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WHIM HflittY BBBt
TERMS, 52,00 PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE,
(Original |'octrtj.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
STANZAS.
i.
And dost thou,too, fly with my fortune’s decline?
Can the heart that once echoed so fondly to
mine,
Thus shrink with the world, in the hour of
my wo,
Nor soothe with its love the keen pang of its
blow ?
u.
(knew that the heartless and soulless were nigh,
To bask in the sun—in the tempest to fly;
Yet I dream’d not that thou in that fervor could
seem,
Which made the sweet hours of my life but a
dream.
in.
I sunk not in gloom when they smiled and be
trayed,
But rose with a manhood more stern in the
shade ;
And 1 smiled at their malice, which, leaving me
free,
Left me solace enough in possession ot thee,
tv.
Alas! if the heart that beat fondly to mine,
In its moments of pride cannot share its decline,
Thou art free with the rest to depart as thou
wilt,
And mine he the sorrow . nor thine be the guilt.
v.
Oh. happy repose, when the dark wing of time
Shall shadow the couch of remorse and of
crime;
May thy spirit be blest in the goal it has won,
And thy conscience not chide what thy passion
litis done.
VI.
1 will not reproach with the voice of distress—
My last sigh shall breathe with the accents that
bless:
May the home that thou seek’st from my sor
row’s be free,
And the heart thou hast w r on still be worthy of
thee. EV ERHARD.
Charleston, S C.
(Original (Kalrs.
For tlie Southern Literary Gazette.
CUVELLIER;
A TALE OF KENTUCKY.
BY RKVERLY LACY.
PART 11.
One of rite first things 1 can remem
ber, is riding into the village every
other day on a little grey pony, very
fat and very pranksorne, and named
Toby, in order to afford that method of
conveyance to Mr. Beech, the village
singing-master, to come out to Ilazel
brook. lor the purpose of indoctrinating
the juvenile Lacys in the rudiments of
the solfeggio.
Mr. 15. was a little rubicund English
man, with a red face and a scratch wig,
of what pristine colour 1 am uninform
ed. and never could certainly conjec
ture. but in my time it was of a foxy
red, especially about the ends. He
wore a pair of enormous round-glassed
silver spectacles, and carried a stout
silver headed walking cane. Mr. Beech
was in sooth a stout man, he had a
short stout neck enveloped in a volumi
nous white cravat, he had a stout voice
and a stout bel venterital periphe
ry 1 mean, and was undeniably par
tial to ‘brown stout’ after dinner. Mr.
15. was not much of an equestrian, and
I used to have considerable fun out of
him as I rode behind him, on the stout
little pony, whom I would tickle in the
tlanks to make him kick up, as much to
mv delight, as it was to the manifest
discomfiture of the worthy solfeggian.
As the pony threw his heels into the
air he would clutch convulsively by
loby’s mane with his hands, while his
“ig. hat and cane would fly off at a
tangent, and his lunar shaped dunes
describe a parabolic curve as they were
unseated from the saddle by Toby’s
posterior saltations. Snugly perched
on the crupper, I would enjoy the fun
until my little sides ached with con
cisions of suppressed laughter. 1 had
no solicitude for myself, for a Kentucky
boy rides as instinctively as a duck
swims, from the time that he is knee
high to a terrapin.
“V\ o ! wo! This pony is certainly
1 werry wicious hanimal,” he would
‘by, as he dismounted to recover his
ejected accoutrements, never dreaming
that l had any hand, or heel rather in it.
Must be the gadflies, sir,” 1 would
wply demurely, as I sidled Toby up to
die fence for him to remount.
And Toby was rather mischievously
disposed and sometimes without any
provocation, but ‘instigated by the
devil,’ he would take the bit into his
tl *th and with a few extra flourishes
Mth his head and heels, he would bolt
“ !t into a scampering gallop, and then
H Adlpin race of it we would have fora
hundred yards or so, when he would
’piietly subside into his ordinary sober
P U( e again. Pony had many other ec
‘ such as dodging from under
’ ne “ hen about to mount, and thereby
depositing the unwary on terra Jirma
llls tea<l of the saddle, and others equal
v amiable, and I have ofted wondered
h " w the portly songster, escaped without
‘broken neck—but we have already
ded that that member was remarka
stout, and 1 can make affidavit
llerfc of, and so no doubt could Toby.
