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Original
For tin* Southern Literary Gazette.
LOVE YOUNG AND OLD.
BY ISJA AVINTA.
There was a time when Love was young,
And to his sister [lope he sung
Full many a roundelay ;
And ever the burden of young Love’s song
Was, “ merrily danceth life along,
Like chry.-tal stream, clear, deep and strong,
In dimpled riplcts, a laughing throng
Chasing • ach other swift along
1 ‘in sunshine all the day.” £
.. when Love grew old,
And beautiful Hope was v. here'’ *nd cold
By Disappointment wan ; * *
lyre was all
tJVV. Till- s
Black shadows, and over its border hung
Willows a-weeping, and and Love sung
With broken notes unji lyre unstrung,
“ Is tile re no faith in man?”
And out of his hollow lieart Ucre came
An echo answering ever the same,
His wildly wailing “ no!”
But a geulle Angel out of tile skies
Stooped down and kissed Love’s failing eyes
And made his sad heart heaven ward rise,
And whispered, “ Naught on vain earth prize.
Thy life, thy hope, bloom in the skies,
Then linger not below.”
(Original (Taira.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE
COTERIE OF OLD MAIDS-
A SERIES OF STORIES.
11Y MISS E. U. C.
IV.
KATE MAHER.
Kate Maher! how our hearts beat,
even at this late day, at the name of
Kate Maher. She was one of those
sweet, gentle characters who entwine
themselves around the hearts of all
who know them. There was some
thing indescribably lovely in her pale,
pensive features, and the effect of her
radiant smile, lingered long after that
smile itself had passed away. She
rarely laughed, but gave way to her
joyous feelings by one of the most per
fect smiles that ever illuminated a hu
man countenance. Oh! how hearts
that well-nigh broke when she died,
still lovingly cling to the memory of
K;it.’ Maher, and the tear swells up in
many an eye at the mention or her
‘ At the next meeting of the Coterie,
she related her story,
“My story,” said Kate Maher, “is
soon told. It is as brief as was the
life of him for whose sake I remained
single. Love and Death! these are
the lights and shades of my past life;
scarcely had the cup of joy touched
m\ lips, when soriow dashed it to the
earth.
“.My love for Charles Beaufort com
menced in my childhood. It was no
sadden fancy, no passionate love for
the hour, ending only in disgust and
satiety, hut calm and abiding. 1 felt
that it would last through ‘time that
teaches to forget.’ Time sped on.—
Leaving the paths of childhood, we
stood in the broad road of maturity,
hut we still stood side to side—heart
linked to heart, loving, confiding, and
hoping. We were both poor, still we
were happy, for his was the strong
heart, the persevering arm ; and mine,
the disposition that hopeth all things.
But alas! for the feeble hold that we
have upon happiness. Like the bird
of I’aradise, it too often dies upon
touching earth. A severe illness at
tacked Charles Beaufort, and 1 saw the
lines of health fade, one by one, even
as I have seen the stars go out iu the
darkened heavens. I did not sink be
neath the blow. 1 had a mighty task
to pei form, and 1 needed all my strength
to enable me to gently lead the dying
pilgrim down to the dark chambers of
death, and there leave him. One day
the physician sent for me.
“lie must die,” he said, as he heard
that hollow cough, (whose sound had
ever sent a pang to my heart ;) “he
must die, and you must tell him of it.”
1 was tearless, I could not weep; I j
could but think of him who was so |
soon to leave me forever; and I pre- i
pared myself for the task. When 1 j
entered his room he was propped up in I
bed, 1 approached him with my tues- |
sage of death. Ah! ye who have had
a similar solemn duty to perform, know
what it is to tell one whose heart is
•id palpitating with life, “you must j
me.; He extended his thin hand to j
me, and murmured—
" Kate, I think that 1 am better.”
I shook my head mournfully. He !
looked astonished, for it was the first j
sign of despair that he had ever seen j
m me, and lie said with an effort at j
cheerfulness—
" Kate, you are not desponding, are
you f Coine, put you hand upon my j
strong heart, and let some of its fer- |
vent trust, its never dying hope, com- j
municate itself to you.”
“* ’h! Charls,” I said, “hope and
•rust, but let it be for heaven, not for
neai th from which you are hastening.”
“Kate,” he said, “until this moment
you have given me hope, that hope sus
tained life, and now—”
a I'Aiiiiif mm&k mmw n matom, m ami mb mmm, am m gmxml wsmdmw.
I pressed my lips upon his pale brow,
and whispered—
“l come now to be with you till life
itself is past,” and for the first and last
time until death took him, did 1 weep,
yes, I laid my head by his pale face,
and wept bitterly. Then arose his faint
voice, saying
“Dear Kate, you have kindly deliv
ered your message, I bow to Heaven’s
w ill, you have loved me in life, and I
know that you will mourn me in
death.”
Day after day did 1 watch beside his
pillow. Night after night 1 spent in
njiweari-uk heart-breaking watchings,
sbqfl no tear —1 uttered no com
plaint. I thought lull of the d\iiio
mortal to whom I clung with such un
dying love, and in the deep, unbroken
silence ol the midnight, I poured out
tny whole heart in prayer for him. Oh !
