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Denote to CUevature, Science, cm& ‘Art, tljc Sons of temperance, (Dbfc Jellotosijip, ittasonrn, ani> ©cncral Intelligence. VOLUME I. §1 is saw m m w @i¥if, HYMN TO CONTENT. O Thou, the Nymph with placid cyoa, O seldom found, yet ever nigh ! Receive my temp’rate vow. Not all the storms that shake the pole f Can e’or disturb thy halcyon soul, And smooth unaltered brow. O come, in simple vest array’d, With all thy sober cheer display’d, • To bless my longing sight; rphy mien compos’d, thy even pace Thy meek regard, thy matron grace. And chaste subdu’d delight. No more by varying passions beat, (j gently guide my pilgrim feet To find thy hermit cell; Where in some pure and equal sky, Beneath thy soft indulgent eye The modest virtues dwell. Simplicity in Attic vest, Arid Innocence with candid breast, And clear undaunted eye ; And Hope, who points to distant years, Fair op’ning through this vale of tears A vista to the sky. There Health, through whose calm bosom glide The teinp’rate joys in even tide, That rarely ebb or flow ; And Patience there, thy sister meek, Presents her mild unvarying cheek To meet the offer’d blow. Her influence taught the Phrygian sage A tyrant master's wanton rage With settled smiles to meet; Tour’d to toil and bitter bread. Ho bow’d his meek submitted head, And k iss’d thy sainted feet. But thou, O Nymph, retir’d and coy! In what brown hamlet dost thou joy To tell thy tender tale ? The lowliest chi Wren of the ground, Moss-rose and violet blossoms round, And lily of the vale. 0 say, what soft hour I best may choose to hail thy posCr, And court thy gentle sway ? When Autumn, friendly to the Muse, Shall thy own mode9t tints diffuse, And shed thy milder da}*. When Eve, her dewy star beneath Thy b ihny spirit loves to breathe, And every storm is laid ; If such an hour was e’er thy choice, Oft let me hear tliy soothing voice, Low whisp’ring through the shade. 9EI §IM Ais WAis 1 a love’s yuu¥(Tdream. ( Concluded from our last.) CHAPTER VI. “ So have thy face and mind, Like holy mysteries, lain enshrined. And, oh! what transport for a lover To lift the veil that shades them o’er, Like those who, all at once, discover 1m the lone deep some fairy shore Where mortal man ne’er trod before, And sleep and wake in scentt and airs Mo lip had ever breathed, but theirs.” Thus passed two weeks. Each day I'found something to admire in the character of the gen tle Mary. I longed to hear her story. Surely, 1 thought, it must have been some dire misfortune J uat had thus reduced this young creature, in the * ,rst flush of girlhood, and apparently reared in elegance and refinement far beyond the station of tuose with whom she lived. As yet I have said hhle of her beauty. My pen refuses to portray her as she appeared to my entranced vision, a ra y serene, bright from the celestial firmament. Her face oval, with a cheek whose delicate tint lnS could be found no where but in the heart of hie 10sc > her hair golden and long, eyes deep, datk blue, with all the beauty of an expression spiritually mournful, in a word, angelic. When Hie raised her eyes to mine for a moment, a soft Hush would gradually o’er spread the rounded self ‘ sunn 3 7 throat. Sometimes I found my- S a zing at her as I would upon some glorious . dlu Hunng these moments oi my ec nvm ’ -° r u alm °st amounted to such, Mary’s i V ° uld un dergo many changes. She ihnmiw m P erce ’-ve my intense admiration, al u. ° , made an effort to suppress it. But she ra n a W ° r man an A not without tact, and would m io * n m y abstraction, and laugh me from lirur^nf r V^°i rlcl one °A l^ose musical gurg aKv 1 . glee of a winsome child, are onon } ! I ] niectious * Mary sought refuge from my with admiratl °n in fondling Kate, or twisting inn • a P er fln gers her sunnv locks, for her morn her S r tln , g ’ She was a lovely child, and I loved Patr - ° r attac hment to Mary. Much as mv crei Clan - bl °° and revolte d at seeing this glorious <] e u s e ln condition she held, it was too ewi- Svi S e as °nly the poor dependant on Mrs. 4 Han us Sibbs. Wac T ac T uai ntance gradually progressed, and I Comnr 1 i dto find lhat, although not highly ac- I still Mary’s mind was far from being uncultivated. During the progress of the por traits I was now and then favored by a visit from Mrs. Sibbs. She had given me several sittings, and appeared enraptured with the representation of herself on the canvass. I had long wished to learn from her, should an opportunity occur, something of Mary, yet, I dreaded to commence a subject upon which I was now aware I felt a deeper interest than I could account for. One day chance favored me. The children came, ac companied by their mother. How I was disap pointed at not meeting the usual gentle salutations of Mary. “ Where is your friend?” I enquired of the little romping Kate. The child looked sorrow fully up as she replied, “ Mary had the headache, and begged mama to excuse her this morning.