W Mr. Beech had two daughters,
rudence and Elsie, the former of whom
a fmsil! mm iik mmm m ufmmm aits mb wmw. m m mmt& wmmmm.
is in no way connected with the thread
of this story, and of whom I will mere
ly observe, for the purpose of general
information, that she was a little dap
per, maidish lady of about five and
twenty, who gave lessons in wax-work,
embroidery and water-colours, which
latter 1 happen to know especially from
the fact that 1 have now in my posses
sion a tulip of iier performance.
Elsie was four years the younger and
rather a handsome woman, but some
what masculine in her style of beauty.
But injustice to Elsie, lest this remark
should misrepresent her character, I
must say, and I know it from a good
many circumstances, that there never
was a warmer or a gentler heart than
hers.
She gave lessons on the piano, guitar
&c. and sang superbly: she had a voice
like a nightingale, and of most powerful
range. She could make it ring through
a room like the dying vibration of a
silver bell, or burst upon the ear like
the ring of a clarion; 1 have seen her
more than once sound the key note of
the vibration of a common blown glass
tumbler, and shiver it to pieces with
the powerful concussion of her voice.
She was the organist of our church
and tenore singer ; her voice was splen
didly adapted to sacred music and the
accompaniment of an organ, and many
a delightful treat have 1 enjoyed in lis
tening to her, chaunting some grand old
anthem to its wild and solemn toning
on a quiet summer Sabbath eve.
There happened to be sojourning in
Hopkinsville, about the same time, a
family by the name of Barclay, also
English, at least Mr. Barclay, for his
wife Signora Barclay was an Italian,
the y were also musical in their propen
sities, Mr. Barclay being organ player
in another church, Signora Barclay was
however at present engaged in teaching
Italian; Apropos , she was the most beau
tiful woman 1 ever set eyes upon. She
was ope of those charming nut brown
Italians with voluptuously moulded
form, firm, clear complexion, with a
shadowy rose tint on her cheeks, such
as is only seen in brunettes, lucious
black eyes that, thrilled and sparkled
into one’s heart until it glowed—glowed
with its magic fire, and superb flowing
hair, black and glossy as a dandy’s pa
tent leather gaiter, and lips, ruby and
pulpy and fragrant as a ripe strawberry,
such lips, and eyes and form, as would
make a Methodist parson’s mouth wa
ter, and they are connoiseurs in such
matters 1 am told.
She had a lovely little daughter about
eight years old, a perfect little rosebud,
cherub, in fact a lovely child, nothing
else is so charming. She was a mina
ture of mama only with the infantile
graces peculiar to her age. Moreover
I was desperately in love, with her, be
ing myself of the mature age of thir
teen.
It came to pass that this incursion of
artistes, the Beeches and Barclays, crea
ted a perfect fare ur musicale, in our un
sophisticated little village. Every
body was singing and smattering Ital
ian. Every body 1 met, I saluted with
“ledo il bnon giorno and Ida Bar
clay, as she sat on my lap and nibbled
a sugar plum, taught me with her lisp
ing little cherry lips, the meaning of,
“ Birogna amar Van Valtro .” They
had been residing in our town about
tw r o months or more, when another was
addded, superior to them all, whose
fame had come before him, the cele
brated violinist Cuvellier. The Bar
clay family, I remember, happened to
be absent on a visit to Louisville when
the handsome and gifted musician made
his debut.
In a short time he had all the youths
in the village fiddling, and scraping or
thrumming guitars; every night the
sleep of the honest burghers was dis
turbed by an abominable caturwauling
yclept —a serenade.
Mrs. Garnet, with good Presbyterian
horror of all such ungodly doings, em
phatically declared that morality, and
religion, were fast going to the dogs
since the accession of the Beeches, Bar
clays and Cuvellier. The worthy dame
was bitterly opposed to organs, choirs
and all such new-fangled stuff, and didn’t
believe that there could be any religion
in other psalmody than that of deacon
Nosebags, sung by the whole congrega
tion, in each a different pitch and time
—the lines being drawled out by the
aforesaid deacon, two at a time, after
the good old fashion.
I have ample cause to remember the
first time Isaw r Charles Theodore Cu
vellier. One balmy evening in the lat
ter part of May, I was returning to the
village with Mr. Beech and Toby.—
There was a creek to cross when we got
within about half a mile of town, which
was so swolen by a heavy shower of
the previous night, that we had been
obliged to go a hundred yards or so
out of our way, to cross it by a little
wooden bridge. We were riding leisure
ly along through a green meadow', by a
little bridle path, the air was fresh and
freighted with the incense of the beau
tiful wild flowers; and I w r as kicking
my bare feet about in the luxury of
living in the charm of youth, health
and happiness. Toby had been unusu
ally taciturn, probably like myself
basking in the sunny sensation of sen
sual happiness. The little wooden
bridge was nestled amid a cluster of
cedar and holly, spanning a couple of
bluffs of mossy rocks where the stream
was very narrow, and rushing like a
mill-race; the muddy turbid waters
bearing logs and driftwood on its boil
ing and foaming bosom, having risen
to w ithin a foot of the bridge. I recol
lect noticing the contrast between its
chocolate hue and arrowy speed, and
the quiet little blue-eyed harebells, and
the long wavy grass, so green and
fresh and pure, which it was staining
and polluting as it eddied along the en
croached borders of Flora’s domain.
