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BDOTIEII HHIKAIT ffiMint
TERMS, $2,00 PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE.
iViginnl
for the Southern Literary Gazette.
the grandmother.
mOM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO.
Wake ’ mother of our mother, sleepeA thou ?
In thy soft sleep before, thy mouth moved
ever;
,r, like a prayer thy slumber seemed: but now,
■ o jj a . thine own Madonna’s marble brow,
Thy lips are mute as her’s—thy breath comes
never!
Why dost thou bend thy head so low 1 Have
WP
pout wrong, that thou no more wilt heed our
sigh ?
L sink? the lamp ; the sparkling hearth, oh
see!
| iou no more wiit speak, the light will dee,
“he tire itself consume, and we too d.e!
There, dead beside thv hearth, thou’lt find us
pale ;
J, children deaf, in turn, to thy low wail:
1 , 4 t wilt thou say, then, in thy wild alarms,
|, n long, in vain, thou’st press’d 11s in thine
arms ?
Show us the pictures of the holy child,
1.. golden heavens,the kneeling saintsso blue;
l l lir manger,oxen, and the magians mild ;
Li let ns read those latin pages too,
Inch speak to G"<l in prayer for us and you.
||other ’ Alas! alas! The fire sinks low ;
line joyous lights dance faint around the
| stone:
I -hadows, in tile cottage, come and go—
I Wake from thy sleep ! Thou art the only one
1” j'< calm our tears! Oh, cease to pray alone!
“Thou ha.-t told us of a beautiful region,
where
heaven—the grave—of life—like |
so quickly fled'—of death. Is our despair I
sc heath ! Alas! thou answ’rest not our !
cries!'”
lus. lung, with bitter sobs, their grief was said,
g dawn crept in—it wakened not the dead. I
fine I’un'ral knell toll'd on the sighing breeze;
And those who passed saw that sad even
tide,
I Beiore tlie holy book—the couch beside,
fwe children lone, who prayed on bended
knees. ROSE DU SUD.
| lnrhston, August 24, 1850.
Fertile Southern Literary Gazette.
STANZAS.
i.
I If 1 turn mine eyes to thee,
if to thee my steps incline,
I frown not at my loyalty,
‘Tin, alas! no fault of mine.
11.
Thou hast heard in Eastern song,
01 a spell that charms the sight—
Leads the soul in heedless wrong,
‘Till its hopes are cross’d by blight!
uu
They have told of subtlest pow’r,
Lurking in eye,
Which, in heedless, hapless hour,
Lures the wanderer on to die.
IV.
Ah 1 such cruel fate is mine,
And the magic dwells in thee,
Thou hast, with that eye of thine,
Wrought the spell that ‘wilders me.
v.
Thus 1 follow where thou art,
A hit a fatal, sad mischance ;
M Oman's weakness in my heart,
Woman’s fondness in my glance.
vr.
I Vs thou hast the serpent’s spell,
Thus to charm the sense astray—
■lf my worship be not well,
I Ise his deadly power to slay.
CUrleston. S. C.
liTljr ffarti (T’rlltr.
from the London Literary Gazette.
IIEGIPSEY GIRL;
|\!.i: OF EDWARD THE FOURTH.
I polished stairs, and along the
I “ a, l “t Moorland, laden withflow
■'"unded a light and graceful figure.
B’ :| igatthe oaken door of a turretted
I 1 - Leonora Estrange tapped
ILtening with bent head while
l 'k*‘d. Hut moment after mo
e"t by, and still the silence re
unbroken. At last, opening the
e °nora entered.
ootu was filled with a faint gold
us the sunbeams shone through
utniitous folds of the draped
• With one glance at the couch,
which the crimson hangings
il Buttering with the motion of
“ng door, she advanced to a
Lie. upon which stood an empty
tilling this from a crystal gob
bating herself, she began slow
range her fragrant burthen.
L nn hour passed ere she had
fvd her pleasing task ; then, as
-lied the last drooping leat trom
!1, -r, she arose, and crossing to
gathered back the silken cur
bJ laid her hand gently upon
w °f the youthful sleeper, say
a low, sweet voice, “Sleeping
;ir lady, and the morning sun full
i’ old r
$ Leonora! dear Leonora, is it
“mi-mured the half-awakened
1 must indeed have been weary
s ' e pt thus.” And rising, she
1 “nisiin mantle around her, and
lll g"idly into a cushioned chair.
!° bent over the beautiful blos
a murmur of delight as she
uieir glossy leaves, and drew
A ‘1 rose, tremulous with dew,
‘'ml it to her lips.
eil, . v the hand that was busy
I' 1 “ (, blen curls trembled violent
-■eonora bent low, to hide the
’ “"biur of her cheeks, and the
I i°g of her eyes.
Udy Clare saw not the passion-
! 1 flitted across the beautiful
ll ' r companion, for it had passed
le looked up.
“"-hour afterwards there arose
’ notes of a bugle, followed by
‘thin the paved court beneath
1 window. Soon the quick clat
a Worse’s hoof was heard. A
a rami wuMMi. mmw to wmms. mt Am am scmbs, am to smmi.
taint colour came to the delicate cheeks
ot the Lady Clare, and a warm smile
to her lips, as site fastened the last fold
of her riding-habit. She received her
cap and plume trom the hand of Leono-
Ira, but the feather was vibrating as if
a sudden gust of wind had swept through
i the open window ; and yet there was
I not air enough a-tir to have lifted a leaf.