— All! Jam sorry for Mamie, she is so good .” I kissed her cheek as I stooped over her, I could have taken her rn my arms, and would, but up came, at tljis moment, the stately mama, all flow ers and ribbons. “ W hat are you running on about to the gen tleman, you mad-cap ” said she to Kate. “ I was only telling Mr. Aubrey that dear Mary had .the headache this morning.” “ And I am very sorry to hear of her indispo sition. 1 hope, my dear madam ’tis but slight.” “Oh ! 1 see how it is,” said Mrs. Sibbs, “ she has bewitched you too, as she does every one, with that pretty artless look of hers. We adop ted her out of sympathy when her mother died.” “ She is then an orphan ? ” I enquired eagerly. “Yes,” said Mrs. Sibbs, “and as far as we know, they were great people once, but we found her mother in poor lodgings enough, and in the last stage of a consumption. The poor girl was worn with watching and ill food, but after her mother’s death we took her home, and she makes herself generally useful to me.” • If 1 had sympathised before with this young creature, how much more did 1 pity her now in her lovely lot. Every word ,1 lietyd from Mrs. Sibbs, sunk into my heart. It seemed a part of’ a dream. The phantom of the suffering mother, dj’ing in poverty, rose before me—she pointed with emaciated finger to her child. I saw Mary, | pale and drooping, tending with unremitting care on this loved mother. I saw all this in my imag ination with the vividness of a distinct, palpable dream. Mrs. Sibbs sat looking at me. “ And you,” said I, “have been a friend to this suffering girl. How long since these sad o o o events transpired ? ” “ Eli ! what did you say ?” “ Flow long since Miss Mary’s mother has been dead ? ” “ Nearly two years. Yes, as you say, I’ve been her friend. Her mother raised her with high notions, bat, poor thing, she tries to do he best, and she is not very strong.” “Not a tendency of a pulmonary character, 1 hope ?” I asked. “ Jf you mean consumption, I must say that I think it is something like that. But, dear me, lam most tired this morning of the sitting. Is’nt the picture getting on ? ” . Thus recalled to actual life, I answered her, and i went on busily with the portrait. But ray mind was with Mary. I dared not re-coramence the subject, but I determined if 1 could win the love of this sweet flower, to be careful, watchful of her, and never lose sight of her, so long as it remained in my power to be near her. One or two days passed before I again saw her. At leiigth, on the morning of the third, I was blessed with a sight of my beautiful ideal. Yes, she was indeed the ideal image of my dreams. — In her I saw embodied all those graces that be longed to the creature, I had formed in my imagi nation to worship, and though but little inter change of words had passed, I feltthere was that sweet svmpatby which was better than any other. Mary smiled and allowed me to take her hand, as 1 enquired with deep and respectful earnest ness after her health. I thought she looked thin ner and paler, and the soft eyes had a still more subdued expression. She thanked me in a sweet, low voice, for my inquiry, said she was quite re covered. “ Mr. Aubrey was sorry you were sick Mamie,’ said Kate, “ Mr. Aubrey asked mama if you were very sick. Did’nt you ? ” “ Certainly, little one, and you were sorry too, your kind friend was indisposed.” Mary blushed, and a moisture trembled in her eye. I changed the subject, and we conversed qayly with the child. So passed that day and others—and I loved, for the first time, with fervor and intensity of which I had not known tn\ s>elf capable. I had not, from my studious habits, mingled much in society, and, being always a dreamer, had drawn perhaps a too exaggerated picture of woman. The character of Mary, as it gradually developed itself, under my scrutiny during an intercourse of two months, correspon ded, in a great degree, with my preconceived ideas SAVANNAH, GA.. THURSDAY, AUGUST 16, 1849. of a gentle, loving woman, such as I would call wife. This put to flight all sober reflection. J could noUlwell on the bare idea without experi encing a thrill of delight as sweet as indiscriba bie. Time sped away. My tasks were well nigh done. Already 1 had prolonged them, as by this subterfuge I enjoyed her society. Mary had con fided to me the secrets of her young life —how, when a young child she had lost, by death, her father, mid how, with a bare