How quick the sticks would dart un
der the bridge and disappear in some
bubbling whirl. How brightly sparkled
the rain drops on the dripping vine
leaves which were bending over the
river brink, and even sweeping the dir
ty torrent with their green velvety
leaves.
I was so taken up with noticing these
things, that I even forgot to torment
Mr. Beech with any of my pranks ; I
was aroused from the contemplation of
the beautiful scenery, by aloud excited
voice, exclaiming from the other bank,
“ Quick ! quick ! make haste !”
I looked around and saw, a young
gentleman with a gun in his hand,
dressed in a green shooting jacket and
jocky cap, with long curly brown hair,
and striking and very handsome fea
tures, standing on a ledge of rocks a
little way above the bridge, and mo
tioning impatiently to us, to get off of
the bridge. 1, at the same time dis
covered that pony was standing still in
the middle of the bridge, and from the
way he snorted and pointed his ears
forward, I suspected he meant mischief.
“ Mr. Beech what is the matter ?”
I asked, for owing to the breadth of
beam of that gentleman, 1 could not
see what was going on in front.
“ The wicious hanimal is frightened
at a wite ’og on the other hend of the
bwidge and wont go along.” “ Stick
your spurs into im and e’ll go.”
But instead of going along, he began
rearing and plunging at such a rate that
Mr. Beech could with difficulty keep his
seat.
“ God of heaven!” shouted the
young man who had been watching our
evolutions with eager impatience, as he
jumped from the rocks and ran to
wards us, “why droit you come off of
that bridge.”
“ Ask Toby sir,” said I, “its him.”
“ Fools ! there is a small out-house
which has been washed away, drifting
down the stream, and when it strikes
the bridge it will tear it to pieces. If
you value your lives jump off of that
pony and run, you have barely time.”
I looked up the creek and sure
enough, just turning a bend which had
hitherto concealed it from our sight,
a house cocked up cater cornered, came
booming down upon us, not twenty
yards off. 1 sprang off, but Mr. Beech
somewhat bewildered, dug his ironed
heels against pony’s sides. He gave a
short whinny and absolutely com
menced backing, when his foot tripped
and down lie tumbled! The rotund vo
calist began ore rotundo a different tune
from any I had ever heard from him
before. lie had accidentally sprawled
me by a blow from his heel, as I was
endeavouring to make my escape. Be
fore 1 could get up, there came a heavy
crashing but against the bridge, dashing
off one side entirely from its moorings
on the bluff, and it soughed with a
swash and a splash, and the next thing
I knew there was a humming roar in
my ears, and a “whoreson tingling” in
the tipper part of my nostrils as I dis
appeared under the muddy surface of
the stream. I soon rose though I could
not swin a stroke; the water seemed to
boil me up ; I just had time to spurt
out a stomach full of the opaque fluid
and gasp a breath of fresh air, when
down I went again, but as I did so
something caught me by the nape of
the neck and whirled me around all
taut, jerking my head out again, and
the water began rippling and gurgling
around me as it does around a sawyer
or any obstacle which impedes its pro
gress. I presently discovered that an
overhanging bough had kindly grabbed
me by the collar of the coat, so that
while it stayed my progress down the
stream, l cotdd take a view of the scene
around.
You may imagine that I was too
much flustered to think as coolly and
quietly as if 1 was seated in the parlor
at home by the side of mama. But I
did think, and the first thought that en
tered my mind was that the bough
seemed to have a very precarious hold
of my collar, and threatened every
minute as it swayed to and fro, to re
linquish me again; the next was that
the water felt very cold and uncomforta
ble in my shoes and stockings, and as
it trickled from my dripping hair down
my neck : I then thought that there
seemed a very pleasant prospect of de-
CHARLESTON. SATURDAY, JULY 6, 1850.
parting this life in somewhat of a hurry.