As the Lady Clare touched the hand of
j Leonora, it was icy cold. A shade of
uneasiness overspread her placid fea
tures as she said, kindly, “You are not
well, dearest Leonora.”
Hut the girl shook her head with a
j faint smile, and turned away. The
next moment the curtain was gathered
back with a quick, eager motion, and
Leonora,hall-enveloped within its folds,
stood gazing down upon the group be
i low. Hut not upon the proud steed,
1 the beautiful little pony, nor the gaily
dressed grooms did she look. Her
eyes were fixed upon the tall and grace
ful figure ot a cavalier of some two
and-twenty summers, who wore, with
an air of indescribable grace, his sim
ple riding-dress of Lincoln green. He.
stood leaning carelessly against the wall
which surrounded the ancient dwelling,
halt castle, halt hall. The sable plumes
of his hat, drooping low over his brow,
concealed the upper portion of his face,
leaving but the Grecian nose, and the
chiselled lip, shaded by the dark ches
nut moustache, exposed. Once or
twice lie struck his spurred boot upon
the stones beneath, with a vehemence
that brought the drooping forms of the
indolent grooms quickly erect, and oc
casionally he pressed his hand upon his
brow, as it some dark and troubled
thoughts were crossing his reveries.—
Suddenly there was astir, and the pony
raised its head. At this Lord Francis
Clairmont looked quickly up, for such
was the name of the cavalier, and be
held the Lady Clare, who came forth
leaning upon the arm of her only sur
viving parent, the old Earl of Moor
land.
A pleasant smile parted the lips of
the lovely girl, a bright colour came to
her cheek, as taking her hand the young
lord bent low', saluting her with the
graceful yet high-flown compliments of
the day. The hand of Leonora was
clenched as in sudden pain, while her
dark eyes filled with a flashing light as
she 1 teheld the graceful form of Lord
Clairmont bend to the childlike being
before him. The next moment, and
Clairmont, having lifted the Lady Clare
to the saddle, sprang into his own,
while the whole party rode slowly forth.
Scarcely, however, had they cleared
the little bridge which separated the
castle from the open country, when
Lord Clairmont drew in his rein, and
with a brief excuse, wheeled his horse
to return. Riding quickly as he re
crossed the bridge, he raised his eyes
and beheld the white cheek and flashing
glance of Leonora Estrange. Then a
soft, winning smile flitted across his
countenance; and her cold cheek grew
warm, her eye lost its wild light, as she
met the glance of those eyes, so large,
so dark, yet so smiling in their beauty.
For a moment they rested upon her;
then there was a quick wave of his
hand, as it raised his hat, falling im
pressively on his heart. When he
again rode forth with a light and easy
seat, Leonora, though she watched him
until lost in the di tance, grieved no
more; but an expression of radiant
happiness dwelt on her face.
It was the evening of the same day,
when Leonora might have been seen
standing erect on a steep hill, with her
eager gaze bent upon the muffled figure
that came hurriedly up the ascent to
wards her. The wild breeze of a com
ing tempest swept through the dim
forest, which lay like the background
of some fine painting behind her. Far
away in the distance, rose the grey tur
rets of Moorland. She had stolen out,
heedless of the lowering clouds, to meet
the betrothed of Lady Clare, the young
Lord Francis of Clairmont.
Soon he gained her side, and placing
one arm around her waist, he drew her
yet deeper within the shade of the tall
trees, whispering, “My own Leonora,
have you come out this wild, dark night
to meet me ?”
He spoke in a voice of such fervent
love and happiness, that the glowing
cheek of the girl took a yet deeper hue.
More than one hour passed, and still
the young nobleman held the beautiful
girl to his side, reiterating vows of pas
sionate eloquence and unchanging love,
both he and she forgetful of the dark
clouds flying wildly athwart the blue
sky, and the low inutterings of the dis
tant, thunder. Suddenly there was a
flash of lightning, followed by a crash,
as if the heavens were rent in twain.
It startled the young girl from her dream
of happiness; it hushed the warm words
upon the lover’s lips.
Clairmont said hastily, “ Leonora,
my beloved, let us hasten away ere the
storm breaks. I will go with you to
the castle gates ; none will recognize
me in the increasing darkness. Come,
dearest, lean upon me. Surely you
will not fear, when Francis is with you.
Would to God,” he continued, “1 might
protect thee from the storms of life, as
1 may from the winds of Heaven!”
“ First, listen to me, ere 1 go hence,
Francis,” said his companion. “Be
fore Leonora Estrange again leaves
you, she must know if, evermore, like
a guilty thing, she is to steal forth from
yonder proud castle, treacherously to
meet the affiianced of her generous
benefactress. Oh ! Francis,” she add
ed, passionately, “if you knew how
bitter it is to look upon what she deems
her privileged love for you ; to see her
gttze and smile upon you as il the right
alone to her belonged ; to hear her,
day by day, speak ot you to me as her
future husband, and press the very flow
ers which thou hast given to me to her
lips, murmuring fund and loving words,
while 1 must stand coldly by.”
“And does she indeed think of me
thus ?” he replied, half aloud. “She is
very lovely.”