1 thought, as I knelt in agony beside
him, how stingless death would he it
my spirit could but go with his. How
willingly I would yield up life to walk
with him through the dark valley. 1
could not bear that his freed spirit
should wing its flight c miipan ion loss
and alone, but ah ! I did not then think
that angels attend the just man’s soul
in its passage home, and that for him
i death has no dark valley.
In one of my silent watches, Char.es
Beaufort died, 1 had clung to him with
alia woman’s love, but alas! love’s
chords though strong, cannot hind life;
death is stronger, and under his grasp
the subtle chain parts. Oh! how 1
. wept: the tears that for his sake had
f been driven hack to their source, now
, rushed forth in all their burning, bitter
. agony. But tears were no relief, as
| they fell scorching upon my check.—
. Days and nights I passed iri utter des
, olation of spirit, oh ! those long, long
r hours of misery, 1 feel their shadows
i upon me even now. The love that had
| been the “business of my life,” was
r | ended, no more would I “sing its plea
. | sant- song,” for in my sad heart were
. the life-long notes of a requiem which
i | moans forever over the early grave of
( ! Charles Beaufort.”
f j And thus, Kate Maher finished her
i | story, the beginning of which, wu.-ffove,
the endimr, death; and all present felt
thStHWritlfiurner had indeed realized
, | that unutterable woe, which belongs
“to eartlily love’s fond trust,
: : When ail that once it worshipped lies in dust.”
But a few months elapsed, and Kate
Maher closed her mild eyes in death’s
: endless sleep, strong in the hope (call
j it not a fallacy) that her spirit winged
I its flight above, to be joined in union
with that of Charles Beaufort, a union
! more perfect than could ever have been
consummated in this world. And the
harp of love, whose chords were so sud
denly stilled on earth, were retuned to
more blissful notes in Heaven.
Charleston.
frlrffrit (fnlra.
ROSALIE AND THEODORE.
A TALE.
‘Will you remember me, Rosalie!”
“Yes!’
“Will you keep your hand for me a
year ?”
“Yes!”
“Will you answer me when I write
i to you 1”
“Yes 1”
“One request more—Oh, Rosalie,
reflect that my life depends on your
acquiescence—should 1 succeed, will
i you marrv me in spite of your un
cle 1
“Yes!” answered Rosalie.
’Twas in a green lane, on a summer’s
evening, about nine o’clock, when the
■ west like a gate of gold, had shut up-
I on the retiring sun, that Rosalie and
her lover, hand in hand, walked up and
down.
****..*
Rosalie was upwards of five years
the junior of her lover. She had known
him since she was a little girl in her
twelfth year. He was almost eighteen
then ; and when she thought far more
about a doll than a husband, he would
set her upon his knee, and call her his
i little wife. One, two, threevears pas
j sed on ; and still, whenever he came
! from college, and as usual went to pay
j his first visit at her father’s, before he
had been five minutes in the parlour
I the door was flung open, and in bound
| ed Rosslie, and claimed her accustomed
seat. The fact was, till she was fifteen
she was a child of a very slow growth,
and looked the girl when many a eom
! panion of her’s ufAe same age had
I begun to appear thewoman.
When another vacation, however,
j came round, and Theodore paid his
j customary call, and was expecting his
; little wife as usual, the door opened
| slowly, and a tall young lady entered,
and, curtseying, coloured, and walked
j to a scat next the lad)’ of the house.
I The visitor stood up and bowed, and
sat down again, without knowingit was
Rosalie.
“Don’tyou know Rosalie?” exclaim
ed her father.
“Rosalie!” replied Theodore in an
accent of surprise ; and approached his
little wife of old, who rose and half
gave him her hand, and, curtseying col
oured again; arid sat down again with
out having interchanged a word with !
him.
Theodore felt disappointed. He
had never anticipated that the frank
ness of girlhood would vanish. At the j
next vacation, when he paid his first j
. visit, lie absented himself from the
I society of Rosalie, who resolved, if
: possible, to ascertain the cause, and
I persuaded her mother to give a ball,
and specially invite the young gentle
. I man. He came; she watched him;
; observed that he neither inquired after
I her nor sought for her; and marked
the excellent terms that he was upon
with twenty people, about whom she
knew him to be | erfectly indifferent.
; Women bavea perception of the work
ings of the heart, far more quick and
subtle than we have. She was con
vinced that all his fine spirits were
forced—that he was acting a part. She
: suspected that while he appeared to be
occupied with everybody but Rosalie,
Rosalie was the only body that was
running in his thoughts. She saw him
: library ; ‘in* billowed-
I him ; found him sitting down with a
■ hook in his hand ; perceived, from his
, manner of turning over the leaves,
that he was intent on any thing but
, reading. She was satisfied that lie was
thinking of nothing but Rosalie. The
’ thought that Rosalie might one da\ be
[■ come indeed his wife, now occurred to
her for the thousandth l ime, and a thou
j sand times stronger than ever: a spirit
diffused itself through her heart which
had never been breathed into it before:
and filling it with hope and happiness,
and unutterable contenUnent, irresisti
bly drew it towards tiim. She ap
proached him, accosted him, and in a
moment, was seated w ith him, hand in
hand upon the sola!