The fir t object that struck my sight
was Tony striking manfully for the op
posite shore, though making but slight
progress against the current, and my
triend holding very composedly to his
tail ; for the life of me, half dead with
fright as I was, 1 could not help laugh
ing at the ludicrous way in which his
bald pate bobbed up and down in the
pony’s wake. Looking up to the steep
bank above, I saw the gentleman who
had hailed us, in the act of springing
into the water, the ring of waves which
his plunge created, dislodged me from
my friendly bough and once more I
felt myself hurried along helter skelter
through the mad waters; in another
instant I was again caught by the col
lar, this time it was the stranger. He
held my head above water until we
were carried to where the stream was
wider and consequently slower, and
then with a few strokes of his muscu
lar limbs he landed me; and as soon
as we got on terra Jirma the first thing
he did was to catch me by the heels
and hold me forth upside down, as one
would a drowned rat by the tail. I
squeaked out at this unceremonious
procedure, and thereby seeing that 1
was not dead, he reversed my incon
venient position and gave me a horn of
brandy from a flask which he got from
the pocket of his shooting jacket.
In a few minutes 1 was lively as a
cricket and laughing heartily at the
comical figure my maitre de musique
cut as he made his appearance on the
other side of the stream, leading pony
by the bridle.
“What shall Ido?” he halloed to us,
“I can’t get across.”
“Try the pony’s tail again,” I shouted.
“Never!” he replied emphatically.
“ You had better go back Mr. Beech,”
said the young man, who seemed to be
acquainted with him, “it is impossible
for you to do otherwise; meanwhile I
will carry this young gentleman to
town with me. Let his parents know
that he is with Mr. Cuvellier —it is a
son of Esquire Lacy I believe, they
know me, his parents, tell them that 1
will take care of him until the river
subsides sufficiently for them to send
for him.”
Mr. Beach was forced to return, and
I went on to the village with Cuvellier,
1 soon got as thick as pickpockets with
him, for besides that I am a very talk
ative scamp when I am with one to my
notion, and apart from his handsome
face and rich mellow voice, he was one
of those few who possess the peculiar
tact of winning and attracting the love
and friendship of children.
When we got to Cuvellier’s rooms
which were in the Hotel, where also
the other artistes boarded, he took off
my clothes and hung them by the fire
to dry, and in the mean time swathed
me in his dressing gown, and seated me
in an arm-chair with a glass of nice
mulled wine to sip to prevent my
catching cold, while he amused me
with some exquisite airs on his violin.
I was just scanning with curious eye
a grim looking clarion in the corner
with a huge serpent’s head, whose gap
ing mouth displayed a very red and
ferocious interior, when I heard a little
bell-toned voice in the corridor on which
the room opened, exclaiming :
“Oh! the nice music! The sweet
violin ! mama, may’nt 1 go and hear it,”
“ That’s anew comer.” said Cuvel
lier, looking enquiringly towards the
door.
“ Its little Ida Barclay,” 1 exclaimed
joyfully—“its Ida qome back again—
oh! I’m so glad. And Mrs. Barclay,
she’s such a nice lady ; do you know’
her Mr. Cuvellier?”
Before he could reply, a voice was
heard:
“Ida ! come, la rnia Jlglia ! Dor am
di? Venime, cicalina /”
And I heard a wisp wirping of slip
pers tripping across the gallery towards
us.
At the sound of that voice, Cuvellier
who had momentarily stopped playing,
started as if he had been shot. He turned
deadly pale, dropped his fiddle on the
hearth, and I could hear the twang of the
strings as they were loosened by the
jar; he bounded across the floor and
threw open the door; Mrs. Barclay
had come to it to take Ida away, who
was fingering at the knob of the door,
and when the door opened she was face
to lace with Cuvellier. An electric
shock seemed to pass through them as
their eyes met. With a wild scream
of “ Theodore !” Mrs. Barclay stretch
ed out her arms and fell fainting on his
bosom.
Cuvellier uttered a deep-toned “Ah!”
which seemed to come from the very
bottom of his soul.
“ Carina !—Carina —oh carrissima ,”
and he gazed tenderly on her pale brow
and ashy lips, the next moment a frown
and a mingled expression of scorn, sor
row and anguish passed over his hand
some features.
“God! can it be—Carina!” he ex
claimed, as he picked her up in his arms
as if she had been an infant, and laid
her on his bed.
