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Original |totrtj.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
CLOUDS.
Dark the night with clouds and rain,
Beats the storm against the pane ;
Gloom I .-eek to pierce in vain,
On the city lying:
Cheerless is the muddy street.
Where few steps the pave greet,
Tr u kid ere,while by Beauty’s feet,
On Love's errands hyin<j.
Whde the town is wrapped in gloom,
Ci Id and silent as the toinb,
I, within my lonely room,
Muse on vanished pleasures.
From their shelves my chosen books,
All in their accustomed nooks,
Greet me w,th familiar looks.
Offering their treasures.
But, alas! their boasted lore,
To my heart cannot restore
j ov9 evanished evermore,
Like the dew of morning,
Leaving me bereft and lone,
All my golden visions flown,
Hope’s de al blossoms round me strown
Life no more adorning.
Soon the storm will pass away,
Kuril), ever young, again be gay ;
Like a child will smile the Day,
Which the sun hint- blesses, —
But the clouds which round my soiti,
[it such sombre masses roll,
Yield unto no Bun’s control,
And no Day’s caresses.
)urlenlun, December , 1850.
nf tlje luttniils.
LOSB ASD GAIN;
( i;. Ii KARTS versus DIAMONDS.
HV MISS MAIUA J. MACKINTOSH.
[From “ Kvciiiii.'.'s ;tl Uouald'fm Manor,” just published
by 11. Appleton X. Cos. New York.
Winter had thrown its icy fetters
over the Hudson, and stilled even the
stormier waves of the East River, as
ti:c inhabitants of New York designate
that portion of the Harbour which lies
between their city and Brooklyn. The
city itself —its streets—its houses—all
wore the livery of this “ruler of the in
inverted year I—while 1 —while in many a gar
ret and cellar of its crowded avenues,
ragged children huddled together, seek
ing to warm their frozen limbs beneath
the scanty covering of their beds, or
cowerin'; over the few ha ltd vino em
hers, which they misnamed a tire. Yet
the social affect ions w ere not chilled—
rather did they seem to glow more
warmly, as if rejoicing in their triumph
over the mighty conqueror of the phy
sical world. Christian charity went
forth unchecked through the frosty air
and over the snow-dad sfreets to shel
ter the houseless, to clothe the naked,
to w arm the freezing. Human sympa
thies awoke to new life the dying hopes
and failing energies of man, and the
sleigh-bells ringing out their joyous
peais through the day, and far, far into
the night, told that the young and fair
were abroad, braving all the severities
of the season, in their eager search af
ter pleasure, hi the neighbourhood of
W averiy Place, especially on the even
ing of the H;h of December, did this
merry music “wake the silent air” to
respond to the quick beatings of the
gay young hearts anticipating the fete
of fetes, the most brilliant party of the
season, which was that evening to be
g veu at the house of the ruler of fash
i’ i —the elegant Airs. Burton.
Instead of introducing our readers to
t!a*ga\ assemblage ofthis lady’s guests,
we w ill take them to the dressing-room
“t the fairest among them, the beauti
t !. the gay, the brilliant Caroline Dan-
Ip. As tlie door ofthis inner temple
of beauty opens at the touch of our
magic wand, its inmate is seen stand
ing before a mirror, and her eye beams,
•ud her lip is smiling w ith anticipated
triumph. Does there seem vanity in
tlw gaze she fastens there ? Look on
but; form of graceful symmetry, on
Dose large black eves with their jetty
binges, on tiie rich colouring of her
rounded cheeks, and the dewy fresh
ness of her red lip, and you will for
get to censure. But see, the mirror re
flects another form—a form so slender
that it seems scarce to hve attained
tie full proportions of womanhood, and
>'i time whose soft gray eyes and fair
complexion, and hair of the palestgold,
present a singular contrast, to the dark
vet glowing beautv beside her. This
is Mary Grayson, the orphan cousin of
( aroline Danny, who has grown up in
her father’s house. !She has glided in
“;th her usual gentle movement and
I g'ht. noiseless step, and Caroline first
perceives her in the glass.
“ Ah, Mary !” she exclaims, “ 1 sent
to. you to put this diamond spray in
in\ hair: you arrange it with so much
more taste than any one else.”
Vlary smilingly receives the expen
>iv ■ ornament, and fastens it amidst
hie dark glossy tresses. At this mo
m’ lit the door-bell gives forth a hasty
and, and going to the head of the stairs,
Mary remains listening till the door is
opened, and then comes back to say,
“Mrs. Oswald, Caroline, and Philip.’