The hand that rested within his own
was quickly withdrawn ; and ere the
ull consciousness of his error came
over him, his companion was speaking
with an air and voice of more than
queenly hauteur. “My Lord, the La
dy Clare’s thoughts are doubtless often
occupied with her betrothed. He will
do well to think of her beauty and
gentleness, forgetting,” she added, bit
terly, “ her humble companion. It is
not too late, my lord, to retrieve your
error.”
Lora moment he stood gazing upon
her with astonishment, as she stood be
fore him, her chiselled features glowing
with excitement,her graceful head erect.
1 hen there mingled with his expression
ot admiration a touching sadness. “Le
onora, Leonora,” he said, in a low,
mournful voice.
1 lie next moment she was weeping
upon his bosom, murmuring, “Forgive
me, Francis. It is but my love for
you that makes me so wild and way
ward.” - •
lie spoke not but drew her arm gent
ly within his own, hurrying her down
the steep hill. Darker grew the night;
and, with the fall of the fast descend
ing rain, lie whispered, “ Are you not
weary, Leonora ?”
Her bl ight face was raised to his, as
her sweet voice answered, “Was I not
cradled within the forest ? What fears
the gipsy girl when the loved one is
beside her V Perhaps it was well that
the darkness hid the shadow tnat cross- ;
ed the young lord’s brow as she spoke;
but it passed away, and they hastened
on.
“She shall be my own acknowledg
ed wife, my fearless Leonora,” mur
mured Clairmont, as he parted with her,
for he felt that he had now a treasure,
priceless indeed. Hut as he spoke he
forgot the Lady Clare ; yet, at that mo- j
nient, within her silent chamber, the
heiress of Moorland was bedewing the i
lading flowers before her with tears of j
love and joy, guarding them as tokens 1
of his affection.
Softly through hall and cotttage,
amid joy and sorrow, sighed the low
musical voice ot summer. Ruffling
the blue waters of the Thames as it
glided on amid the city bustle, with a
soft and gentle sigli it lifted the droop
ing curtains of a silent chamber, and
murmured within the dying ear of the
good old earl of Clairmont nature’s last
farewell.
“Francis,’ he said, faintly, “put
back the curtains ; I would again look
out upon the blue sky, the loveliness
ot nature, ere I go hence.”
Ihe son, obeying his bidding, again
knelt beside him, pressing his lips to
the cold hand clasping his own. Again
the old man’s lips parted, and he mur
“ l.uiii; I'lui'o l”
r rom within the shadow ot the cur
tains, w hich were gathered and twisted
around the richly-carved posts, stepped
forth, with pallid cheeks and tearful
eyes, the heiress of Moorland. A
change had come over her since we saw
her last. Her young lip had lost its
sunny smile,and her blue eye its bright
ness. Sorrow and suffering had come
to her, the favoured child of prosperity.
The mourning robes, clinging to her
fragile form, spoke of death, and told
that her idolizing father had joined her
other lost parent.
“ Lady Clare,” he said, taking her
hand within his own, while Francis of
Clairmont turned away his head from
that beseeching glance, “I cannot leave
you alone in this cold world. Before
1 go hence let me bless you as my child!
1 would leave you to one who will love
you even better than myself. Will
you not grant me this boon ?” and he
laid her hand within his son’s. The
Lady Clare looked timidly up, but the
face of her betrothed was turned aside,
and she beheld not the struggle, but too
vividly portrayed in the blanched cheek
and quivering lip.
Still, though the gentle pressure of
her hand was unreturned, the Lady
Clare dreamed not that aught but the
mourner’s sorrow was hushing the voice
that should have been whispering its
love. The dying earl took this silence
for consent, and seemed happy. The
priest who had waited in the ante-cham
ber was summoned, and the sacred rite
was performed. Clairmont was taken
by surprise. Powerless to speak, he
listened to the holy words which bound
him evermore to her kneeling by his
side. All seemed to him a dream;
but when all was over, there arose be
fore him the beautiful face of Leonora
Estrange.
The old man’s hand was now laid
upon the bowed head of the young
wife, and in this last effort his spirit
passed away. Clairmont would have
turned awav with a world of wretched
ness in his glance, but his young bride
| laid her head upon his bosom, whis-
I pering fondly, “ I will comfort thee
: Francis.”
He buried his face in his hands, the
gentle, loving words cut him to the
heart; yet he could not forget that he
loved the poor gipsey girl better than
the heiress; and he felt, for the mo
ment, as if the latter had entrapped him
into a union. But even then, by the
corpse of his father, and in the first mo
ments of his married life, he could not
restrain himself. He shook olf, half
angrily, the grasp es his bride, as she
essayed gently to remove his hands
from his face.
“ Leave me—l would be alone,” he
said.
The Lady Clare knew not the terri
ble secret of his love for another; but,
I w ith a woman’s keen instinct, she felt
; that his affections w r ere not hers. No
grief could else have rendered him so
cold, so haughty, so angry in these lirst
moments of wedded life. She turned
sadly away, and left the chamber, hot,
I scalding tears chasing each other down
© ©
her cheeks.
“ Oh, Father above!” she cried,
“teach-me to win his love. Anything
—anything will I suffer, if his heart may
I only be mine at last.”
While Lord Clairmont paces his
apartment, now wrung with agony to
find himself the husband of one he
loves not, and now melting in grief, as
: he thinks of the loss of his beloved pa-
CHARLESTON, SATURDAY, SEPT. 7. 1850.
rent; and while his bride prays alone
in her solitary chamber, let us seek Le
onora Estrange.