Here was a pretty scene—Mrs. Bar
clay on Cuvellier’s bed in a swoon, he
endeavouring to resuscitate her with
salts and cold water. There was Ida
blubbering about the bed and shaking
her little fingers in a terrible taking;
there was the broken fiddle on the
hearth, and an up-turned table and its
multifarious contents on the floor which
Cuvellier had strode over in his agita
tion, then there was master Lacy him
self, perched in the big arm chair, per
fectly entangled in the folds of an am
ple blue flowered robe de chambre, and
in about as profound a state of bewil
derment as people ever attain. And,
‘last act of this strange eventful scene,’
in rushes a black whiskered little gen
tleman and seizing Cuvellier by the
collar, with the other hand exhibits a
shiny barrelled little pistol under his
nose, exclaiming:
“ What the devil, sir, are you doing
with my wife ?”
Cuvel.ier, instead of answering, what
seemed to me, this reasonable and, un
der the circumstances, natural inter
rogatory, turning fiercely upon him,
grabs tke small man by the nape of the
neck, disengages him and holding the
aforesaid diminutive gantleman at arm’s
length, administers a well aimed kick
to a certain portion of his earthly ten
ement, vhich I shall leave to conjec
ture, and unceremoniously sends him
across the room, bang against the door
shutter, which intercepts his transit and
incontinently he tumbles on bis nose,
the pistol going off in the detour, the
noise thereof causing master Lacv to
bounce out of his chair, like pop-corn
from a hot shovel, and to distribute his
small corporiety in sundry directions
amongst the aforesaid contents; bottles,
boxes etc. of the overthrown table.
As soon as I could master courage
sufficient to take my fingers out of my
ears, where they had been ever since
‘ancient pistol’ made his appearance on
the stage of action, 1 heard Cuvellier
explaining appolgetically to Mr. Bar
clay the accident by which his lady be
came, temporarily the occupant of his
bed. Mr. B. accepted his explanation
with seeming graciousness, and also an
apology for the rough handling he had
received, and borrowed a piece of court
plaster to repair the damage done to the
bridge of his nose.
At this juncture Mr. Beech unexpect
edly popped his rosy phiz into the
room, his head bound in a red ban
dana in lieu of the water-logged per
ruque, and being known to all parties
soon restored harmony and concord.
Meantime Mrs. Barclay, heaving a
sigh and murmuring, “Theodore,” came
to her senses again, much to the joy
of Ida and myself who had both fan
cied her dead. On observing her hus
band glowering on her in a very Othel
lo-like style, she affected a very pretty
surprise, with “ Bless me !—husband
where am I ? What means all this ?
Ah ! 1 feel so dizzy.” and all that sort
of thing.
Mr. Barclay explained that she had
fainted in the corridor and the worthy
young gentleman there had picked het
up in passing, and laid her on his own
bed to resuscitate.
“ Law ! I’m sure I am much obliged
to him. I do recollect now feeling very
giddy as I passed along the corridor—
its so foolish to faint, but we women
are such silly creatures we can’t help it
you know.”
Well might Cuvellier say woman’s
ways are inexplicable.
“ Yes yes, we know all that,” said
Mr. Barclay, Mr. ? “Cuvellier,”
supplied the young Frenchman, bowing.
“ Mr. Cuvellier, we are much obliged
to you, (another bow,) come Carina—
Ida, let us go. Mr. Beech a word with
you if you please,” and the company
bowed themselves out, leaving Cuvel
lier and myself alone again.
Cuvellier seemed much agitated, he
paced the floor muttering to himself in
French, I could not understand what.
Soon Mr. Beech returned, informed me
that a ferry-boat was in operation be
low the point where our disaster oc
curred, and as it was growing late 1
had better return; which I forthwith
did, and tossed about the occurrences
of the evening in my little bewildered
brain, as I lay on my trundlebed, for
a long time before I could go to sleep,
not knowing, as does the reader, (by
my politeness) something of the prior
life and adventures of Cuvellier.
It happened about this time that our
family, honourable self included, paid
a visit to some relations in Tennessee,
where we spent a fortnight lacking two
days. On our return to Ilazelbrook we
learned that the Rev. Mr. was
carrying on a “ big meeting,” and that
many had been converted to the truth,
among others Theodore Cuvellier, which
rejoiced my heart not a little for I loved
him, and it had grieved me deeply to
hear people, Mrs. Garnett especially
who held him in utter abhorrence, in
speaking of my favourite, say, well he’s
a talented fellow to be sure, but what
a pity he is such a w'ild, harum scarum
profligate. But the news which more
! astonished and almost as much delight
ed me, was that a few days before his
uniting himself to the church, he had
married Elsie Beech. The match
pleased me not a little, and when I went
; to town 1 called on them : I found them
in a sweet little cottage in the edge of
town, with woodbine trailed over the
, piazza; Cuvellier was sitting in that
same piazza, and Elsie on his knee,
playing with the curls of his dark sil
ken hair, and both looked as happy as
two ring-doves. While I was teasing
Elsie with a hunch of Scotch broom,
a little negress in a striped linsay frock,
came to the door and handed a letter,
very white and nice, with gilt edges, to
Mr. Cuvellier. He broke the seal and
read it in a very agitated way, his brow
darkening and his eye flashing as he
read on. when he finished it he arose
abruptly without saying a word, and
went into the house. Elsie who ap
peared anxious and alarmed soon fol
lowed, and being thus unceremonious
ly left, 1 picked up my straw hat to go
home, when I espied Sol. Sharp coming
down the lane, he called to me and we
both trapsed oft’ to take a game of
“ knucks.”