” Prav, go down and entertain them
,V * O
tig 1 come, Alary”—and seemingly
nothing loth. Alary complies with the
t'epiest,
hi the drawing-room to which Mary
■ hnsoii directed her steps stood n
lady, who advanced to
“vet her as she entered, and kissing
affectionately, asked, “Are you not
g’ ing with us this evening V’
“ Xo ; my sore throat has increased,
u: ‘d the Doctor is positive; there is
n ° appeal from him, you know ; 1 am
V| ‘ r y sorry, for 1 wanted to see some of
[‘ /dip's foreign graces,” she said niay
m iy, as she turned to give her hand
a gentleman who had entered w hile
7* ! was speaking. lie received it with
b ank kindness of a brother, but be
-5 i;, e lie could reply the door of the
’ nwing-room opened, and Caroline
( Mnby appeared within it. Philip
Mwaid sprang forward to greet her,
; bxun that moment seemed forget-
a hbi toaajiAi, mwm to idjaitSM, m mi ab jsihmiss. am ta ■ sebsal Mmuasms.
ful that there was any other thing in
life deserving his attention save her ra
diant beauty. Perhaps there was some
little regard to the effect of his first
glance at that beauty, in her presenting
herself in the drawing-room with her
cloak and hood upon her arm, the dia
mond sparkling in her uncovered tress
es, and the ? >ft. ’’eh folds of her satin
dress and its li .wing iace draperies,
shading without concealing the grace
ful outline of her form. The gentle
man who gazed so admiringly upon
her, who wrapped her cloak around her
with such tender care, and even insist
ed, kneeling gracefully before her, on
fastening himself the warm furred over
shoes upon her slender foot, seemed a
fit attendant at the shrine of beauty.
Philip Oswald had been but a few
weeks at home, after an absence of four
years spent in European travel, The
quality in his appearance and manners,
which first impressed the observer, was
refinement—perfect elegance without
the least touch of coxcombry. It had
been said of him, that he had brought
home the taste in dress of a Parisian,
th e imaginativeness of a German, and
the voice and passion for music of an
Italian. Few were admitted to such
intimacy with him as to look into the
deeper qualities of t he mind—but those
who were, saw there the sturdy hon
esty of John Bull, and the courageous
heart, a: id independent spirit of his own
America. Some of those who knew
him best, regretted that the possession
of a fortune, which placed him among
the wealthiest in America, would most,
probably consign him to a life of indo
lence, in which his highest qualities
would languish for want of exercise.
By nine o’clock Caroline Danby’s
preparations were completed, and lean
ing on one of Philip Oswald’s arms,
while the other was given to his mo
ther, she wits led out, and placed in the
most splendid sleigh in New York, and
wrapped in the most costly furs.—
Philip followed, tiie weary coachmen
touched his spirited horses with the
whip, the sleigh-bells rang merrily out,
and Mary Grayson was left in solitude.
The last stroke of three had ceased
to vibrate on the air when Caroline
Dauby again stood beside her cousin.
Mary was sleeping, and a painter might
have hesitated whether to give the
palm of beauty to the soft, fair lace,
which looked so angel-like in its placid
sleep, or to that which bent above her
in undimmed brilliancy.
“Is it you, Caroline 1 What time
is it ?” asked Mary, as she roused at
her cousin’s call.
“Three o’clock; but wake up, Mary;
1 have something to tell you, which
must not be heard by sleepy ears.’*
“ iiow fresh you look!” exclaimed
Mary, sitting up in bed and looking at
her cousin admiringly. “W ho would
believe you had been dancing all night!”
“ i have not been dancing all night,
nor half the night.”
“ W hy —what have you been doing
then ?”
“ Listening to Philip Oswald. Oh
Mary ! i am certainly the most fortu
nate woman in f lie world. lie is mine,
at last —he, the most elegant, the most
brilliant man in New York, and with
such a splendid fortune. 1 was so hap
py, so excited, that l could not sleep,
and therefore I woke you to talk.”
“ 1 am glad you did, for 1 almost as
much pleased as you can be —such joy
is better than sleep but all the hells
in the city seem to be ringing—did you
see anything of the fire X
“Oh yes! the whole sky at the
southeast is glowing from the flames—
the largest fire, they say, that has ever
been known in the city—but it is far
enough from us--down in Wall street
—and who can think of fire with such
joy before them ! Only think, Mary,
with Philip’s fortune and Philip’s taste,
what an establishment I shall have.”
“ And what a mot her in dear, good
Mrs. Oswald !”
Yes—but I hope she will not want
to live with us—mothers-in-law, you
know, always want to manage every
thing in their sons’ houses.”
Thus the cousins sat talking till the
tire-bells ceased their monotonous and
ominous clang, and the late dawn of a
winter’s morning reddened the eastern
sky. It was halfpast nine o’clock when
they met again at breakfast; yet late
as it was, Mr. Dauby, usually a very
early riser, was not quite ready for it.
He had spent most of the night at the
scene of the fire, and had with great
difficulty and labor saved his valuable
stock of French goods from the destroy
er. When he joined his daughter and
niece, his mind was still under the in
fluenee of the last night’s excitement,
and he could talk of nothing but the tire.
“ Rather expensive fireworks, I am
afraid,” said Caroline flippantly, as her
father described the lurid grandeur of
the scene.
“Do not speak lightly, my daughter,
of that which must reduce many from
affluence to beggary. Millions of pro
perty were lost hist night. The 10th
of December, 1835, will long be re
membered in the annals of New York,
I fear.”
“ It will long bo remembered in my
annals,” w hispered Caroline to her cou
sin, with a bright smile, despite her fa
ther’s chiding.
“Not at home to any but Mr. Philip
Oswald,” had been Caroline Danby’s
order to the servant this morning ; and
thus when she was told, at twelve
o’clock, that that gentleman awaited
her in the drawing-room, she had heard
nothing more of the fire than her father
and the morning paper had communi
cated. As she entered, Philip rose to
greet her, but though he strove to
smile as his eves met hers, the
was vain; and throwing himself back
on the sofa, he covered his face with
his hand, as if to hide his pallor and
the convulsive quivering of his lips from
her whom he was reluctant to grieve.