She had heard of the death of the
earl and of the marriage of the Lady
Clare; but she seemed to remember
only the last.
“ Perfidious lover,” she cried, with
pale cheeks artl clenched hands, “ and
is it thus you have betrayed me. You
told me that you loved not the Lady
Clare; that you would beseech your
father to release you from your engage
ment to her; that, you would w r ed me.
! False, false, falser than hell itself!” she
! exclaimed, bitterlv.
She rose and began to pace the floor,
i Her hair, loosened from its band, fell
in raven masses wildly over her should
ers, and her dark cheek glowed like fire,
with passion.
” Hut I will have my revenge,” she
said ; “ I know where to strike ; and I
will wait for my opportunity. Oh,
Francis, Lord Clairmont!” she ex
claimed, with a mocking laugh, “ you
! have not written to the house of Lan
caster for nothing. 1 w ill intercept one
ot your letters. 1 will carry it to the
king; and the monarch, incensed at
your conduct, will send you from vour
bride for life. Ha! Ha ! will I not
have revenge !”
Alone, half reclining upon a cushion
ed couch, with his graceful form enve
loped in a robe of crimson, lined and
edged with costly furs, with an air of
ennui and weariness, lay England’s
king, the handsome and voluptuous
Edward the Lourth. Scarce a token
was discernible of the warrior king,
in the languid form, the sunny brow,
and small, voluptuous mouth, as he lav
w ith drooping eyelids, dreaming, not of
past victories, or stirring triumphs, but
of the many bright beauties that graced
his brilliant court.
Presently his reveries were broken
by the entrance of a favourite attendant.
Edward looked dreamily up, as the
page spoke.
“A lady craves audience, my liege,”
he said, “and will not be denied ad
mittance.”
“Is she old. or still in youth. Fran
cois ?”
“I should say far advanced, sire, were
it not tor a white hand that gleamed out
for a moment, as she drew her mantle
about her, when iny Lords Hastings and
Woodville came near.”
li Then, in heaven’s name, admit her,
without delay. We have not looked
upon a new’ face this many a day.”—
And in a moment the stranger entered.
“ Throw back that envious hood,”
the brow of our fair petitioner.” Fair
indeed, he whispered, admiringly, as
suiting the action to his words, he with
drew the hood from the somewhat fright
ened girl, disclosing the beautiful face
of Leonora Estrange. She paused a
moment, and then threw herself at his
feet . Her cheek was of a marble hue
as she extended a letter to him.
Edward took it carefully, but as his
glance rested upon it, he bent forward
w r ith a kindling eye and frowning brow.
Once or twice he read, and re-read ;
then looking gravely dow’n upon the
fair girl, he said, somewhat sternly,
‘ And how, pretty one, came you by
this r
“ Lord Francis Clairmont,” she said,
“bade me destroy it, but knowing it to
be of somewhat treasonable import, I
have brought it to you, my liege, for
safe-keeping.”
“And what may my Lord of Clair
mont be to you, that he should deposit
letters of such high value in your care.”
“ Nothing, sire,” answered Leonora,
while the warm blood mantled her
cheek and brow.
“Come,” he said, smilingly, “1 can
read the riddle : he loves thy fair face,
and then, thou lovest thy sovereign bet
ter.”
“ There is no love betw’een us—once
it were otherwise; but now the heart
which he has betrayed knows no softer
unction than revenge. Yes,” she add
ed, in a deep, low voice, “ Leonora Es
trange lives but for revenge. The deed
is done. With your leave, sire, I will
withdraw.”
“ Nay, stay,” said the monarch, lay
ing his hand lightly upon her arm to
detain her, “ sit thee here, poor child,
by my side, and we will see if we can
not comfort thee,” he whispered, as he
drew her to his side. “ Good heaven,
he must be a craven,” cited the mon
arch, “ that could be false to those
bright eyes ! And now, pretty trem
bler, say, shall not Edward comfort the
poor heart that throbs so wildly ? Hy
this token, he swears fidelity evermore
to these lovely lips.”
He would have pressed his own to
those of the pale girl, but like lightning
she sprang up, and stood with head
erect,flashing eye,and crimsoned cheeks.
“Stand back, my liege,” she said ; “the
monarch of proud England forgets him
self strangely, when he leaves it for
one like me to recall him thus. 1 came
not here to complain of Lord Francis
of Clairmont, or to seek the love of
England’s king—but to accomplish my
destiny. My liege, fare-thee-well,” and
she turned to withdraw.
The monarch stood wrapt in mute
admiration of the bold girl as she spoke;
but when she turned, he sprang for
ward, cry ng, “By my halidom, this
proud spirit suits thee well. Bold, for
sooth, must be the one that dares trifle
with thy woman’s heart. But do you
know, girl,” he said, as his eye again
fell upon the paper within his hand,
and he folded it, placing it within his
bosom—“do you know that you have
doomed your recreant lover to a trait
or’s death?”
Leonora sprang forward, and laid her
small white hand upon the king’s arm,
while her red lips grew pallid, and quiv
ered with agony as she cried, “To
death ! oh ! sire, you do but jest with
poor Lenora ? Say it not again ; re
call the words you but now have spoken.”