As soon as the dance was done—
. “Rosalie, ’ said 1 heodore, “’tis almost
as warm in the air as in the room , will
you be afraid to take a turn with me
; in the garden J”
“1 will get m v shawl ill a minute,”
said Rosalie, “and meet you there;”
and the maiden was there almost as
soon as he.
They proceeded arm-in arm, to the
farthest part of the garden; and there
they walked up and down without
either seeming inclined to speak, as
though their hearts could discourse
through their hands, which were locked
in one another.
“Rosalie!” at last breathed Theo
dore. “Rosalie!’ breathed he a second
time, the expecting girl could
summonßeijhrage to say “Well ?” “I
cannot gbTiome to-night,” resumed he,
“without speaking to you.”
Yet Theodore seemed to be in no
hurry to speak ; for there he stopped,
. and continued silent so long, that Ro
salie began to doubt whethm- hajWould
open his lips again.
“Had we not better go iu?” said
Rosalie; “I think 1 hear them breaking
up-” f \
“Not yet,” replied Theodore.
“TheyTT rrifss u<7’*said"Rosalie!
“What of that?” rejoined Theodore.
“Nay,” resumed the maid, “we have ;
remained long enough, and at least al
low me to go in.”
“Stop but another minute, dear
Rosalie!” imploringly exclaimed the
youth.
“For what ?” was the maid’s reply.
“Rosalie,” without a pause resumed !
Theodore, “you used to sit upon my j
knee, and let me call you wife. Are
those times past forever? Dear Ro
salie! will you never lot me take you
on my knee and call you wife again ?”
“When we have done with our girl
hood, we have done with our plays,”
said Rosalie.
“1 do not mean in play , dear Rosa-1
lie,” cried Theodore. “It is not play
ing at man and wife to walk, as such, j
out of church. Will you marry me. I
Rosalie?”
Rosalie was silent.
“Will you marry me ?” repeated he.
Not a word would Rosalie speak.
“Hear me!” cried Theodore. “The
first day, Rosalie, 1 took you upon my
knee, and called you my wife, jest as
it seemed to be, my heart was never
more in earnest. That day 1 wedded
you in my soul; for though you were .
a child, 1 saw the future woman in you
rich in the richest attractions of your
sex. Nay, do me justice ; recal what
you yourself have known of me, in
quire of others. To whom did I play
the suitor from that day ? To none
but you, although to you I did not
seem to play it. Rosalie! was I not
always with you? Recollect now!—
Did a day pass, when 1 was at home,
without my coining to your father’s
house ? VY hen there were parties there,
whom did 1 sit beside, but you?—
Whom did I stand behind at the piano
forte, but you? Nay, for a whole
night, whom have 1 danced with, but
you? Whatever you might have
thought then, can you believe now, that
it was merely a playful child that could
have so engrossed me? No, Rosalie!
it was the virtuous, generous, lovely,
loving woman that 1 saw in the play
ful child. Rosalie! for five years have
1 loved you, though I never declared it
to you till now. Do you think lam
worthy of you ? Will you give your*
seif to ine? YV ill you marry me?— I
YY ill you sit upon my knee again, and
let me call you wife?”
Three or four times Rosalie made an
effort to speak, but desisted, as if she
knew not what to say, or was unable
to say what she w ished ; Theodore still
holding her hand. At last,
“Ask my father’s consent!” she ex
claimed, and tried to get away; but be
fore she could effect it, she was clasped
to the bosom of Theodore, nor released
until the interchange of the first pledge
of love had been forced from her bash
ful lips! She did not appear that night
in the drawing room again.
Theodore’s adresses were sanctioned
b_v the parents of Rosalie. The wed
ding-day was fixed ; it wanted hut a
fortnight to it, when a malignant fever
made its appearance in the town; Ro
salie’s parents were the first victims.
She was left an orphan at eighteen ;
and her uncle, by her mother’s side, \
who had been nominated her guardian
in a will, made several years before, 1 ;
having followed his brother in-law and [
sister’s remains to the grave, took up j
his residence at B .
Rosalie’s sole consolation now was j
CHARLESTON. SATFRMY. JUNE 7, 18:51.
such as she receivec trom tne societ)
j of Theodore; but Theodore soon want
ed consolation him.se f. 11 is father was
attacked by the fever, and died, leav
ing his affairs, to the astonishment ot
every one, in a state of the most inex
tricable embarrassment; for he had
been looked upon as one of the w ealth
iest inhabitants of B . This was
adouble blow to Theodore; but he was
not aware of the w eight of it, till after
the interment of his father, he repair
ed. for the first time, to resume his vis
its to his Rosalie.
He was stepping up without cere
mony to the drawing-room, when the
servant begged his pardon for stopping
him, telling him, at the same time, tlia*
he had received inst'uctions from his
master to show Theodore into the pur
“YVas Miss YVilfonl there?”
“No,”
Theodore was shown info the par
lour.
“YVe.lI, young gentleman,” was the
salutation which I I eodore received
when he entered the parlour, “pray
what brings you here?”