Emboldened by her fears, Caroline ad
vanced, and laying her hand on his, ex
claimed “What is the matter ? —Are
you ill ?—your mother—pray do not
keep me in suspense, but tell me what
has happened.”
lie seemed to have mastered his
emotion, from whatever cause it had
proceeded ; for removing his hand, he
looked earnestly upon her, and draw
ing her to a seat beside him, said in
firm, though sad tones. “ That has
happened, Caroline, which would not
move me thus, but for your dear sake
—I asked you last night to share my
fortune—to day 1 have none to offer
you.”
“Gracious heaven !’’ exclaimed Caro
line, turning as pale as he, “ what do
you mean ?”
“ That in the fire of last night, or the
failures which the most sanguine as
sure me it must produce, my whole
fortune is involved. If I can recover
from the wreck what will secure to my
poor mother the continuance of her ac
customed comforts, it will be beyond
my hopes ; for me—the luxuries, the
comforts, the very necessaries of life
must be the produce of my own exer
tion. Ido not ask you to share mv
poverty,Caroline; I cannot be so selfish:
had 1 not spoken of my love last night,
you should never have heard it—though
it had been like a burning fire, 1 would
have shut it up within my heart—but
it is too late for this ; you have heard
it, and I have heard—tile remembrance
brings with it a wild, delirious jov,
even in this hour of darkness”—and
the pale face of Philip Oswald flushed,
and his dimmed eye beamed brightlv
again as he spoke : “ I have heard your
sweet confession of reciprocal regard.
Months, perhaps years may pass be
fore I obtain the goal at which I last,
night thought myself to have already
arrived—before I can dare to call you
mine—but in our land, manly determi
nation and perseverance ever command
success, and I fear not to promise
you, dearest, one day a happy home—
though not a splendid one—if you will
promise me to share it. Look on me,
Caroline —give trie one smile to light
me on my way—with such a hope be
fore me, I cannot say my dreary way.”
He ceased, yet Caroline neither look
ed upon him, nor spoke. Her eheek
had grown pale at his words, and she
sat with downcast eyes, cold, still, sta
tue-like at his side. \et did not Philip
Oswald doubt her love. Had not her
eye kindled and her cheek Hushed at
his whispered vows —had not her hand
rested lovingly in his, and her lip been
yielded to the first kiss of love—how r
then could he dare to doubt her? She
was grieved for his sake—lie had been
selfishly abrupt in his communication
of his sorrow, and now he —the strong-
J 5
er—must struggle to bear and to speak
cheerfully for her sake. And with this
feeling he had been able to conclude
tar more cheerfully than he commenced.
As she still continued silent, he bent
forward, and would have pressed his
lips to her cheek, saying, “ Not one
word forme, dear one,” —but drawing
liastilv back. Caroline said with grea’
effort,
“ I think, Mr. Oswald—it seems to
me —t hat—that—an engagement must
be a heavy burden to one who has to
make his own way in life—l—[
should be sorry to be a disadvantage
to you.”
It was a crushing blow, and for an
instant liysat stunned into almost death
like stillness by it: —but he rallied; he
would leave no loop on which hope or
fancy might hereafter hang a doubt.—
“Caroline.” he said, in a voice whose
change spoke the intensity of his feel
ing, “do not speak of disadvantage to
me —your love was the one star left in
my sky —but that matters not —what
1 would know is, whether, you desire
that the record of last evening should
lie blotted from the history of our
lives?”
“I—l think it had better be—l am
sure I wish you well, Mr. Oswald.”
It was well for her, perhaps, that she
did not venture to meet his eye —that
look of withering scorn could scarce
ever have vanished from her memory
—it was enough to hear his bitter laugh,
and the accents in which he said, —
“ Thank you, Miss Dan by—your wish
es are fully reciprocated—may you
never know a love less prudent than
your own !”
The door closed on him, and she was
alone —left to the companionship of her
own heart —evil companionship in such
an hour! She hastened to relate all
that had passed to Mary, but Mary had
no assurance for her —she had only
sympathy for Philip—“ dear Philip”—
as she called him over and over again.
‘ I think it would better become one
so young as you are to say Mr. Oswald,
Mary,” said Caroline, pettishly.
” i have called hnn Philip from my
childhood, Caroline—l shall not begin
to say Mr. Oswald now .”
Mary did not mean a reproach, but
to Caroline’s accusing conscience it
sounded like one, and she turned away
indignantly. She soon, however,sou ht
her cousin again with a note in her hand.
“ l have been writing to Mrs. Os
wald, Mary,” she said ; “you are per
haps too young, and Mr. Oswald too
much absorbed in his own disappoint
ment, to estimate the propriety of my
conduct; but she will, lam sure, agree
with me, that one expensively reared
as I have been, accustomed to every
luxury, and perfectly ignorant of econ
omy, would make the worst possible
wife to a poor man ; and she has so
much influence over Mr. Oswald, that
if she think so, she can soon persuade
him of the same thing. W ill you take
my note to her ? Ido not like to send
it by tt servant —it might fall into
Philip’s hands.”
Nothing could have pleased Mary
more than this commission, for her af
fectionate heart was longing to offer its
sympathy to her friends.