The letter mentioned here w as found
amongst Cuvellier’s papers which were
handed to me, and I will give it to the
reader.
My adored Theodore:
Yes, 1 will dare to call you by that en
dearing name of other days, even
though each of us is united to another.
1 have never loved but you. Strange
as it may seem. Fickle as 1 have been.
By the God of heaven who sees me. —
By all that’s sacred, holy, true ; 1 love
you. I burn for you, I die for you.—
Come to me to night. My odious hus
band is absent; come to my arms and
let us revel in a world of bliss, extatic
bliss, and thrilling delight as once we
did in the golden days of our young
love. Cuvellier! so burning is the
return of my affection for thee, now
that 1 find thee in another’s arms, that
I w ill even go farther than entreat that
I may share the bliss that thou art be
stowing upon her. Yes, 1 will go farther.
I will threaten. Tou know lam your
lawful wife, that you have committed
bigamy in marrying another. If you
do not fulfill my desires 1 will expose
you to the world. Oh ! Theodore,
wont you excuse such language when it
is dictated by a burning, consuming pas
sion. Answer immediately,
Carina.
I will give Cuvellier’s answer to this
strange epistle.
Mrs. C. Barclay:
Madam, —I was never as much as
tonished as upon the reception of your
strange note per slave. Let me say to
you simply, that all the love which I
once may have imagined that I felt for
you is long since utterly and totally ex
tinguished in my breast. As for your
threats , 1 scorn them. In the first place
it seems strange that you should think
of charging me with bigamy when ac
cording to your own show ing, you have
been guilty of the same crime your
self. But madam you are entirely mis
taken, I have committed no such offence.
My marriage with you was a sham
affair as I can prove by II who
acted the part of the parson.
Hoping never to hear from you again
after such a strange fashion, 1 subscribe
myself T. Cuvellier.
The next day after the reception of
this letter, it being Saturday and in the
evening, 1 was returning to Dr. Mont
merry’s from an “inquiry meeting,”
held that evening by the Rev. Mr .
It w as a beautiful summer evening and
1 felt very comfortable and nice. I was
scrambling up on a fence which ran
along the sidewalk, to get a bunch of
lilacs or something of the sort, when
Cuvellier who was passing along caught
me by the heels and playfully pulled
me down, he had also been to the
meeting.
“Ah! Mr. Cuvellier that reminds!
me of when you held me upside down,
the time you pulled me out of the creek.”
“ Yes a handsome looking object you
were,” said he laughing.
“ It was a piece of unnecessary bar
barity on your part,” 1 retorted. “I for
give it however, considering your in
tentions were good. By the w r ay I did
not see Mrs. Cuvellier at church this
evening ?”
“ No, she is a little indisposed this
even—ah! yonder comes that rascal
Barclay ! I thought from what she said
that he was gone.”
“ Gone ! gone where ?” 1 asked in
nocently.
“ Never mind.”
Barclay approached us. It seemed
to me that he had been awaiting our
coming.
“ Mr. Cuvellier,” said he in a quick
sharp tone as he stopped in front of him.
“ What do you want sir ?” said Cu
vellier haughtily, drawing himself up.
“ I wished simply to ask if that is
your hand-writing,” replied Barclay
handing him an open letter which he
held in his hand.
Cuvellier read it and looking up with
unfeigned astonishment and some anger,
replied, “Certainly not. Its a base and
villainous forgery.”
Happening also to save a copy of
that letter, I may as well give it along
with the rest.
My beloved Carina:
Meet me to night after church breaks
in the farther end of the gallery, where
THIRD VOLUME-NO. 10. WHOLE NO. 110.
last night we enjoyed such exquisite
pleasure together. Fail not, beloved,
as you value the happiness of your
Theodore.