maintenance, her dear mother had reared and educated her as be fitted more their gentle birth, than their hard con dition. How both maintenance and health had failed, and consumption carried away her only friend. She could scarcely glance over her moth er’s death, for’ the wound seemed yet unhealed, and I tried by every means to divert her mind from dwelling on the bitter memory of that early grave, for her mother was still young and beauti ful when the fell destroyer seized her for hisprey. CHAPTER VH. “ A dream of love, too short, but nh, too dear Hath fled and left me desolate; Off from my lids I dash the silent tear, And mourn as mourns the wood dove for her male, Who in some branch of thunder-stricken oak, Wastes in complainings, tremulous and low, Her gentle soul away.” Unknown to Mary, I had, during the hours of our separation commenced a sketch of her. Nev er had I felt the desire to make a faithful likeness so strong. For this reason I begged her to sit one clay, when I had nearly completed it, that 1 might catch the heavenly expression that flitted like a sunbeam o’er her rosy mouth when she smiled. She refused at first, but after many per suasions on my part, seconded by the entreaties of little Kate, and the holy commands of Mrs. Sibbs 4./ herself, she consented, and I set about my de lightful task. How transporting to have her sit whilst I committed to canvass those fairy features, that sylph-like and undulating form. But more than once, in despair, did I erase the lines, with which I essayed to depict her. ‘There was an air of mournfulness, of abstraction, resembling that glorious*face, the"fair, but ill fated Beatrice Oanoi, I cannot paint the charm of her rtiannef, nor the species of fascination it exerted over me. At length, the picture is finished. I had been inspired surely, for nothing could be more life like. Those sloping violet eyes, those long, loose curls of shaded gold, those arch and vermeil lips, the soft oval of that peachy cheek inclined to one side, the thin fleecy drapery that fell over the heaving bosom and terminated. in a vaporous cloud. Oh! it was beautiful! Next day the portraits of the Sibbfamily were sent home, Mary’s of course was retained. I be came a welcome visitor at the house of Mrs. Sibbs, who conceived a violent liking for me, manifesting itself in the thousand little delicacies she sentme. I perceived much of good in this woman, though she was illiterate and vulgar. On account of Mary’s position in the family, I determined from the first to have no appearance of mystery, soon the first favorable opportunity I disclosed to Mrs. Sibbs, my intention to address Mary (adding what 1 felt would be willingly conceded) with the pro vision that it met her approval. She stared a little, and seemed astonished at the modesty of my as pirations. But I told her I should consider my self richer than the greatest potentate if I could claim that little hand. “Well, well,” said she, “you are welcome to her. She is pretty and gcntle-likc, and perhaps you are suited to each other.” I thanked her fervently, and now the way being opened, I only waited to obtain the consent of Mary. Prudence, it is true, suggested that I was sadly deficient in this world’s goods, but I felt that I-had the power to provide for her, and what lover, and such a one as I, ever listened to the cold suggestions of prudence ? At length our vows were plighted, and she became my promised bride. I began immediately to make preparations for our nuptials. I selected a retired cottage, and procured board from the widow lady who inhabited it. With what pleasure I decked out the little parlour 1 selected for my Mary. Books and musi cal instruments to amuse her. Then the situation was so picturesque. The flowers so fragrant, so blooming. It was the momh of May, and I almost made a fairy bower of this spot, small and unosten tatious as it was. The furniture simple, but neat and appropriate, nothing costty nor unnecessary. Ah, delightful hours spent in adorning the home of my angel Mary, but too soon, all too soon to be succeeded by sorrow and woe unutterable. I come now to a portion of my story, over which 1 must hasten. Time that usually brings healing on its wings for the worst of wounds, re fuses to mitigate mine. It was a balmy eve in June —the day of days— our wedding day ! We stood before the altar. The white robed priest, with uplifted hand, pro nounced the nuptial benediction, in the name of the Father, the Sqn, and the Holy Spirit. 