Newspaper Page Text
curling the face of the ocean. In an instant, as
if struck by some sudden thought, he shouted
aloud, “ Heave the anchor, and set all sail!”
With the speed of lightning were his orders
obeyed, and like a thing of light and happiness
she bounded across the waters. On her prow
stood Ronald, gazing to the south, as if in ex
pectation of some object which should strike
upon his eye. With none held he converse,
and seldom and few were his orders. Just as
the god of day was descending in his car of glo
ry, the solitary and storm-beaten abbey of Innis
fail rose upon the sight. For the first time did
he move from his position, and with hurried
steps hastened below. In an instant he again
returned, relieved of his weapons of warfare,
and with a smile of joy beaming on his face. |
The vessel had now neared the shore. At the
command of Ronald, was the anchor given to
the deep, and accompanied by two of his crew,
his favorite Spaniards, Spalatroand Henriquez,
landed on the holy island. At once he directed
his steps to the abbey. The vesper hymn was
sweetly rising on the wings of evening. The
grey twilight was drawing her veil across the
face of the waters, and the dashing waves rose
in mournful murmurs on the ear. Slowly and
alone he approached the building ; one solitary
taper from a little casement, mingled its melan
choly beam with the receding day and coming
night, like the fading eye of departing mortali
ty. Ronald’s heart was softened. Boyhood’s
years were again before him, when, unstained
with crime, he placed his hand upon his bosom,
and bowed in devotion at the hallowed shrine.
Tears gushed into his eyes, and unconsciously
he sank upon his knee at the postern of the ab
bey. The porter from within had beheld his
approach, and unclosing the gate in charity and
peace, bade him enter. He obeyed. The gate
was again secured, and Ronald stood, for the
first time, since the ocean claimed him as her
son, within a house of prayer. “ Your mission
son ?” inquired the old domestic.
“ Have you,’* said Ronald, “a daughter, call
ed Edith Glengyle, in your sacred sanctuary?”
“We have! peace be with her,” answered
he.
The rover felt as a brand had entered to his
soul. Sight and feeling seemed to forsake him,
and he grasped the shoulder of the domestic to
save himself from falling.
“ The saints be merciful,” cried the attendant.
“What has befallen thee—what ails thee, son.
What have I uttered that thus thou shouldstbe
sick at soul ?”
“Nothing, nothing, my good man,” replied
Ronald. “A sudden faintness came over me.
Is she well? Does she ever think of me?
Speak, I conjure thee.”
“Os thee, my son?. Who? what art thou
that thus shouldst ask such questions respecting
the Lady Edith ?” inquirea the old man, sur
prised at his singular and almost frantic man
ner.
“lam”—he was about to reveal himself, but
a moment’s reflection caused him to refrain.
Then continuing, he said, “ Can I not see her ?
She knows me well—no—she does not now
know me, but”—he could say no more; the
fount of feeling had drowned his utterance, and
a stream of tears coursed down his manly face.
The domestic could not divine the cause of
his sorrow, and only endeavored to soothe his
grief with kind and consolatory words.
“ Take this,” said Ronald, “ take it to her—
place it in her own hands, and she will know
that one who once was dear to her yet lives and
loves her.”
AUGUSTA MIRROR COVER.
It was a small locket, containing the emblem
of two hearts united, the first gift of the Lady
iEdith to Ronald. It was a precious one—he
had ever worn it next his heart—in love and in
joy, in despair and in hope, in banishment and
battle, there had this treasure reposed—dearer
than the blood tears of his bosom. And now—
when she deemed him numbered with the de
parted—when the world was toiler now but as
a dream—when every hope was gone—but one
—yet that the best and biightest—her hope in
Heaven ! again was she to be called back to
| earthly happiness—again was the bloom of
beauty to blush upon her cheek, and the kiss ot
love to burn upon her lip. The old man depart
ed. With tottering steps he sought the apart
ment of the lady abbess, and revealed his mis
sion to her. In silent wonder did she receive
the intelligence, and gaze upon the token. Edith
in their moments of converse, had unbosomed
to her the story of her early love, and now the |
abbess knew that it was Ronald, who, like a spi-!
rit of the other world, had come to claim her for
his own.
“Thy will be done!” ejaculated the holy
matron, and at once sought the chamber of;
Edith.
To describe the feelings of Edith, when in
formed of her errand—of her doubt that it was
Ronald who still existed, might be attempted,
but weak would be the effort. They who have j
felt the pang of separation from all that was
dear to them on earth—who have been unex
pectedly restored to the object of their affections
jat the very moment when even hope appeared
jto have forsaken them, can best conceive the
feelings of the Lady Edith.
“ Mother!” she exclaimed, “deceive me not.