“No sir, I never wrote a word of it.
Do you dare to say that I did ?”
“ I have every reason to believe it
sir, and yonder comes a man who says
he can prove it,” said he looking be
hind Cuvellier as if he saw someone
approaching.
Involuntarily he turned to see who
it was, (there was no one, it was a ruse
of the cowardly Barclay,) and as soon
as he did so, Barclay drew a pistol and
shot him through the heart.
Such was the viperous Italian’s re
venge for the murder of her lover.
Cuvellier reeled, put his hand to his
! heart and fell.
“ Beverly, he gasped, “my dear wife
j —oh ! tell—her—adieu for me.” And
; he expired.
A crowd gathered, and Barclay was
arrested. (He afterwards was tried and
acquitted.)
Cuvellier was borne on a shutter to
the hotel. Never shall 1 forget the
agonizing shrieks of his poor wife as
she threw her arms around the dead
body of her lover-husband, now stiff in
the cold embrace of death.
******
I wonder what ever became of Ida
Barclay ? Heaven knows her late, I
don’t. She was one of those fairy
visions which sometimes flit across the
scenes ot our life-way for a moment
and then vanish forever.
In looking back you often conjecture
with a tender sigh whether fate has
dealt kindly with them. But those are
the secrets of heaven’s record-book
sealed from man during his sojourn be
low. The last time 1 saw her it was
the Monday ensuing the murder of Cu
vellier. It was a bright moonlight
night and we were playing at bo-peep
in the corridor of the inn, where my
father chanced to be visiting a cousin
from Mississippi. Our play was in
terrupted by tin- sound of a post-horn
on a distant hill, we stopped and leaned
over the ballustrade to listen to its
wild, plaintive notes, and to gaze on
the beautiful night scene of foliage and
flowers and out-peeping gables and
chimnies, gleaming in the mysterious
light of the pale moon. How beauti
ful she looked as she leaned forward
with upturned face, and her black curls
flowing back, and the moonlight re
flected on them, and in her deep black
e3'es.
Mrs. Barclay’s maid came out with
her bonnet and shawl on, and said :
“Come, Miss Ida, the stage has come,
and missis says you must make haste
and get ready to go.”
\\ hen they started, I accompanied
them to the coach to bid them good
bye. 1 clambered up on the wheel,
and Ida put her little rosy mouth out
of the window for me to kiss, saying,
with pearly tears standing in her eyes,
“ Addio a rivederla” The door was
banged to, the driver shook his reins,
the iun-keeper cried, “ All right,” and
they rolled away into the darkness.
-
[Some of our readers have seen the
following article before. It appeared
in the Gazette about a year ago, but
■was printed with so many errors, that
portions of it were unintelligible. We
give it now as corrected by the author,
j ustice to ourselves, and to our readers,
as well as to the writer, demanded this
of us. It is an exquisite piece of min
gled fancy and philosophy, and will
commend itself at once to the imagi
native reader.— Edsi\
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
MIDSUMMER NIGHT.
Non lungi all’ aureo porte ond’ esce il sole,
E cristillina porta in oriente,
Che per costume innanzi aprir si suole
Che si dischiuda l’uscio al di nascente:
Da questa escono i sogni, * * *
Tasso.
In the orient skies, not far from the
golden gate, whose portals unclose at
the approach of the sun’s royal chariot,
is a gate of crystal. It opens before
Aurora ushers in the king of day, and
here Dreams find an entrance. Bright
and glowing they flit about the morn
ing couch of the sleeper. The wearied
one, now refreshed bv balmy slumber,
still rests in delicious repose, while the
invigorated spirit with rapture receives
the visitants whose aerial forms have
passed the crystal gate.
* * * *
It was a mid-summer night. In a
Southern clime how’ delicious is night.
Beautiful it is in its mellow but bril
liant moonlight, but more glorious
where its starry gems glow in skies of
deepest azure.
“On such a night,” Prof. A. and his
favourite pupil, Cora, from the balcony
watched the golden constellations which
adorned the sapphire arch. The eve
ning was serence. Silence reigned.—
The woodland song was hushed, for
birds and bees rested after a sultry
summer day. The zephyrs slept. The
ambient air, laden with the perfume of
aromatic flowers, just touched the
strings of the vEolian harps which were
placed in the branches of the oversha-
(lowing trees. Soft, plaintive, almost
silent, were the re-echoing tones, like
the etherial music of an infant-spirit
who had left Paradise to watch over
the loved on earth.