Mrs. Oswald assumed perhaps a lit
tle more than her usual statelinesss
when she heard her announced, but it
vanished instantly before Mary’s tear
fnl eyes, as she kissed the • hand that
was extended to her. Mrs. Oswald
folded her arms around her, and Mary
sank sobbing upon the bosom of her
whom she had come to console. And
Mrs. Oswald was consoled by such
true and tender sympathy. It was
CHARLESTON, SATURDAY, DEC. 14. 1850.
long before Mary could prevail on her
self to disturb the flow of gentler af
fections by delivering Caroline’s note.
Mrs. Oswald received it with an al
most contemptuous smile, which re
mained unchanged while she read. It
was a laboured effort to make her con
duct seem a generous determination
not to obstruct Philip’s course in life,
by binding him to a companion so un
suitable to his present prospects as her
self.
In reply, Mrs. Oswald assured Caro
line Dan by of her perfect agreement
with her in the conviction that she
would make a very unsuitable wife lor
Philip Oswald. “This,” she added,
“was alwavs my opinion, though 1 was
unwilling to oppose my son’s wishes.
I thank you for having convinced him
i was right in the only point on which
we ever differed.”
It cannot be supposed that this note
was very pleasing to Caroline Dauby ;
but whatever was her dissatisfaction,
she did not complain, and probably
soon Install remembrance of her cha
grin in tlic gayeties which a few men
of fortune still remained, admidst the
almost universal ruin, to promote and
to partake.
In the mean time, Philip Oswald was
experiencing that restlessness, that
burning desire, to free himself from all
his present associations, to begin, as it
were, anew 1 fe, which the first pres
sure of sorrow so often arouses in the
ardent spirit. Had not his will been
“bound down by the iron chain of neces
sity, he would probably have returned
to Europe, and wasted his energies
amid aimless wanderings. As it was,
he chose among those modes of life de
manded by his new circumstances, that
which would take him farthest from
New York, and place him in a condi
tion the most foreign to all his past ex
perience, and demanding the most ac
tive and most incessant exertion. Out
ot that which the fire, the failure of in
surance companies and of private indi
viduals had left him, remained, after
tiie purchase of a liberal annuity for
his mother, a few thousands to be de
voted either to merchandise, to his sup
port while pursuing the studies neces
sary for the acquirement of a profes
sion, or to any mode of gaining a living
which he might prefer to these. The
very hour which ascertained this fact,
saw his resolution taken and his course
marked out.
“ 1 must have new scenery for this
new act in the drama of my life,” lie
said bi his mother, “i must away—
away from all the artificiali'ies and
trivialities of my present world, to the
rich prairies, the wide streams, the
boundless expanse of the West. Igo
to make anew home for you, dear mo
ther—you shall lie the queen of my
kingdom.”
This was not. the choice that would
have pleased an ambitious, or an over
fund mother. The first would have pre
ferred a profession, as conferring high
er social distinction; the last would
have shrunk from seeing one nursed in
the lap of luxury go forth to encounter
the hardships of a pioneer. But Mrs.
Oswald possessed an intelligence which
recognized in that life of bold adven
ture, and physical endurance, and per
severing labour, that awaited her son
in the prosecution ofhis plans, the best
school for the development of that de
cision and force of character which she
had desired as the crowning seal to
Philip's intellectual endowments, warm
affections, and just principles; and
holding his excellence as the better
part of her own happiness, she sanc
tioned his designs, and did all in her
power to promote their execution. He
waited, therefore, only to see her leave
the house whose rent now exceeded
her whole annual income, for pleasant
rooms in a boarding-house, agreeably
situated, before he set out from New’
York.
It is not our intention minutely to
trace his course, to describe the “local
habitation” which he acquired, or de
tail the difficulties which arose in his
progress, the strength with which he
combated, or the means by which he
overcame them. For bis course, suf
fice it that it was westward ; for his
habitation, that it was on the slope of
a hill crowned with the gigantic trees
of that fertile soil, and beside a lake,
“a sheet of silver,” well fitted to be
“ A mirror and a bath for beauty’s youngest
daughters
and that the house in which he at
length succeeded in rearing and fur
nishing there, united somewhat of the
refinement of his past life to the sim
plicity of his present; for his difficul
ties, we can only say, lie met them and
conquered them, and gained from each
encounter knowledge and power. For,
two years, letters were the only me
dium of intercourse between his mo
ther and himself, but those letters were
a history—a history not only of his
stirring, outer life, but of that inner life
which yet more deeply interested her.
Feeling proud herself of the daring
spirit, the iron will, the ready inven
tion, which these letters displayed, yet
prouder of the affectionate heart, the
true and generous nature, it is not won
derful that Mrs. Oswald should have
often read them, or at least parts of
them, to her constant friend and very
frequent visitor, Mary Grayson. Nor
is it more strange that Mary, thus made
to recognize in the most pleasing man
she had yet known, far more lofty
claims to her admiration, should have
enshrined him in her young and pure
imagination as some “ bright, particu
lar star.”