Theodore was struck dumb; and no
wonder.
“Your father, I understand, has died
a beggar? Do you tl ink to marry my
niece ?”
If Theodore respired with difficulty
before, his breath was utterly taken
away at this, lie was a young man of
spirit; but who can keep up his heart
when his ship, all at once, is going
down ?
The human dog went on.
“Young gentleman, I shall be plain
with you, for I am a straightforward
man; young women should mate with
their matches—you are no match for
my niece; so a good morning to you!”
One may easily imagine the state
of the young fellow’s mind. To lie
driven with insult and barbarity from
the house in which he had been re
: ceived a thousand times with cour
i tesy and kindness—which he looked
j upon as his own! Then, what was
jto be done ? Rosalie’s uncle, after ail,
had told him nothing but the truth,
j His father had died a beggar! Dear
as Rosalie w'as to Theodore, his own
pride recoiled at the idea of offering
her a hand which was not the master
of a shilling. Yet was not Theodore
portionless. Ilis education was finish
ed ; that term he had completed his
collegiate studies. If his father had
not left him a fortune, he had provided
j him with the means of making one
j hisuself —at all events, of command
ing a competency. He had tiie credit
of being a young man of decided go-*
nius too.
“I will not offer Rosalie a beggar’s
hand !*’ ‘Njxclaimpfl^Wlwdoray-*♦ obaf
ask her to remain true to me for a year;
and I’ll go up to London, and main
tain myself by my pen. It may ac
quire me fame as well as fortune; and
then I may marry Rosalie!”
This w as a great deal of work to be
done in a year: but if Theodore was
not a man of genius, he possessed a
mind of that sanguine temperament
which is usually an aceompaniement of
the richer gift. Before the hour of
dinner, all his plans were laid, and he
was ready to start fi r London. He
waited now for nothing hut a message
from Rosalie in answer to a desire he
had expressed to the servant at the
house, to see herself. They met, and
Theodore’s w ishes, as already stated,
were granted. She promised to wait
for him a year. In minute
thev had said good bye, and parted.
London is a glorious place for a
man of talent to make his wtty in, pro
vided he has extraordinary luck.
Nothing but merit can get on ;
nothing is sterling that is not of its
coinage. Our provincial towns won’t
believe that gold is gold unless it has
been minted iu London. There is no
trickery there ; no canvassing, no in
trigue, no coalition ! There worth has
only to show itself if it wishes to be
killed with kindness! London tells
the truth ! You nay swear to what it
says—whatsoever may be proved to
the contrary. The cause—the cause
is everything it) London! Show but
your craft, and straight your brethren
come crowding around you; and if
they find you worthy, why, you shall
be brought into notice, even though
they should tell a lie for it and thwart
you, Never trouble yourselves about
getting on by’ interest in London ! Get
oii.fcy yourself. Posts are tilled there
by merit; or if the man suits not the
office, why, the office is made to adapt
itself to the man, and so there is unity
after all! What a happy fellow vdCT*
Theodore to find himself in such a
place as London !
lie was certainly happy in one thing;
the coach in which he came set him
down at a friend’s, whose cireumstan
ces were narrow, hut whose heart was
large—a curate of the church of Eng
land. Strange that, with all the ap
purtenances of hospitality at its com
mand, abundance should allow it to he
said that the kindest welcome which
adversity usually meets with, is that
which it receives from adversity ! Jf
Theodore found that the house was a
cold one to what he hid been accus
tomed, the warmth of the greeting
made tip for it. “They breakfasted at
nine, dined at four, and if
sleep upon the sofa, why, there was a
bed for him!” In a day he was set
tled aud at his work.
And upon what did Theodore found
his hopes of making a fortune, and ri
sing to fame in London! Upon wri
ting a play. At an early period he
had discovered, as his friends imagined,
a talent for dramatic, composition; and
having rather sedulously cultivated
that branch of literature, he thought he
would now try his hard in one bold
effort, the success of which should de
termine him as to his future course in
life. The play was written, presented,
and accepted; the performers were
ready in their parts; the evening of
representation came on. and Theodor#,
seated in the pit beside his friend, at
last, with a throbbing heart, beheld the
curtaitfrrise. The first and second acts
went off smoothly, and with applause.
Twojgeatlemen were placed iimue-
front of Theodore.
“YY'bit do you think of it?” said
the on*to the other.
“Rafter tame,” was the reply.
“YY'ai it succeed ?”
“DiShtful.”
Thejiiiud act, however, decided the
fate I the play; the interest of the
so intense, that at
one pat t-yar stage of the action, num
bers in second and third rows of
the ‘idfcl es stood up, and the clap
ping if ha\ds was universal, inter
mingle with cries of “Bravo!” from
every (part of the. theatre. “’Twill
do,” iv;j now the remark, and Theo
dore Ij4 •• ihwd a little more freely, than
\(L “” * some On mi u>)es ago.—
-N.it to Be too tedious, tne curtain fell
amidst shouts of approbation, unming
led with the slightest demonstrations
of displeasure, and the author had not
twenty friends in the house.