“Night wears her diamonds,” said
Cora. “ Lovely night! robed in azure,
gemmed with brilliants. See on her
queenly brow, her sparkling coronal—
see beautiful Corona.”
“Yes”’ said the Professor,“Ariadne’s
crown, which Bacchus bade to take its
place among the stars —
“ The golden circlet mounts, and as it fiie9,
Its diamonds twinkle in the distant skies.’
And Lyra; how brightly it glows —how
pure its rays! No wonder that the eye
of Poesy appropriated to Orpheus, that
unrivalled constellation —to Orpheus,
whose magic strains charme 1 the rocks
and rivulets, and the lords of the for
ests, and whose lyric song won the
heart of the fair Eurydioe.
“And see Aquila—Jupiter’s eagle—
how high it builds its evrie. Noble
bird, borne on the standard ol’the con
quering Romans, but more precious to
us as the emblem which waves on our
own flag, the ‘star spangled banner’ of
our beloved America. A banner ever
honoured in the hands of our country
men—heroes, whose prowess and valor
are proved. And ever may our flag
wave in peace o’er our country.
“And in the Milky Way, floating on
the silver stream, is fair Cygnus; and
see, not far away, the Dolphin glitters
in the blue serene—the heavenly sea.
“In the west is the Diamond of Vir
go —and how varied are the stars which
form its outline. Cor Caroli gleams
faintly, as through a curtain of gauze;
Denebolaglows more brilliantly; Arc
turus, with its ruddy rays, resembles
‘wars’s wild planet’; while lone Spica.
in solitary splendor, sparkles with pur
est light. And now the golden Scor
pion, rival to Orion—to “the belted
giant of the skies”—is wreathing his
circlet of stars in the serene heavens.
Is it not most brilliant?”
“Truly it is,’’ said Cora; “but my
eye now rests on a fairer constellation:
one of pearl-like beauty, replete, with his
toric incident—on that nebulous light,
which, the legend tells us, commemo
rates the devoted love of the Egyptian
Queen for her hero lord. Her luxuri
ant tresSfes, a votive ottering for the
safe return of Ptolemy, is an honoured
constellation. That is not love which
is not capable of a sacrifice; but when
a woman relinquishes her chief orna
ment, the object of her daily taste and
skill, then does she prove her truth and
devotion.”
“ How strangely are truth and fiction
mingled,” replied the Professor. “How’
many a lesson of the human heart may
we find ‘mid legendary lore. Many a
historic event and classic story, and
many an ancient fable, is traced in
starry light on that azure scroll; but
none more true to nature, than that of
the crystal wave—of Coma Berenices.
“And is it not a thought replete with
interest, that in the elfin times, in the
dark ages, lovers read their fate in the
same stars which so serenely look down
on us. Grateful are we that no cloud
of superstition now obscures their
beauty. Look on that ruby star: per
haps ages ago, the gifted, beautiful, but
unhappy Cleopatra, fearfully watched
the fitful gleamings of that star —the
star of her destiny. On which of
these bright orbs, think you, were the
eyes of the devoted and wronged Jose
phine fixed, when she said to her hus
band, • Bonaparte, behold that bright
star: it is mine: and remember, to
mine, not to thine, has sovereignty been
promised. Separate, then, our fates,
and your star wanes.’ Prophetic words.
Iler's was a prophecy wrung from a
heart whose vividness had quickened
the judgment to intuitive perception.
The star of Napoleon, then in the as
cendant, went out, quenched in a dark
and crimson flood. Like the. burning
star of Cassiopea, which so long filled
the world with awe, by its wild gleam
ing and its gorgeous brilliancy.
“And Homer and Virgil, on the
shores of classic Greece, and ’mid Ital
ian skies, sung of Orion armed with
gold—ol the weeping Hyades, and of
the twin Triones.”
“True,” pursued Cora, “astrologers
and poets, lovers and seers, have all
contemplated that stary dome with
wonder and admiration; but more than
all, the inspired prophets watched the
rising and setting of the same constel
lations, which are so precious in our
eyes. They loved the ‘chambers of the
south,” the golden mazes of‘the crooked
serpent,’ the * brilliant bands of Orion,
and on their holy heads descended ‘the
sweet influence of the Pleiades.’ And
how the heart thrills at the idea—how
the soul reaches forth to comprehend
the wondrous thought, that those spark
ling dots are suns to whole systems of
worlds, and the countless habitations
of gifted and immortal beings.
“There are times,” added Cora,
“when my spirit flutters wildly within
its prison-house; it vainly struggles to
be free, and to roam at will amid those
distant orbs; but at last, like a weary.