Edward looked long and fixedly
fixedly upon the agonizing brow up
turned to his, upon which remorse had
already stamped its iron signet. He
laid his jewelled hand upon the pale
brow, and bending low, whispered,“And
if to thy prayer, I spare the life of Fran
i cis of Clairmont, will Edward win the
; love of Leonora ?”
But. no blush mantled the young
: cheek; the life blood was pressing
heavily upon her heart; for the truth
had struck her for the first time, that
it was not alone to imprisonment, but
to death, and by her hand, that Clair
mont was betrayed. Hence the mon
arch’s words awoke scarcely a thought
within that throbbing heart. Raising
the long lashes, her glance fell coldly
upon Edward s as she answered, “The
love, the fidelity of the subject, 1 will
bestow, and it mv sovereign be but
just to himself and others, that will be
enough. 1 have nothing else, mv liege,
to give.”
“ Then, by heaven, Clairmont dies
ere another week has passed'.” answer
ed the king.
Leonora drew herself up. ‘Audi
tell you, false king, false alike to honour
and justice, that he shall not die.” And
again, with flashing eye and dauntless
mien, she confronted England’s king,
and then suddenly turned from the
apartment.
Ihe word was spoken. The final
sentence had gone foi th. Doomed to
an ignominious death, on the breaking
of another dawn, the young Lord of
Claim ont sat in his dungeon. His
head was bowed upon his folded arms;
his cheek was pale with the spirit’s
strife, and his dark eye had lost its wont
ed fire. Ihe light ot his soul had ex
pired when he learned that lie was be
trayed, and by the hand of Leonora.
Long he remained buried in deep and
painful thought, until a lw, half-stifled
sob fell upon his ear. 1 ncovering his
tiiee, he looked tenderly down, where
by his side the Lady Clare sat, with
her head resting upon his knee. Sadly
and caressingly he laid his hand amid
those golden curls, clustering around
the pale brow, and bending down fond
ly, kissed the tear-laden eyes. As he
did so, he said, “Thou alone, of all the
world, art true.”
Amid her tears she looked up, as
these words, like blessed music, fell
upon her ear.
He had scarcely spoken when the
door was gently opened, and a muffled
figure stood silently gazing upon the
scene. Directly she advanced with fal
tering steps, and spoke in trembling ac
cents. The colour came flushing to the
cheek of Francis of Clairmont.
”My lord, she said, as she threw
IffifKJmr *wrtki ;rs J theth fiance's red
upon that beautiful face, now so wan
and faded—“ my lord, Leonora has
come to save the life which she has
perilled. Will you not trust me ?” she
asked, in a voice of touching sadness, as
she knelt before him.
Francis of Clairmont looked sadly
down upon her for a moment, without
a word ; then he spoke. “ Have you
come here, Leonora,” he said, “to mock
the doomed man with idle hopes and
soft words —you, who have betrayed
me to death ! Yet I thank thee, Leono
ra, for the boon of thy presence. I
would return the wrong thou hast
done by mercy. Francis of Clairmont
loved thee.”
Here a low cry broke from the young
wife; but he laid his hand upon her
head, as he continued : —“I loved thee
until thou didst betray me to infamy
and death; then the wrung soul, in
its agony, turned to a softer, a truer
heart.”
A shudder ran through the slight
figure before him, and Leonora spoke,
in a voice of sharp agony, that fell pain
fully upon the listener’s ear. “ Not a
truer, not a fonder heart,” she said.—
“Francis, the poor gipsy girl would
have sacrificed all but honour to have
saved thy life. Behold here—she will
still save you. Take this cloak and
hood,” casting them from her as she
spoke ; “wrap them around thee, and
pass out. None will heed thee. At
the foot of the stairs a boat waits, and
with it those who will bear thee away
in safety. And then, lady,” she said,
approaching the Lady Clare, “ let me
look upon the face which smiled upon
my lone youth, and pray for pardon for
all the wrong I have done thee.”
She spoke hurriedly. Clai rmont moved
not. She took her mantle, and threw
it around tht young lord ; but a sharp
thrill ran through her whole frame, as
she touched the hand that so had
fondly clasped her ow n.
When the young nobleman felt the
burning touch of those slight fingers, he
raised himself, saying, “Andean you
think, Leonora, that 1 will leave you to
the revenge of a baffled king ?”
“ Edward will not harm me,” an
swered Leonora, “a night’s imprison
ment will be all; and it matters little
now,’’she murmured to herself, “wheth
er the roof of palace or prison covers this
blighted head.”
Clairinont still hesitated,but she took i
his hand and joined it to that of the
Lady Clare, saying, “She is good and
true —be thou so to her. Go, before it
is too late.”
The next moment she was alone.
When the echo of Clairmont’s step
had died away, she threw herself upon
‘ the couch, and drew the covering around
her, so that, if the guard looked in, he
might still fancy elairmont slept. The
caution proved not in vain; for in a
little while, the door opened, and a
man’s head intruded. But in the dim
light the guard beheld that motionless
form; murmuring to himself, “He sleeps
soundly his last sleep on earth,” he went
on his round.
