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1852.]
into her condition than those who were
nearest to her; and instead of mistrust
ing my scrutiny, as the evil-hearted
might have dune, sought my company
the more, when she saw that 1 attributed
her languor and emaciation, and, above
all, her exertions to overcome her occa
sional attacks of nervous excitement, to
something more than indispostion. She
did not, it is true, trust me with greater
confidence ; but seemed to like to have
me near her, and have me near her chil
dren, and to feel it a relief when, during
Monsieur’s occasional excursions in the
country, or to the neighbouring islands I
took his place beside her, to bathe her
hollow temples, or lend her my a.un as
she sauntered along the terraces of the
garden.
‘Do not let the girls accompany us,’
she would say, when 1 trudged up to the
cliateau to offer her my services; as if I
had more authority than herself with the
young ladies, and as if the sight of their
happy faces was too much for her enfee
bled eyes. And then she would creep on
and on, with feeble steps, as if she want
ed to be alone with nature and the skies,
and knew that 1 should watch over her
safely without intruding upon her medi
tations. And once or twice, in the twi
light. when 1 had guided her the utmost
length she could venture from home, and
there was nothing but the evening star
over our heads, and the calm hush of the
garden thickets around us, I have seen
her clasp her poor thin hands, and lift
her eyes to the throne of the Almighty,
with such a bitter, bitter look of suppli
eatiou ! May 1 never live to see such a
look again upon any human face ! At
such times, when perhaps she had kept
silence an hour or more in my presence,
if the voice of one of the young iadies
was heard at a distance, the poor mother
would start and tremble, and whisper to
me, ‘Not now ;do not let them approach
me now. I must, must be alone.’ But
if it happened to be the marquis who
came to meet us, although she clung to
my arm for support, and trembled with
the same secret omotion, she never at
tempted to interdict his company. lie
would have flown leagues at her bidding,
and in no single instance did I ever see
him attempt to controvert her will ; and
she did not presume to express to him
her desire to be alone. The sense of
congugal duty with her was ali in all.
(Conclusion in our next-)
“My son,” said an old turbaned Turk,
one day, taking his child by the hand, in
the streets of Cairo, and pointing out to
him, on the opposite side a Frenchman
just imported, in all the elegance of Pa
risian costume ; “my son, if ever you
come to forget God and his Prophet, you
may come to look like that.”
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
From Parker’s Journal.
THE BOY AND THE PANTHER.
A WILD WESTERN SCENE.
It was a fine morning in August, when
little Samuel Eaton, about seven years
old, was making a dam in the brook that
ran before his father’s door. lie was an
only and beautiful child, and his mother
almost idolized him. There he was with
his trousers tucked up above his knees,
working like a beaver, his mother’s eye
gleaming out from beneath his sunburnt
hair, and with some of his father’s
strength tugging at a large stone in the
bed of the stream.
“Samuel, you had better come in,
hadn’t you,” said Hannah, in a tone of
half mother and half mate.
“No, 1 guess not,” said Samuel.
An acorn came floating down the
stream. The boy took it up, looked at
it, was pleased, and “reckoned” in his
mind there were more up the “gulley,’
and when his mother’s back was turned
oil” he started for the acorns.
The gorge of mountain into which he
was about to enter, had been formed (the
work of many centuries.) by the attrition
of the stream he had just been playing
in; and walking on a level that bordered
each side of the water, he boldly entered
the ravine. An almost perpendicular
wall or bank ascended on each side to the
height of a hundred feet, composed of
rocks and crags fretted by decay and
storm into fantastic shapes and positions.
A few scattered bushes and trees sought
nourishment from the earth that had fal
len from the level above, and excepting
their assistance, and the un een surface
of the rock, this natural part seemed in
accessible but to bird and beast. About
an eighth of a mile from the entrance a
cataract closed the gorge, throwing up
its white veil of mist in seeming guar
dianship of the spirit waters. The ver
dant boughs hanging over the bank cast
a deep gloom upon the bed below, while
so lofty was the distance, they seemed to
grow up to the sky. Blue patches of
water were to be seen peeping between
them.
Hannah soon missed her boy, but as
he had often wandered to the fields where
his father was at work, she concluded he
must be there, and checked coming fears
with the hope that he would return at
the hour of dinner. When it came, nei
ther Josiah nor any of his men knew
where he was. Then the agitated mother
exclaimed —
“He’s lost! he’s lost! my poor boy will
starve in the woods!”
Gathering courage, she hastily sum
moned the family around her, and des
patched them ail but her husband, in
search in different directions in the neigh
bouring forest. To her husband she said—
“hScour every field you call your own,
; and if you can’t find him join me in the
gorge.’’
“lie wouldn’t go to the gorge, Ilan
• nah.”
“lie would go anywhere.”
She knew not why, but a strong pre
sentiment that her boy had followed the
; course of the stream dvvelt strongly on
her mind.
“I can’t find him, Hannah,” said the
husband, as he joined her at the mouth
of the gorge.
An eagle flew past the mother as she
entered the ravine. She thought to her
self “the dreadful birds are tearing my
child to pieces,” and frantic, she hastened
on, making the walls of the ravine echo
back her screams for her offspring.
The only answer was the eternal thun
der of the boiling cataract, as if in mock
ery of her woe, as it threw its cold spray
upon her hot and throbbing temples.
She strained her eyes along the dizzy
height that peered through the mist, till
she could no longer see, and her eves
filled with tears.
Who but a woman can tell the feel
ings of a woman’s heart? Fear came
thick and fast upon the reeling brain ol
Hannah.
“Oh, my boy—my brave boy will
die?” and wringing her hands in agony,
she sank at her husband’s feet.
The pain of “hope deferred” had strain
ed her heart-strings to the utmost ten
sion, and it seemed as if the rude hand
of despair had broken them all.
The terrified husband threw water
upon her pale face, and strove, by all the
arts he knew to win her back to life. At
last she opened her languid eyes, stared
wildly around, and rose trembling to her
feet. As she stood like a heart-broken
Niobe , “all tears,” a fragment of rock
came tumbling down the oppisite bank.
She looked up. She was herse.f again ;
for half up the ascent stood her own dear
boy.
Uut even while the glad cry was issu
ing from her lips it turned into a note of
horror.
“Oh, mercy—mercy !”
The crag on which the boy stood pro
jected from the rock in such a way as to
hang about twelve feet over the bank.
Eight below one of the edges of the crag,
partly concealed among some bushes,
crouched a panther. The bold youth was
aware of the proximity of his parents
and the presence of his dangerous enemy
at about the same time.
He had rolled down the stone in ex
ultation, to convince his parents of the
high station he had attained, and he now
stood with another in his haud, drawing
it back, and looking at them as if to ask
whether he would throw it at the terri
ble animal before him. Till then the
mother seemed immoveable in her sus-
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