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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- 267