Two years in the future ! How al
most interminable seems tbe prospect
to our hopes or our affections!—but
let Time turn his perspective glass—
let us look at it in the past, and how it
shrinks and becomes as a day in the
history of our lives. So was it with
Phillip Oswald’s two years of absence,
when he found himself in the earliest
dawn of the spring of 1838, once more
in New Y r ork. Yet that time had not
passed without leaving traces of its pas
sage—traces in the changes affecting
those around him—yet deeper traces
in himself. He arrived in the after
noon of an earlier day than that on
which he had been expected. In the
evening Mrs. Oswald persuaded him
to assume, for the gratification of her
curiosity, the picturesque costume worn
by him in his western home. He had
just reentered her room, and she was
yet engaged in animated observation
<>f the hunting-shirt, strapped around
the waist with a belt of buckskin, the
open collar and loosely knotted cravat,
which, as the mother’s he art whispered,
so well became that tall and manly
form, when there was a sight tap at the
door, and before she could speak, it
opened, and Mary Grayson stood with
in it. Si e gazed in silence for a mo
ment on the striking figure before her,
and her mind rapidly scanned the
changes which time and new modes of
life had made in the Philip Oswald of
her memory. As she did so, site ae
knowledged that the embrowned face
and hands, the broader and more vigour
ous proportions, and even the easy free
dom of hisdress, were more in harmo
ny with the bold and independent
aspect which his character had assumed
than the delicacy and elegance which
had formerly distinguished him. His
outer man was now the true index of a
noble, free, and energetic spirit—a spi
rit which, having conquered itself, was
victor over all—and as such, it attract
ed from Mary a deeper and more reve
rent admiration, than she had felt for
him when adorned with all the trappings
of wealth and luxurious refinement.—
The very depth of this sentiment de
stroyed the ease oflier manner toward
him, and as Philip Oswald took the
hand formerly so freely offered him,
and heard from her lips the i meet ful
Mr. Oswald, instead of the frank, sis
terly Philip, he said to himself —“She
looks down upon the backwoodsman,
and would have him know bis place.”
So much for man,s boasted pane: ration!
Notwithstanding the barrier of re
serve thus erected between them, Phi
lip Oswald could not but admire the
rare loveliness into which Mary Gray
son’s girlish prettiness had expanded,
and again, and yet again, while she was
speaking to his mother, and could not
therefore perceive him, he turned to
gaze on her, fascinated not by the fine
ly turned form or beautiful features,
but by the countenance beaming with
gentle and refined intelligence. Here
was none of the brilliancy which had
dazzled his senses in Caroline Dauby,
but an expression of mind and heart 1
far more captivating to him who had
entered into the inner mysteries of life.
A fortnight was the limit of Philip
Oswald’s stay in the city. lie had come
no* for his mother, but for the house in
which she was to live, and he carried it
back with him. We do not mean that
his house, vi: i all its conveniences of
kitchen and untry, its elegancies of
parlour and <. a wing-room, and its de
corations ol’ pillar and cornice fitly
joined together, traveled off with him
to the far West. We do not despair
of seeing such a feat performed some
day, but we believe it has not yet been
done, and Philip Oswald, at least did
not attempt it; he took with him, how
ever, all thos<- useful and ornamental
contrivances, in their several parts, ac
companied by workmen skilled in put
ting the whole together. Again in his
western home, for another year, his
head and his hands were fully occupied
with building and planting. For the
first two years of his forest life, he had
thought only of the substantial pro
duce of the field—the rye, the barley,
the Indian corn, which were to be ex
changed for the “omnipotent dollar”—
but woman was coming, and beauty
and grace must be tiie herald of her
step'. For his mother, he planted
fruits and flowers, opened views of the
l ike made a gravelled walk to its shore
bordered with flowering shrubs, and
wreathed the woodbine, the honey
suckle, and the multifioru rose round
the columns of his piazza. For his
mother this was done, and yet when
the labours of the day were over, and
he looked forth upon them in the cool,
still evening hour, it was not his mo
tier’s face, but one younger and fairer
which peered out upon him from the
vine leaves,or with tender smiles wooed
him to the lake. Young, fair, and tend
er as it was, its wooing generally sent
him in an opposite direction, with a
sneer at his own folly, to stifle his fan
cies with a book, or to mark out the
plan of the morrow’s operations.
More than a year had passed away,
and Philip Oswald was again in New
4 ork, just as spring was gliding into
tile ardent embraces of summer. This
time he had come for his mother, and
with all the force of his resolute will,
he shut his ears to the flattering sug
gestions of fancy that a dearer pleasure
than even that mother’s presence might
be won. lie had looked steadily upon
his lot in life, and he accepted it and
determined to make the best of it, and
to be happy in it; yet he felt that it
was after all a rugged lot. Without
considering all women as mercenary as
Caroline Dan by, which his knowledge
of his mother forbade him to do, even
in his most wjinan-scorning mood, he
yet doubted whether any of those who
hid been reared amid the refinements
of cultivated life could be won to leave
them ail lbr love in the western wilds;
and as the unrefined could have no
charms for him, he deliberately em
braced bachelordom as a part of his
portion, and, not without a sigh, yield
ed himself to the conviction that all
the w ealth of woman’s love within his
power to attain, was locked within a
mother’s heart.
A fortnight was again the alloted
time of Philip Oswald's stay; but
when that had expired, he was per
suaded to delay his departure for ,vet
another week. He had been drawn,
by accompanying his mother in her
farewell visits, once more within the
vortex of society, and his manly inde
pendence and energy, his knowledge of
what was to his companions a new
world, and his spirit-stirring descrip
tions of its varied beauty and inexhaus
tible fertility, made him more the sash-
ion than he had ever been. lie had
often met Caroline Danby — now Mrs.