The play had what is called a run,but
not a decided one. Night after night
it was received with the same enthu
siastic applauses; hut the audiences
did not increase. It was a victory
without the acquisition of spoils or ter
ritory.
“YY’hat can be the meaning of this?”
exclaimed Theodore; “we seem to be
moving, and yet do not advance an
inch!”
“They should paragraph the play as
they do a pantomine,” remarked his
friend. “But then a pantomine is an
expensive thing; they will lay out a
thousand pounds upon one, and they
must get their money back. The same
is the case with their melodramas ; so,
if you want to succeed to the height,
as a play-wright, you know what to
do.”
“YY'liat?” inquired Theodore.
“ YY’rite melodramas and panto
mines !”
Six months had now elapsed, and
Theodore’s purse, with all his success,
was rather lighter than when he first
pulled it out in London. However, in
a week two Bills which he had taken
from his publisher would fall due, and
then he would run down to B , and
perhaps obtain an interview with Ro
salie. At the expiration of the week
his bills were presented, and dishon
oured ! He repaired to his publisher’s
for an explanation—the house had
stopped. Poor Theodore! They were
in the Gazette that very day. Theo
dore turned into the first coffee-room
to look at a paper ; there were, indeed,
the names of the firm.
f ‘l defy fortune to serve me a scur
vier trick,” exclaimed Theodore, the
feats half starting into his eyes. He
little k . lUiose.iugetiuity
he ww graving.
i ffl ooked now at one side of the
paper, and now at the other, thinking j
all the while of nothing but the bills \
amP*the bankrupts’ list. Splendid Fete
at B met Ids eye, and soon his
thoughts were occupied with nothing
but B ; for there he read that the
young lord of the manor, having just
come of age, had given a ball and
supper, the former of which he opened
with the lovely and accomplished Miss
Rosalie . The grace of the fair
couple was expatiated upon; and the
editor took occasion to hint, that a pair
so formed by nature for each other
might probably,before long, take hands
in another, a longer, and more momen
tous dance. YV hat did Theodore think
of fortune now ?
That day Theodore received a letter
from Rosalie.
“YVeJcome, sweet comforter!” ejac
ulated Theodore, as he kissed the cy
phers which his Rosalie’s hand hand
had traced, and the wax which bore the
impress of her seal. “Welcome, O
welcome! you come in time; you
tiring in ample solace for disappoint
ment, mortification, poverty —what-
ever my evil destiny can afflict. You
have come to assure me that they can
not deprive me of my Rosalie!”
Bright was his eye, and glistening
while he spoke; but when he opened
the fair folds that conveyed to him the
thoughts of his mistress, its radiancy
was gone!
“Theodore —l am aware of the ut
ter frustration of your hopes; I am
convinced that at the end of a year you
will not be a step nearer to fortune
than you are now ; why then keep my
hand for you? YY'hat 1 say briefly,
you will interpret fully. You arc now
the guardian of my happiness—as such
1 shall address you. Thursday—so
you consent—will be my wedding
Rosalie.”
!>ych was the latter, upon the address
and seal of which Theodore had im
printed a score of kisses before he
opened it.
“Fortune is in the mood,” said Theo
dore with a sigh, so deeply drawn that
any one who had heard it would have
imagined he had breathed his spirit
out along with it—“ Fortune is in the
mood, and let her have her humour
out! I shall answer the letter ;my
reply to her shall convey what she de
sires—nothing more! She is incapa
ble of entering into my feelings, and
unworthy of being made acquainted
w ith them ; I shall not condescend even
to complain.”
“Rosalie —You are free !
Theodore.”
Such was the answer which Theodore
dispatched to Rosalie. His feelings
were insupportable. On the second
day afterwards, as he was crossing a
street, lie was nearly run over by a
vehicle and four. This for a moment
awakened him. He saw London and
B upon the panels of the coach.
The box seat was empty ; he asked if
it was engaged.
‘ “No.”
Hesprung up upon it, and away they
drove. ,
“I’ll see her once more,” exclaimed
Theodore; “it can but drive me mad
or break iny heart.”
Ihe moment the coach stopped at
B——, he alighted; and with a mis
giving mind he stood at the door which
hud often admitted him to his Rosalie.
i was opened by a domestic whom he
! had never seen before.
‘"W as Miss \\ ilfoid within ?”
“No.”
“When would she return?”
“Never. She had gone that morn
ing to London to be married !’’
1 heodore made no further inquiries,
neither did he offer to go, but stood
glaring upon the man more like a spec
tre than a human being.
“Anythingmore?” said the man, re
treating into the house, and gradually
closing the door, through which now
only a portion of bis face could be
seen. “Anything more ?”