Who shall tell the bitter and sad
thoughts that swept across the soul of
Leonora Estrange, through the hours
of that long, dark night ? They were
too deep tor endurance at last; for,
when the first grey light of early morn
ing filled the room, and the guards en
tered to convey the young Lord of
Clairmont to the block, they found only
the corpse of a young girl lying quiet
ly upon his pallet. Even the rough
and hardened soldiers turned awe-striek
en from the sweet pale face before them*
Many eyes looked upon that lifeless
form that day, and at last the tidings
| reached the monarch’s ear. With a
presentiment of the truth, he enterec
the room, and bent over the dead.—
For many moments he stood motion
less ; then a tear was seen to gather
in his eye, and fall silently amid the
dark braids of the corpse, beautifu
even in death.
Fraincis of Clairmont,” at last, sait
the king. “ Let her have Christian
burial ; and let masses be said for her
50u1..”
Taught by the bitter lessons of youth,
Lord Clairmont was ever after true to
his sweet wife. But both he and the
heiress of Moorland often conversei
sadly of Leonora Estrange, the poor
Gipsy Girl.
(frarral (Brlrrtir.
BEETHOVEN.
Mr. J. S. Dwight, the musical editor
ot the Message Bird, speaks in the fol
lowing enthusiastic terms of Beetho
vens Second Symphony, in D major.
It is one of the finest translations ol
music into words that we have ever
seen :
“To come at once, then, to the mu
sic. It is in the key of o major, the
most splendid and triumphant key,
which has been so much dedicated to
| martial strains. The principal theme
of the allegro, the tirce unbridled joy
impulse, does not get out immediately;
but is preceded by a marvellously
grand and crowded passage in 3-4
adagio movement, in which all the
countless streams of life seem to be
rolling in their waves together, and all
the solemn clouds to be moving in
above, their edges silvered by the light
of every star, while thunders roll and
lightnings fly from one to the other (so
1 would interpret those swift, violin
flights from massive chord to chord—
one chord, as it were, lightening into
another), and all the elements, and all
the life and beauty and majesty of na
ture are gathered into the intensity of
the moment. One by one, in solemn
chord-processions, had each mysterious
and august presence kept arriving; and
a simultaneous shout, a rush of many
voices (transition to the key of B flat)
had announced the splendid circle full,
before the rushing, heaving, hither and
thither swaying,tumultuous movement
life, met face to face, is still with mu
tual expectation. The principalities
and powers of all the solar worlds sit
still and solemn round, as if upon the
eve to celebrate glories which the
tongue of man would be palsied in
pronouncing. A short consultation in
an under-tone is heard between the vio
lins and violoncellos (the melody is
hurried triplets); they seem to come to
an understanding; rich, hope-inspiring
chords, crowned by the light-trilling
flute, like the sunbeam of expression
lighting up a countenance about to
speak,Announce that the word is soon
to go forth; and with an impetuous
hound leaps from the goal the impatient
thema, (allegro con brio), like live
lightning: joy is no longer clogged by
its own fulness: it scours the illimitable
plains with resistless speed, scarce re
membering to pause and w hisper the
burthen of its mission, the short glad
counter-theme, or second subject (in a)
to here and there a listener by the way.
How it is carried through, what sepa
rate thoughts the successive phrases of
the movement might suggest, we will
not stop to consider. r l he very diffi
culty of executing a piece of such
breadth and energy and rapidity helps
out its true expression. Just as your
wrists and fingers, if you try to play it
on the piano, begin to give out, the
music itself falters and pants exhaust
ed, then gathers itself up by short,
broken efforts, to rush forward in a
fuller stream. This is exceedingly char
acteristic of Beethoven. What a de
termined, head-long energy is in his
movements! how his theme goes on,
gathering up more and more force and
fulness in its movement, piling chord
upon chord, climbing, climbing, like
accumulated waves, which break and
all fall back; then gather themselves
again for the onset, and climbing by
half-tones through all the chords, burst
through, and lo,! the sea is smooth, and
we sail along in the sweetest buoyant
measure, triumphing with the theme.
After this first fury of joy has spent
itself, the serene and thoughtful Lar
ghetto commences, in the child-like,
happy key of a major. The theme is
given first by the delicious quartette of
string instruments, which seems the
full heart’s pious, cheerful hymn of
gratitude, in a gentle, equable narrative
style, as if recounting all its hidden
bliss. Three or four, at least, new sub
jects enter into the course of the move
ment, all of exquisite beauty, like the
blending of the winds and starlight
I with our serenest, richest thoughts. —
Some of the modulations by which
new subjects are ushered in, or old
ones in new keys, are solemn and im
posing, as the shillings of the clouds
: around the setting sun. The deepest ten-
I derness and seriousness reigns through
out; and faith was never blessed with
fuller, purer utterance.
“Can music laugh and jest'? Is there
; wit and humour, or aught answering to
them, in its mystic sphere? At least,
let none, unless the choicest, most re
fined, and most imaginative, provoke
t < mirth a mind composed to such se
rene, sweet musings by the Larghetto.
Yet the wild Scherzo must, bv the
compensating power of nature, have
its place. And here it is indeed Schcr
zissimo ! It seems as if the motliest,
queerest group of bacchanalians were
assembled, all beside themselves with
gladness, and disputatious with excess
of joy. Every instrument must have
its say in turn, and all so rapidly, they
THIRD VOLUME—NO. 19 WHOLE NO 119.
mingle and chime in in spite of them
selves, and are whirled away in one
hurricane of concord. Or does it seem
rather as if ignes fatui were dancing
and blazing through the air in all direc
tions, now diverging, now rushing to
gether into one great splendour, and
showing through what oddest freaks of
diversity the deep unity can maintain
its law. And then, in the same breath,
the rustic trio, of oboes and bassoons
(in b flat) —what! Pun himself and all
his satyrs come to join the revels!—
Then a long, loud burst—in unison on
f sharp, with nil its chords reveberated
in switt succession, and dying into a
murmur, as if they had reached the
acme of ma’d-eap enthusiasm and stun
ning peals of merriment, and rough tu- .
mult nous embraces, and tossing up of’
caps, could go no further. Another
peal, and a return into the scherzo, and
the grotesque revellers frolic off the
stage as they came on.