Randall—and Mary more than once
delicately turned her eyes away from
her cousin’s face, lest she should read
there somewhat ofchagrin as Mr. Ran
dall, with his meaningless face and dap
per-looking form—insignificant, in till
save the reputation of being the weal
thiest banker in Wall street, and pos
sessh g the most elegant house and
| furniture, the best appointed equipage,
I and the handsomest wife in the eitv—
j stood beside Philip Oswald with
“ a form indeed
Where every god did seem to set his seal,
To give the world assurance of a man,”
and a face radiant with intelligence,
while circled by tin attentive auditory
of that which was noblest and best in
their world, his eloquent enthusiasm
made them hear the rushing waters, see
| the boundless prairies, and feel for a
time all the wild freedom of the un
tamed West. Such enthusiasm was
| gladly welcomed as a breeze in the still
I air, a ruffle in the stagnant waters of
fashionable life.
Within two or three days of their
intended departure, Mrs. Oswald pro
posed to Philip that they should visit
a friend residing near Fort Lee, and in
vited Mary to accompany them.—
■ Among the acquaintances whom they
I found on board was an invalid lady,
who could not bear the fresh air upon
deck ; and Mary, pitying her loneliness
and seclusion, remained fora while con
versing with her in the cabin. Mrs.
Oswitld and Philip were on deck, and
j near tjiein was a voting and giddv girl.
| to whose care a mother had intrusted a
bold, active, joyous infant, seemingjy
about eight mouths old.
“ That is a dangerous position for so
lively a child,” said Philip Oswald to
the young nurse, as he saw her place
him on the side of the boat; “he may
; spring from your arms overboard.”
W i'h that foolish tempting of the
danger pointed out by another, which
we sometimes see even in women, the
girl removed her arms from around the
cliiid, sustaining only a slight hold of
its frock. At this moment, the flag of
the boat floated within view of the little
fellow, and lie sprang toward it. A
splash in the water'told the rest —but
even before that was heard, Philip Os
wald had dashed off his boots and coat,
and the poor child had scarcely touched
! the waves when he was beside it and
held it encircled in his arm.
“Oh, Mary! Mr. Oswald! Mr.
Oswald! cried one of Mary’s voung
acquaintances, rushing into the cabin
with a face blanched with terror.
, “ What of him?” questioned Mary,
starting eagerly forward.
“ He is in the water. Oh, Mary! he
will lie drowned.”
. Mary did not utter a sound, yet she
felt in that moment for the first time,
how important to her was Philip Os
wald’s life. Tottering toward the door,
she leaned against it for a moment
while all around grew dark and strange
sounds were buzzing in her ears. The
next instant she sank into a chair and
lost her terrors in unconsciousness.—
I’he same young lady who had played
the alar nist to her, as she saw tiie pale
ness of death settle on Mary’s face and
her eyes close, ran again upon the deck
exclaiming, “Mary Grayson is fainting
—pray conic to Mary Grayson.”
Philip Oswald was already on the
deck, dripping indeed, but unharmed
and looking nobler than ever, as he held
the recovered child in his arms. As
that cry “ Mary Grayson is flfinting”
reached his ears, he threw the infant to
a bystander, and hastened to the cabin
followed by Mrs. Oswald.
“\\ hat has caused this ?” cried Mrs.
Oswald, as she saw Mary still insensi
ble, supported on the bosom oflier in
valid friend.
“Miss Ladson’s precipitation,” said
the invalid, looking not very pleasently
on that young lady ; “she told her Mr.
Oswald was drowning.”
“ Well, 1 am sure l thought ho. was
drowning.”
“If he had been, it would have been
a pity to give such information so
abruptly,” said Mrs. Oswald, as she
took oft’ Mary’s bonnet and loosened
the scarf which was tied around her
neck.
“1 am sure,” exclaimed MissLadson
anxious only to secure herself from
blame, —“ lam sure I did not suppose
Mary would faint; for when her un
cle’s horse threw him, and every body
thought he was killed, instead of faint
ing she ran out in tiie street, and did
more for him than anybody else could
do. lam sure 1 could not think she
would care more for Mr. Oswald’s
danger than for her own uncle’s.”
No one replied to this insinuation ;
but that Philip Oswald heard it, might
have been surmised from the sudden
flush that rose to his temples, and from
his closer clasp of the unconscious form,
which at his mother’s desire he was
bearing to a settee. Whether it was
the water that oozed from his saturated
garments over her face and neck, or
some subtle magnetic fluid conveyed
in that tender clasp that aroused her,
we cannot tell; but a faint tinge of col
our revisited her cheeks and lips, and
as Philip laid her tenderly down, while
his arms were still around her, and his
face was bending over her, she opened
her eyes. What there was in that first
look which caused such a sudden flash
of joy into Philip Oswald’s eyes, we
know not; nor what were tiie whisper
ed words which, as he bowed bis head
yet lower, sent a crimson glow into .Ma
ry’s pale cheeks. This, however, we
do know, that Mrs. Oswald and her
son delayed their journey for yet anoth
er week ; and that the day before their
departure Philip Oswald stood with
Mary Grayson at his side before God’s
holy altar, and there, in the presence
of his mother, Mr. Danby, Mr. and
Mrs. Randall, and a few friends, they
took those vows which made them one
forever.