I iheodore made no reply; in fact, he
had lost all consciousness. At last,
the shutting of the* door, wjjich, half
from panic, ha)f from anger, the man
putnoti vTbiVTitiy aroroPn minT'*” “. w
“1 shall knock at you no more!”
said he, and departed, pressing his heart
uith his hand, and moving his limbs as
it he eared not how, or whither they
bore him. A gate suddenly stopped
his progress; ’twas the entrance to the
green lane. lie stepped over the stile
—he was on the spot w here he had
parted last from Rosalie—where she
had flung her arms about his neck, and
wept upon it. 11 is heart began to melt
for the first time since he had received
her letter ; a sense of suffocation came
over him, till he felt as if he would
choke. The name of Rosalie was on
his tongue ; twice he attempted to ar
ticulate it, but could not. At last it
got vent in a convulsive sob, which was
followed by a torrent of tears. He
threw himself upon the ground—he
went on—he made no effort to check
the flood, but let it flow till forgetful
ness stopped it.
lie rose with a sensation of intense
cold. ’Twas morning ! He had slept!
“Would he have slept on !” He turn
ed from the sun, as it rose without a
cloud, upon the wedding morn of Ro
salie. ’Twas Thursday. He repassed
the stile, and in a few minutes was on
his road to London, which he entered
about eleven o’clock at night, and
straight proceeded to his friend’s. —
They were gone to bed.
‘(live me a light, said Theodore;
I’ll go to bed.”
“Your bed is occupied, sir,” replied
the servant.
“Is it? said Theodore; “well 1 can
sleep upon the carpet.”
lie turned into the parlour, drew a
chair towards the table, upon which
the servant had placed a light, and sat
down. All was quiet for a time. Pre
sently he heard a foot upon the stair;
’twas his friend’s, who was descending,
and now entered the parlour.
“1 thought* you were a-bed,” said
Xk •adore.
“So I was,” K plied his’friend, “but
hearing your voice in the hall, I rose
and came down to you.”
He drew a chair opposite to Theo
dore. Both were silent for a time ;at
length Theodore spoke.
“Rosalie is married,” said he.
“i don’t believe it.”
“She is going to be married to the
young lord of the manor.”
“1 don’t believe it.”
“She came to town with him yester
day.”
“1 don’t believe it.”
Theodore pushed back his chair, and
stared at his friend.
“What do you mean?” said Theo
dore.
“1 mean that 1 entertain some doubts
as to the accuracy of your grounds for
concluding that Rosalie is inconstant
to you.”
“Did I not read the proof of it in
the public papers?”
“The statement may have been er
roneous.”
“Did not her own letter assure me
of it ?”
“You may have misunderstood it?”
“1 tell you 1 have been at B ; I
have been at her house. 1 inquired
for her, and was told she had gone up
to London to be married! O, my
friend,” continued he, covering his eyes
with his handkerchief, “’tis useless to
deceive ourselves. I am a ruined iflan !
Y r ou see to what she has reduced me!
I shall never be myself again! My
self! 1 tell you 1 existed in her being
more than in my own. She was the
soul of all 1 thought, and felt, and did;
the primal, vivifying principle! She
has murdered me! 1 breathe, it is
true, and the blood is in my veins,
and circulates; but every thing else
about me is death—hopes! wishes! in
terests !—there is no pulse, no respira
tion there! I should not be sorry
were there none any where else! Feel
my hand.”
He felt a tear drop upon the hand
which he had extended—the tear was
followed by the pressure of a lip. lie
uncovered his eyes, and turning them
in Wonderment to look upon Ms friend,
beheld Rosalie sitting opposite to him !
For a moment or two, he questioned
the evidence of his senses, but soon
was ho convinced that it was indeed
reality ; for Rosalie, quitting her seat,
approached him, arid breathing his
name with an accent that infused ec
staey into his soul, threw herself into
his arms, that doubtingly opened to
receive her.
******
Looking over her father’s papers,
Rosalie had found a more recent will,
in which her union with Theodore had
been fully sanctioned, and he himself
constituted M r guardian until it should
take place. She was aware that his
success in Loudon had been doubtful;
the generous girl determined that he
should no longer be subjected to n
eertitude and disappointment; and she
plavfujly wrote the leiter which was a
source of such distraction to her lover.
From his answer she saw that he laid j
totally misinterpreted her : she resolv
ed in person to disabuse him of the
error; and by offering to become his
wife, at once to give him the most con
vincing proof of her sincerity and cofi
*tancy. She arrived in London the
very day that Theodore arrived in
B . His friend, who had known
fourth volume-no. s. whole no. iss
her from her infancy, received her as
his daughter; and he and his w ile lis
j tened with delight to the unfolding of
; her plans and intentions,which she free
ly confided to them. Late they sat up
for heodore that night; and when all
i hopes of his coining home were aban
i doned, Rosalie became the occupant of
his bed. The next night, in a state of
; the most distressing anxiety, in conse
quence of his continued absence, she
j had just retired to her apartment, when
a knock at the door made tier bound
from her, couch, upon which she had
j at that moment thrown herself, and
| presently she heard her lover’s voice
at the foot of the stair. Scarcely
: knowing what she did, she attired her- \
I sell, descended, opened the parlour j
j door unperceived by Theodore, and j
[ look the place of their friendly host, j
who, iSeVhonietifA,*
| ed her. and resigning his ihair to her. j
: withdrew.
lhe next evening a select jurty were
j assembled in the curate’s little draw
! ing-room, and Theodore and Rosalie
j were there, lhe lady of the house
motioned the latter to approach her •
she rose and was crossing Theodore
when lie caught her by t\ e hand, and
drew her upon his knee.