1 placed the ring on her finger, making her mine, my own forever. The accumulated bliss of a long life seemed crowded into those brief hours when I clasped her—Mary, my wife —trembling and in tears, in my arms. Alas ! why did 1 dread, I knew not what, as that fragile flower lay in my arms, so fair, so pale. My bereaved heart recalls that scene, —those lofty arches, the noble Corinthian pillars, the far-off hum of busy life echoing through the vasty walls, and silent itself, save when the voice of the man of God spake as he hound together two hearts, already united by a love as fervent, as deep and enduring as ever was in the power of man to bestow or woman to re turn. Oh! why was it of so brief duration, or rather why, was one taken and the other left to mourn ? Why did the grave close over my idol ? W bile our love was in its first bloom, was she taken from me, to her bright home in heaven ! And yet— “ Oh! melancholy Love I—amid thy fears, Thy darkness thy despair, there runs a vein Os pleasure, like a smile ’midst many tears— The pride of sorrow, that will not complain. The exultation that in after years the loved one Will discover and in vain How much the heart, silently in its cell Lid suffer till it broke—yet nothing else.’ r In happiness lipw imperceptibly time steals away ? We start now and then from our trance, to won der at its flight, then silently relapse into one blissful dream. But Time, meanwhile, slays not—pauses not —months are as days. Our bliss Was too intense, too bright, too beautiful to last. Our souls were penetrated with a sense of this — for in extreme happiness, the mind is conscious of a vague inquietude, a dreamy sadness, which, while it tells us, vfe are mortal , seems as it were, to defy hate and resolutely turn away from, even whilst we dread the common doom of Earth’s children. • I broke from my dream of love to answer the demands now made upon me, for the poor Artist was now famous ! and if I had devoted all my en ergies to my profession, as in the begiuing, I should’have arisen more rapidly. But, the Fates willed otherwise. 1 had, at a moment the most unexpected, discovered rhe being for whom my soul pined, and the dream of Ambition faded be fore the dream of Love. We were scarcely or never separated. In my studio, there beamed on me the beautiful eyes, that made this world an Eden. And again, as the shades of eve descend ed, we wandered, with her arm resting in mine, whilst the breath of the jessamine and wild rose made the air redolent of sweetness. She was fond of flowers ; and she had no thought of which i was not the object. But slowly and insidiously my rival, Death, was making his inroads on my happiness. The color that lent that unnatural brilliancy to those eyes, I fondly hoped was in dicative of health. Alas! I deceived myself sometimes, like a dark pall, the dread thought of heriditary disease, hung over me. I feared to mention them to her, she was so happy, that £ quelled the gloomy forebodings, and shut my eyes to the change, that day after day came over her, so gradually, so successfully lending new beauties, by showing their fleetness, and seeming to gild the mortal as she approached immortality —a foreshadowing of her beauty, in her kindred realm. chapter vnr. “Oh! thou blight Heaven, if thou art calling now Thy brighter angels, to thy bosom rest.— For lo! the brightest of thy heart is gone, Departed—and the Earth is dark below.” But one brief year has passed, and I must resign Mary. Alas! 1 cannot speak the change that came o’er her—but there it was. All who are familiar with the gradual developement of that dread demon, Consumption, can comprehend how, day by day, it withered and blighted the beauty of my flower. All that could be done, was done, but she was ‘predestined . And I—what a task was mine ! sole guardian and friend to this suffering angel, I could not indulge m} r grief for fear of # its effects. Mary seemed to know the mental agony I was enduring, for her eyes ever followed me. She could not bear I should leave her, and en deavored with earnest, beseeching gaze, to pene trate into my heart and there read her fate. So I assumed a cheerful look to cover a crushed heart. Sometimes I thought of a voyage with her to a more genial clime, but the physician spoke of the probability of her not surviving the fatigues of travel. He tried gently to make me sensible that all means were unavailing. Oh! through the long, long nights of vigil by that couch of pain, how did my soul pray to trust its earthly tenement. I prayed for death. Yes, —I the strong man—the “ life of life ” was fled,—what more had I on earth? I arraigned the justice of heaven, and impiously begged that one blow might sever the chords of life in both. And in that hour of gloom,” when my very soul was a chaos, my loved one’s spirit passed away 1 Sensible to the last, she made a gesture to be taken in mv arms; and there, NUMBER 24