Does some starched prude, or some
lady interested in the bride’s trousseau
exclaim against such unseemly haste ?
We have but one excuse for them. —
THIRD VOLUME.—NO. 33 WHOLE NO 133.
They were so unfashionable as to pre
fer the gratification of a true affection
to the ceremonies so dear to vanity, and
to think more of the earnest claims of
life than of its gilded pomps.
Mr. Danby had been unable to pay
down the bride’s small dower of $8000;
and when he called on his son-in-law,
Mr. Randall, to assist him, he could on
ly offer to indorse his note to Mr. Os
wald for the amount, acknowledging
that it would be perilous at that time
to abstract even half that amount from
his business. It probably would have
been perilous indeed, as in little more
than a month after he failed for an
enormous amount; but fear not, read
er, for the gentle Caroline; she still
retained her elegant house and furni
ture, her handsome equipage and splen
did jewels. These were only a small
part of what the indignant creditors
found had been made over to her by
her grateful husband.
Six years have passed away since
the occurrence of the events we .have
been recording. Caroline Randall,
weary of the sameness of splendour in
her home, has been abroad for two
years, traveling with a party of friends’
It is said—convenient phrase that—her
husband has declared she must and
shall return, and that to enforce his
wili he has resolved to send her no
more remittances, to honour no more
of her drafts, as she has already almost
beggared him by her extravagance
abroad. Verily, she has her reward !
One farewell glance at our favourite,
Mary Grayson, and we have done.
Beside a lovely lake, over whose
margin light graceful shrubs are bend
ing, and on whose transparent waters
lie the dense forest shadows, though
here and there the golden rays of the j
declining sun flash through the tangled
boughs upon its dancing waves, a no
ble-looking boy of four years old is
sailing his mimic fleet, while a lovely
girl, two years younger, toddles about,
picking “pitty flowers,” and bringing
them to “papa, mamma, or grandmam
ma, as her capricious fancy prompts.
Near bv papa, mamma, grandmamma,
and or.e pleased and honoured guest,
aregrouped beneath the bending boughs
of a magnificent black walnut, and
around a table on winch strawberries
and cream, butter sweet as tlie breath
of the cows that yield it, biscuits light
and white, and bread as good as Hum
bert himself could make, are served in
a style of elegant simplicity, while the
silver urn in which the water hisses,
and the small china cups into which
the fragrant tea is poured, if they are
somewhat antique in fashion, are none
the less beautiful or the less valued by
those who still prize the slightest ob
ject associated with the affections be
yond the gratification of vanity.
The evening meal is over. The i
shadows grow darker on the lake.— j
Agreeable conversation has given place j
to silent enjoyment,which Airs. Oswald i
interrupts to say, “ Philip this is the j
hour for music; let us have some be
fore Alary leaves us with the children.”
bull, deep-toned was the manly
voice that swelled upon that evening
air, and soft and clear its sweet accom
paniment, while the words, full of
adoring gratitnde and love, seemed in
cense due to the II eaven which had so I
blessed them.
The last sweet notes have died away,
and Alary, calling the children, leads
t hem away, after they have bestowed
their good-night kisses. Philip Oswald
follows her with his eves, as, with a
child on either hand, she advances with
gentle grace up the easy slope, to the
house on its summit. She enters the
piazza, and is screened from his view bv
its lattice-work of vines, but he knows
that soon his children will be lisping
their evening prayer at her knee,and the
thought calls a tenderer expression to
his eyes as lie turns them away from
his “sweet home.”
Contrast this picture with that of
Caroline Randall’s heartless splendour,
and say whether thou wilt choose for
thy portion the gratification of the true
and pure household affections which
Heaven has planted in thy nature, or
that of a selfish vanity ?
■ ■ - rrmnT—
(Urntral (Brlrrfir.
H AVAGE LANDOR UPON SAVAGE
HAYNAU.
The veteran W alter Savage Landor
has written the following letter to The
Examiner respecting the reception of
Marshall Haynau in England:
Sir: Accounts have reached every
part of England announcing the recep
tion of Haynau. Whatever is new is
generally more acceptable in this coun
try than in any other; and murderers
have lately been the principal objects
of solicitude and compassion. Person
al wrongs, urgent necessity, and neg
lected education, the fault of parents
or of government, have impelled the
greater part of these wretches to the
commission of their crime. Yet the
fueling is false and morbid which in
duces those of a better nature to visit
them in their prisons, and to comfort
them under the sentence of the laws.
What excuse then is there for patroniz
ing the deliberate murderer of brave
soldiers, not met in the field of battle,
not taken with arms about them, who, j
if they had taught against Haynau, i
fought against the invader of their couu- j
try, fought for the laws of the land, :
fought for their wives and children ! j
What excuse is there for scourging in j
the public market-place the most deli- ;
cate of girls and mothers ? Ages have ;
passed over our heads since such atroci- \
ties were committed in Europe; and
only one man has been found capable
of committing them.