“Theodore!” exclaimed the fair one
colouring.
“My wife!” was his reply, while i, u
imprinted a kiss upon her lips. They
had been married that morning.
From the Edinburgh Literary Journal.
THE BROKEN RING.
“Hout, lassie,” said the wily Dame
. Me ton to her daughter, “diuna blear
your een wi’ greeting. YY hat would
honest Maister Binks say, if he were
to coine in the now and see you look
ing baith dull and dour? Dight your
een, my bairn, and snood back your
hair—l’se warrant you’ll make a bon
nier bride than ony o’ your sisters.”
“I carena whether I look bonny or
no, since YY’iliie winna see me,” said
Mary, while her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, mother, ye have, been ower hasty
in this matter; I canna help thinking
he will come Inline yet, anil make me
his wife, it’s borne in ou my mind
that YVillie is no dead.”
“Put awa such thoughts out o’ your
head, lassie,” answered her mother;
“naebody doubts hut yoursell that the
ship that he sailed in was whummiled
ower in the saut sea—what gars you
threep he’s leeving that gate !’’
“Ye ken, mother,” answered Mary,
“that when YY lilie gaed awa on that
wearifu’ voyage, to ‘make the croun a
pound,’ as theauld sang says, he left a
kist o’ his best elaes for me to take
care o’; for he said he would keep a’
his braws for a day that’s no like to
come, and that’s our bridal; now, ye
ken it’s said that as long as the moths
keep off folks claes, the ouner o’ them
is no dead—so I e’en took a look o’ his
bit things the day, and there’s no a
broken thread among them.”
“Ye had little to do to he howking
among a dead man’s claes,” said her
mother; “it was a bonny like job for
a bride.”
“But I’m no a bride,” answered Ma
ry, sobbing. “How can ye hae the
heart to speak o’t, mother, and the
year no out since I broke a ring wi’
my ain Willie! YY r eel hae I keepit
my half o’ it; and if YVillie he in this
word, he’ll hae thetSfcher as surely.”
“I trust poor YY’illie is in a better
place,” said her mother, trying to sigh;
“and since it has been ordered sae, ye
maun just settle your mind to take
honest Maister Binks; he’s rich, Mary,
my dear bairn, and he’ll let ye want
for naething.”
“Riches canna buy true love,” said
Mary.
“But they can buy things that will
last a hantle longer,” responded the
wily mother; “so, Mary,, ye maun
take him, if you would hae me die in
peace. Y r e ken I can leave you but
little—the house and bit garden maun
gang to your brother, and his wife will
make him keep a close hand; she’ll
soon lit you see the cauld shoulder.
Poor relations are unco little thought
o’; so, lassie, as ye would deserve my
benison, dinna keep simmering it and
wintering it any longer, but take a
guile offer when it is made ye.”
“I’ll no hae him till the year is out,”!,
cried Mary; “w ha kens but the ship
may cast up yet ?”
“I fancy ye’ll hae to gie ye your
ain gate in this matter,” replied the
dame, “mair especially as it wants but
three weeks to the year, and we’ll need
that to hae ye cried in the kirk, and to
get a’ your braws ready.”
“Oh, mother, mother, 1 wish ye
w r ould let me die !” was Mary’s answer,
as she flung herself down on her little
bed.
Delighted at having extorted Alary’s |
consent to the marriage, Dame Seton
quickly conveyed the h#ppy intelli
gence to her son-in-law elect, a wealthy
burgess of Dunbar; and having invi
ted Annot Cameron, Mary’s cousin, to
visit them, and assist her in cheering ,
the sorrowful bride, the preparations ■
for the marriage proceeded in due form.
On the day before that appointed for
the wedding, as the cousins sat togeth
er arranging the simple ornaments for
the bridal dress, poor Mary’s feelings
could no longer be restrained, and her
tears fell fast.
“Dear sake, Mary, gie ower greet
ing,” said Annot; “the bonny white
satin ribbon is wringing wet.”
“Sing her a canty sang to keep up
her heart,” said Dame Seton.
“I canna bide a canty sang the. day,”
answered Mary, “for there’s atie run
ning in my head that my poor \\ illie
made ae night as we sat beneath the
lowan tree out by there, and when we |
thought we were to gang hand in hand
throui'h this wearifu’ world ;” and she *
began to sing in a low voice.
At this moment the door of the
dwelling opened, and a tall, dark-com
plexioned woman entered, and saying,
“Mv benison on a’ here,” she seated
herself close to the fire, and lighting i
her pipe, began to smoke, to the great
, annoyance of Dame Seton.
“Gude-wife,” said she, gruffly, “ye’re
spoiling the lassie’s gown, raising such
a reek; so here’s an awmous to ye,
and you’ll just gang your ways, for
we’re unco thrang the day.”
“Nae doubt,” rejoined the spaewife,
“a bridal time is a thrang time, but it
should be a heartsome one too.”
“Arid hae j e the ill manners to say
it’s otherwise?” retorted Dame Seton;
“gang avva’ wi’ ye without another bid
ding ; ye’re are making the lassie’s
braws as black as eoom.’
