tell thee, for a love such as thou can’st give me, thou shalt see me do such deeds as were terrible as death to other men !” The unresisting hand of the woman was carried to his lips as he spoke, as if he would affirm thereon the resolu tion which he had expressed. Yet, even as he kissed them, her fingers, moved by the feeling in her soul, could have grappled his throat in mortal struggle. They seperated for the night, and the exulting spirit of Maria de clared hei’ conscious triumph in secret soliloquy. “Ay! av! methinks T have thee. It is sure. Ido not mistake the blind ness which is in this passion. He will do! He will perform what he doth not yet promise. The son of the sister, shall do murder upon the life of the brother that has murdered him. He is mine! The 1 Man de Burgos shall be mine. Yet, it will need that it be done quickly. The month is nearly gone! Another week ! —but one—one week ! \\ ell! I must be patient. I must subdue my soul, while I work with other weapons. Juan de S\ lva, I shall take thee in my own snare, or 1 have never used the snare of woman !” (Continued in ocr next.) ibrigitml FOR THE FOFTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE. EGERIA: Or, Voices from the Woods and Wayside. NEW SERIES. XIII. Constructiveness. The test tor hu man progress in civilization is the de velopment of the constructive faculty, ft is true that man shares the antago nist quality with the brute, and is de structive in quite the same degree; but he has the corrective in the opposite endowment of constructiveness, and his labor is quite legitimate when he de stroys to build. Destructiveness, in deed, is absolutely essential to the pro per exercise of ingenuity in art. XIV. Friendship. It is frequently the case that you lose your friend in the saga city which perceives his imperfections. 1 rue friendship implies the privilege of sorrowing over the infirmities of your favourite, and curing them whenever you can. et, though we know our danger, and believe in the skill of the surgeon, it seems to be very rational that we should recoil from his instru ment. To be properly susceptible ot friendship, in its highest capabilities, it