Alost deservedly has this wretch been
designated bv all the languages as the i
Hangman Haynau. Is it creditable ■
that he has the audacity and impudence j
to venture into this country ; to walk
openly in our streets ‘? If Marat and
Robespierre and Couthon had been dis
placed and exiled, is ours the land in
which they would have claimed the
rights of hospitality? Yet they were
only the engines of the laws, which,
many as were the innocent struck down
by them, many the noble, many the
aged, many the young, spared torture,
spared degradation.
I think it probable that the gentle
man in the Times, who defends on every
occasion the exercise of arbitrary pow
er, may receive a reprimand from Pe
tersburg. For the disgrace of Haynau
(this is the term in Courts, where tur
pitude has no such meaning) came,
like all other continental movements,
from that quarter. Os existing rulers,
certainly the Emperor of Russia is the
most able ; and whenever he perm its a
cruelty under his subject crowns, he in
sures to himself popularity by compas
sing in due time the humiliation of the
subordinate actor. He was resolved
that the youth ho protected at Vienna
should lose forever his hold ou the Hun
garians, while he took’ himself oif’a lit
tle and stood aloof, breathing a tepid
air of clemency.
There is much to be admired in the
character of this protentate, but there
is greatly more to be feared. He is
guided by one sole star, and never
turns his eves away from it. Variable
as the winds are the counsels of every
nation round, while his are conducted
by calm sagacious men along the same
line of polity from age to age. What
ever he meditates he effects. He
knows that the hour of action is not
to be accelerated by putting on the
hands of his watch. Omnipotent not
only at Athens, but through Athens at
Munich; omnipotent at Vienna, at
Berlin, at Stockholm, at Copenhagen,
he excites, or suppresses, or modulates,
or varies, the discordant cries of France
in every Department. The. eastern
empire rises up again, with greater
vigour and surer hopes than Constan
tine in Byzantium could impart to it,
and is now overshadowing and overaw
ing the dislocated and chaotic West.—
Nicholas wills the abolition of repub
lics ; France swears to maintain them;
and instantly throws down her own
that she may the more readily subvert
the Roman. In the hand of Napoleon
his half dozen royalets were nevermore
pliable manikins than the nephew is in
the hand of Nicholas. It will use him
for a time, as fora time it used Haynau.
In England, it seems, this discarded
butcher,stripped by Austria ofhis apron
and cleaver, is not to be to -ched, but
is, on the contrary, to be respected.—
And why? Because he has come upon
our shores!
Unquestionably thb hangman will
find defenders here in England: but
the defenders of such a wretch, wheth
er in print or Parliament, are even
worse than himself. Criminals who
have been put into the pillory for much
smaller offenses, and indeed for one on
ly, have undergone thereby the sen
tence of the law; yet public indigna
tion pelts them, and the press ac
quiesces. Mr. Baron Rothschild calls
the unfortunate man his friend. Jews
arernost peculiarly citizens oft he world:
Baron Rothschild among the rest: but
Baron Rothschild,the friend of Haynau,
lias a better right to be a citizen of the
world than a citizen of London ; and
a better right to be a citizen of London
than its representative. Never let us
hear again of the indignities the scourg
er and hangman has undergone, nor of
extenuating comparisons between his
crimes and the crimes of others.
The distinguished writer in the Times
is indignant that a person of Haynau’s
age should be scouted and insulted. —
1 here are crimes bf which age and in
firmity itself are an aggravation. Age
ought to be exempt from the violence
of the passions: age ought to be leni
ent, considerate, compassionate: agfc
should remember its past iinputuosi
ties, and rejoice in their extinction :
age must often have st 1 around its
own domestic hearth the irrepressible
ebullition of generous emotions, and
sometimes of ungenerous. The nearer
to the grave we are, the more should
we be on a level with the humanities,
and the more observant of those, fellow
men whom we are leaving on this side
of it. There is folly in calling it an
act of cowardice to drive away an as
sassin, whatever be his age or his con
dition. Gray hairs are venerable only
on the virtuous. We have seen gray
whiskered wolves ; but we never have
seen a body of the most innocent vil
lagers backward to pursue them in con
sideration of this merit.
AY alter Savage Landor.
September 7.
THE TELEGRAPH BETWEEN NEW
YORK AND LONDON.
|
Doubtless what the British prophet
said will yet be true: someone will
“put a girdle round the world in forty
minutes;” or better than that, intelli
gence of events will come to us from
Asia half a day before the sun ca n mark
the hour of their occurrence: we shall
have in our morning papers “what took
place this evening” in*(Janton and Cal
cutta —having a system of electro-tele
graphic grammar. The London Me
chanics Magazine says, pertinent to
this matter:
“ The establishment of this electro
telegraphic communication across the
Straits between England and France
has been fora considerable time forseen
as one of the most natural in tie train
of consequences resulting from the mo
dem application of electricity to the
transmission of intelligence between dis
tant parts. If a line of wire could con
vey the electric impulse for thousands
of miles over the surface <tf the earth
—as it has done, and is doing—there
could be nothing in the nature es things
to prevent it from being equally effica
cious it carried under the earth or even
under water ; granted always, that no
one has been heard to dispute, that it
is in the power of art to protect the
wire from whatever antagonistic influ
ences it may be exposed to when laid
down under earth or water. Trials
of submerged lines of wire had in fact,
been made with perfect success across
the Thames and the Hudson, both tol
erably broad rivers; and it was uot to
be doubted that what could be acco.m-