Is he alive? has Heaven yet such happiness in
store for me? Oh! lead me to his presence.
Ronald, thy Edith is yet true to thee.”
Leaning on the arm of the abbess, slowly
they followed the old man to the hall of the ab
bey. The shadows of night had fallen thickly 1
upon the world ; in a recess stood Ronald, lost
in the intensity of his feelings. The soft steps;
of the party scarcely disturbed the silence that
reigned around. The abbess consigned the
trembling Edith to the support of the aged do
mestic, and advancing to Ronald, softly ejacula
ted, “ Benedicite, my son!” He started at the
sound, and beholding the abbess, fell upon his
knee.
“ Rise,” she said. “Thou hast past through
the furnace, and thy reward awaits thee. Edith
approach !’
Edith raised her head, which, ’till now, had
rested on the shoulder of the old domestic. The
moon, at the same moment, burst forth in its
majesty of radiance. The faces of the two lov
ers met each other’s gaze.
“ Edith Glengyle !” exclaimed the enraptur
ed youth. A loud scream burst from the mai
den,.and the next moment she lay senseless on
the bosom of her lover.
That night beheld her on board of the rover’s
bark, and the first beams of the morning saw
her before the towers of Ganna.. Brief was the
message that Ronald sent to her father, and
brief was the answer ihat was returned. “ Peace
and welcome /” *
That noon beheld the nuptials of the long
parted lovers in the chapel of the castle, and at
; the same altar did Glengyle and Ronald swear
eternal fidelity. The bread was broken, and (
the cup was drained, and long and loud were
the shouts of joy that arose, and deep and fer
vent were the blessings showered on the gallant
Ronald and his lovely Edith.
The reader will naturally ask how came the
lover to be the rover captain. The question is
easily answered. The night on which Glen
gyle had hurled Ronald from the cliff, the pi
rate bark was cruising in the bay of Canna. A
party of her crew had landed close to its base,
for the purpose of reconnoitering, when the
splash of the body in the waters attracted their
attention, and having recovered it—for the deep
folds of his Highland costume buoyed it on the
surface—they found that life was not extinct,
They bore it to their vessel, and when Ronald a
woke to consciousness, he found himself career
ing over the blue waters of the Spanish main.
No alternative was now presented to him but to
embrace their lawless life. His noble form and
daring soul soon raised him to the command,,
and seizing the first opportunity to visit the
scene of his love and injury, it was, as in the
tale described, he gratified his revenge. With
regard to Edith, in one of the Spanish islands
he encountered a priest, who, in his pilgrimage,
had visited Innisfoil. In his discourse he hap
pened to mention her name. Curiosity led
Ronald to inquire the minute particulars, and
thus was the clue to the discovery. It is al
most needless to add, that from the hour of his
| nuptials with Edith, he renounced the life of a
rover. Peace and plenty were offered to the
remaining crew to leave their calling, but the
dull life of the landsman accorded not with
their feelings. The broad sea, the black flag,
and the clearing cutlass were light and music
to their soul, and the same night that beheld
Edith and Ronald united, belield them again
on their path of peril and of death.
Laiies Companion for October.
Consumption.— The editor of the New
! Hampshire Telegraph, in an article relating to
j the frequency of this disease among us; and
its character, says:
“If there be a disease in this world of ills,
which seems in a peculiar manner to fit its vic
tim, for the fate which human skill cannot
avert, that disease is consumption. To one
who is full of life, and hope, and joy, the first
conviction that it has fastened its death grasp
upon him, the fearful certainty of its end will
flash through him with a thrill of terror—
more doubtless, than that of most other dis
eases. Startling, it must be, indeed, to feel for
the first time, that there is a worm knawing at
one’s vitals, whose greedy teeth no human skill
can stay —startling to feel the certanity of dis
ease within, whose end is surely death. But
how soon does the spirit grow calm; and as he
feels the disease tugging at his heartstrings, and
his strength wasting away before it, how calmly
then, does the soul plume itself for its upward
flight—how trustingly then, does it lean upon
the bosom of its God—and when flesh and
heart grow faint, and fail, how sweetly sinks to
ns final rest, the victim of consumption,’”
“ So fades a summer cloud away,
So sinks the gale when storms arc o’er,
So gently shuts the eye of day,
So dies a wave along the shore.”
I Friends.— There are few persons in tlie
world, who are so poor, that they have no
friend to share their sorrows and partake of
their joys. But while we are blest with kind
friends, it should be the warm desire of our
| hearts to promote their interest. They “should
live in our hearts by the emotion which sub
sist there—in our memory, by our fragrant
remembrance of them—in our voice, by our
ewlogiums—in our conduct, by our imitations
of their virtues,”
11