“The Finale (presto) is only a more
serious freak of madness—joy so pos
sessed and frantic, that it must vent it
self or die. It reminds us of those
states of mind, in our highest com
munion with nature, when song and
prayer, and inward still delight, and
rapturous looks and words are not
enong i, but it becomes an animal im
pulse, and away we plunge through
swamps and thicket, hill and vale, and
run till we can run no more, and kind
fatigue and sleep deliver us. It is verv
despair of utterance, and ends with the
acknowledgment, as it were, that faith
can feel, but neither word nor action
quite express the depth and riches of
our life.”
NEW ORLEANS THIRTY YEARS AGO.
ADVENTURES OF A RRITISH OFFICER.
“ Nota Bene,” in his last letter to the
Concordia Intelligencer, quotes a para
graph from the Boston Transcript
about a gentleman who once narrowly
escaped premature burial in this city
during the yellow fever season, and
then proceeds totell the following story:
This reminds me of an incident that
transpired a few weeks ago. Having
dined at the Planters’, a first rate farni
y hotel, kept by Murray, formerly of
the Natchez Mansion 1 louse, and re
>aired to the balcony, overhanging Ca
nal street, to enjoy the sea breeze, I fell
into conversation with a gentleman reg
istered on the books as Major H*****t,
ate of the British army. Like all
others ot bis class he had seen much
of the .‘-'iij,] and was courteous and
communicative. He had served in In
dia, in the Peninsula, in Belgium, in
the war with this country, and, subse
quently, was an aidd , ‘-— ~v,,f cto Bolivar
I was at this Hotel, then known as
Beale’s. It was in September, and the
yellow fever was prevailing; but as I
had long been quartered in the tropics,
I felt no apprehensions. My vis a vis
at dinner was Mr. Cameron, a young
Scotchman in the prime of life, com
mercial agent of a Glasgow house. For
three days we dined and spent our
evenings together. On the fourth he
did not appear. While sipping my
sherry after dinner, I sent for the land
lord, and inquired for Mr. Cameron.
“ Major,” said he, “your friend will
never dine with you again, but when
ever you please 1 will conduct you to
him.”
Struck with these words which,though
uttered with a polite nonchalance, had
something ominous in them, I rose from
the table and in silence followed Mr.
Beale. He threw open a small parlor,
and there lay my young friend, with
whom 1 had parted at two o’clock the
previous evening dead! Sir, 1 have
had my comrades cut down by a cui
rassier at my elbow: 1 have seen whole
battalions swept away by artillery ; 1
have seen a storming party torn into
fragments by the explosion of a mine;
I have seen brave men sink at sea and
hundreds perish in hospitals by the
wasting ravages of wounds and disease;
but never have 1 been so shocked a..d
apalled as by the livid corpse of that
young Scotchman ! He had been seiz
ed with fever immediately after leaving
my room, and expired at daylight; and
so little impression had it made, and
so much was such a death within the
every day line of incidents, it had not
disturbed the business of the house,
nor had the landlord, who knew our in
timacy, nor the waiter, who attended
us at table, and served us with cham
pagne the evening previous, thought it
of sufficient importance to name it to
me. In those days, in New Orleans,
resident gentlemen never appeared at
breakfast. They took their coffee with
a cher amie , hut if they were absent at
dinner, you might, without further en
quiry, apply for lette.s of administra
tion on their estates ! My poor friend
was already in his coffin, and even in
my grief 1 could not avoid noticing its
elaborate finish, solid mahogany, trim
med with velvet, with a silver plate,
his name and escutcheon beautifully en
graved. 1 expressed my surprise that
these could be procured when the sub
ject had only been dead a few hours.
“ Major,” said Mr. Beale, “that is ea
sily explained. \Ye have an undertaker
attached to this house. Cameron’s cof
fin has been ready twelve months.”
What sir, had he a presentiment of
death ?
“No Major, not at all. But in this
city the march of disease is rapid ; our
fevers kill in a few hours; mortifica
tion immediately ensues, and it is the
rule of my house, from July to Octo
ber, to measure every man for his cof
fin the moment he registers his name.
The chances are ten to one he w.ll be
dead in a fortnight!”
As 1 looked incredulously at this
statement, Mr. Beale continued: “I per
ceive you do not credit this, Major, but
follow me, if you please, and you shall
be convinced.”
He led the way to the attic of the
house, and there, ranged around in
grim array, stood sixty coffins of dif
ferentfinishand dimensions,one for each
boarder, with my own conspicuous
among them, my name and coat of
arms blazoned upon it !
“ Major,” said the landlord, “ your
measure was taken the moment of your
| arrival. You announced your inten
tion to stay three months, and, while
; registering your name, my undertaker,
who watches the arrivals, and is very
adroit, applied his tape to you. I hope,
sir, you are pleased. Inspect the her
aldry. It is .* II right. \Ye consult the
best authorities on the British peerage.”