“Will ye lac your fortune spaed,
my bonny May ?” said the woman, as
she seized Mary’s hand.
“Oh, nu,” answered Mary, “1 ken it
but ower weel already.”
“You’ll be married soon, my bonny
.* --. ‘
-•*•*■> ... w v u „ 1
“Hech, sirs, that’s piper’s news, I
trow, retorted the dame, with great
contempt; “can ye no tell us some
thing better worth the hearing?”
“Maybe I can,” answered the spae
wife; “what would you think if 1 were
t” tell you that your daughter keeps
the half o’ the gold ring she broke wi’
the winsome sailor lad near her heart
by night and by day ?”
“Get out o’ my house, ye tinkler!”
cried Dame Seton, in wrath; “we want
to hear no such clavers.”
“Ye wanted news,” retorted the for
itune teller; “and 1 trow I’ll gie ye
! 11 ■dr than you’ll like to hear, ilarkye
,n Y bonny lass>e, ye’ll be married
soon, i-. u t no to Jamie Biliks—here’s
an anchor in the palm -,f vour hand as
plain as * pikestaff.”
“Awa wi’ ye leeing Egypt,.., t h at
ye are,” cried Dame Seton, “or
the dog on ye, and I’ll promise ye he’ll
no leave ae dud on your back to mend
another.”
“1 wadtia redd ye to meddle wi’ me,
Dame Seton,” said the fortune-teller.
“And now, having said my say, and
wishing ye a blythe bridal, I’ll just be
stepping awa;” and ere another word
was spoken, the gipsy had crossed the
threshold.
“I’ll no marry Jamie Binks,” cried
Mary wringing her hands; “send to
him, mother, and tell him sue.”
“The sorry take the lassie,” said
Dame Seton, “would you make your
sell and your friends a warld’s won
der, and a’ for the clavers o’ a leeing
Egyptian, black be her fa that 1 shouid
ban.”
“Oh, mother, mother,” cried Mary,
“how can 1 gie ae man my hand when
another has my heart?”
“Troth, lassie,” replied her mother,
“a living joe is better than a dead ane
ony day ; but whether Willie be dead
or living, ye shall be Jamie Bilik’s wife
the morn ; sae take nae thought o’ that
ill-deedy body’s words, but gang ben
the house and dry your een, and An
not will put the last steek in your bon
ny w hite gown.”
With a heavy heart, Mary saw the
day arrive which was to seal her fate;
and while Dame Seton is bustling
about, getting every thing in order for
the ceremony, which was to be per
formed in the house, we shall take the
liberty of directing the attention of
our readers to the autside passengers
ot a stage-coach, advancing from the
south, and rapidly approach Dunbar.
Close behind the coachman was seated
a middle-aged substantial-looking far
mer, with a round, fat, good humoured
face, and at his side was placed a hand
some young sailor, whose frank and
jovial manner, and stirring tale of
shipwreck and captivity, had pleasant
ly beguiled the way.
“And what’s taking you to Dunbar
the day, Mr. Johnstone ?’’ asked the
coachman.
“Just a wedding, John,” answered
the farmer; “my cousin Jamie Binks
is to be married the night.”
“He has been a wee owerlang about
it,” said the coachman.
“I’m thinking,” replied the farmer,
“it’s no the poor Jassie’e fault that the
wedding hasna been put off longer;
they say that bonny Mary has little
gude will to her new joe.”
“What Mary is that you are speak
ing about?” asked the sailor.
“Oh, just bonny Mary Seton, that’s
to be married the night,” answered the
farmer.
“When?” cried the sailor, giving a
long w histle.
“1 doubt,” said the farmer, “she , ll
be but a iwji'u’ bride, for the sough
gangs that We hasna forgot an auld
joe; but ye see he was away, and no
like to come back, and Jamie Binks is
weel to pass in the world, and the moth
er, they say, just made her life bitter
till the poor lassie was driven to say
she would take him. It’s no right in
the mother, but folks say she is a door
wife, and had jfye an ee to, the silDr.”
“Right!” - exclaimed the young sail
ot; “she deserves the cat-o’-nine tails.”
“Whisht, whisht, laddie,” said the
farmer; “preserve us! where is he
gaun?” he continued, as the youth
sprung from the coach and struck across
the fields. •
“He’ll be taking the short cut to the
town,” answered the coachman, giving
his horses the whip.
The'coach whirled rapidly on, wid
the farmer was soon set down at Dame
Seton’s dwelling, where the whole of
the bridal party was assembled, wait
! ing for the arrival of the minister.
“1 wish the minister would come,”
.said Dame Seton.
“We must open the window,” an
swered Annot, ••for Mary is like to
swarf awa’.”
1 his was accordingly done; and as
Mary sat close by the windfrw, gasp
ing for breath, an unseen hand threw a
small package into her lap.
“Dear sirs, Mary,” said Dame Se
ton, “open up the bit parcel, bairn ; it
will be a present frae your uncle San
die ; it’s a queer-like way o’ geeing it,
but he ne’er does things like ony itber
body.”
The br dal guests gathered round
Mary as she slowly undid fold after
fold.’
“Hech!” said Dame Seton, “it maun