I was too much shocked to reply,
but immediately retreated to my room,
packed my baggage, and rang for my
i bill, determined not to sleep another
night in a city where coffins were made,
and probably graves dug, beforehand.
My bill was as follows : Major H ,
to Beale’s Motel, Dr. —Four days’
i board, at $3, sl2; lights, $1.50; se
| gars, #1 ; paper, 25 cents ; wine. #2O;
J coffin, #1.50; E. E., #36.25.
I descended to the bar in no amiable
mood ; threw down thirty-four dollars
and seventy-five cents, but refused to
pay for the coffin. I had never order
ed such a thing; on the contrary, it
was a liberty 1 should not excuse.—
“ \ ery well, Major,” said Mr. Beale,
with a low bow and one of his bland
est smiles, “just as you please; it makes
no ditFerance. The coffin was made in
pursuance of a ride of my house. Had
you remained a week, you would, most
probably, have needed it, and, as we
bury strangers before they are quite
dead, had this coffin not been made, in
the event of your death, your aristo
cratic body would have been sent to the
trench in a pine box ! Do not pay,
Major. It is quite unnecessary. But
your coat of arms—the escutcheon of
the noble house of H*****t—is on that
coffin, and the first pauper that dies
shall lie buried in it.”
1 his was too much for m3* ancestral
pride. I threw down the sovereigns,
made a bonfire of the coffin, and the
same evening hired a barge to carry
me from a city where such dreadful
customs prevailed. Imperative busi
ness, continued the Major, brought me
to New Orleans a few* days ago. B}*
a singular sort of fascination, I was
to the same hotel from which I
tied thirty years ago; and, by a strange
coincidence, my stay is of the same du
ration, (I leave this evening,) and m3*
bill is about the same.
“ How, Major,” I exclaimed, “ has
Murray charged you for a coffin ?”
No, sir, not exactly that—it occurred
in this way. W hile registeiing my
name, I felt someone touch me on the
shoulder, as I felt it thirty years be
fore. Indignant that the same trick
should be played upon me a secon i
time, I wheeled, and atone blow knock
ed the man down, and placed my foot
Ciipiwmvui it ** ao ct 11 ‘atictl
dant of the hotel in the act of brushing
the dust off my coat. I felt much
chagrined, and she least I could do was
to ask the poor fellow’s pardon, and in
sist on his accepting the same amount
that I had paid for my coffin on a former
occasion.
Saying this the servant shook my
hand and departed. Curiosity led me
to visit the attic, but the rule of the
house has been changed, and, instead
of coffins, 1 found long rows of Sherry,
Madeira, Port, Cognac, Holland, Old
Jamaica, and Irish Whiskey, in bottles
and demijohns covered with cobwebs,
like old monks in their dark gowns,
which Murray here hoards for his guests.
The Major went up to Louisville on
the last trip of the Magnolia, and our
friend, Commodore Gyles, tells the fol
lowing story, and if it be not true
Charlie is responsible. The Major put
up at one of the best boarding houses,
and was delighted with the table, but
at night found himself crowded into a
room with two others. Ilis English
prejudices were shocked, but finding
there was no redress, he submitted like
a soldier, and resolved to make the
most of his situation. He took it for
granted that his room mates were
Yankees, and soon began to rally them
on the reputed cunning and trickery of
the breed. He even insisted that they
should play him a Yankee trick. They
begged off, professed to be drowsy, but
promised to perform one before they
parted. When the Major woke one
of the gentlemen was off, and his patent
lever, broadcloth, and portmanteau had
disappeared likewise. He roused up
the other who was or affected to be, in
a deep snooze. “ Stranger,” said the
man, rubbing his eyes, “ our room
mate has robbed us. lam a ruined
I man. My gold dust is gone. Let us
| pursue the villain.” The Major assent
ed with the alacrity of one who had
lost his wardrobe and &1500 in sover
eigns. After some delay they traced
the fugitive to Shippenport, and ascer
tained that a man of his description
had left at daylight, passenger on a flat
boat for New Orleans. They charter
ed a skiff, and pulled into the current.
About nightfall they overhauled the
flat, and perceived their man on the
j deck. He immediately hailed the
! Major, and invited him on board.—
| “ Here,” he cried, “is your watch and
portmanteau —all safe—it was only a
Yankee trick !” Delighted at his suc
cess, the Major’s good humour was res
tored. He leaped into the flat, even
took the hand of the Yankee, and ac
cepted his offer to go and take a drink.
Hut just as he stooped to enter the low
cabin, the other jumped into the skiff,
and with his comrade rowed up stream ,
leaving the Major to get off'as he might!
It need scarcely be added that neither
the portmanteau nor the rogues were
heard of after wards.— X. O. True Delta.
Vulgar People. —“ Those are not
vulgar people,” says Dante, “ merely
because they live in small cottages or
lowly places; but those are vulgar
who, by their thoughts and deeds strive
to shut out any view of beauty.” There
are rich vulgar men, as well as vulgar
j poor men. Being poor is not a dis
qualification for being a gentleman.—
To be a gentleman is to be elevated
above others in sentiment rather than
situation. And the poor man, with an
enlarged and pure mind may be hap
pier, too, than his rich neighbour with
out his elevation.