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[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
JACK HOPETON AND HIS FRIENDS
OR,
THE AU TOMOGRAPHY OF A GEORGIAN.
BY WM. W. TURNER.
That night we sat round Mr. Bently’s hospi
table board. , „.
“ I must tell you all, now,” said Frank, how
I became acquainted with these gentlemen; and
it will reveal a little incident in my life, concern
ing which none of you know anything.
“ Better let it pass, Mr. Bently,” said I.
“.There we differ, though,” resumed Frank;
* I must acquaint my family with the gallant
service you onco rendered me, and then they
will know how to treat you.”
I tried to speak again.
“ Never mind,” said he, “ I will spare your
modesty as much as I can, to do justice
chivalry. Last summer, father, I all
among the mountains of Geo f - - 1 # great niaDy
were located for the,^ a - cterg j Btopped in a
people of eveningi where j had never
little viUac- and had not a single acquaintance,
piazza of the hotel where I put up sat
three or four men conversing.
“ Seating myself in the same piazza, but as
far as possible from them, I took up a newspaper
with which to amuse myself till supper. For
some time I paid »o attention to th efish party ;
but Dually they began to indulge in pointless
witticisms on Georgia and Georgians.
«i soon found from their significant glances,
that they were very anxious for me to overhear
them. They supposed I was alone, and they
could insult me with impunity. With this view,
they became more and more pointed m their re
marks, and more insulting in the looks they di
rected toward me.
“ Finally I rose and walked over to them.
“ ‘Gentlemen,’ I began with a low bow,
‘judging from circumstances, 1 conclude that
you intend the remarks you are making, as an
insult to me. Will you please inform me wheth
er or not I am correct in my surmises ?’
“‘Really, sir 1’ said one of them, coolly
enough, and in a jeering tone, ‘ I don’t see
what right you have to ask the question. We
have not spoken a single word to you, and as
you are a perfect stranger to us, it cannot be
presumed that we knew our remarks would of
fend you.’
“ ‘ Wliat you say wears some appearance of
plausibility,’ answered I. ‘I will not say
what bad taste and want of good breeding you
display by indulging in ill-natured and would-be
witty remarks in the presence of one who, as
you say, is a perfect stranger to you, and who,
may, by any possible chance, be one one of the
persons you abuse. To cut the matter short, I
declare that you did, by your manner, give me
reason to suppose that you were offering me an
insult, and I demand from you, sir, an avowal
or disavowal of such intention.’
“ * And suppose,’ answered the one I had
now singled out, * I should refuse to give you
either ?’
“ ‘ Then,’ answered I, * you force mo to the
disagreeable necessity of pulling your nose, or
striking you in the face 1’
“ You see, father,” said Frank, apologetically,
“ I had began to lose my temper.
“ ‘ What is your answer, sir ?’ said I, seeing
the man hesitate. ‘lf you fail to disavow any
intention of insulting me, I demand the satisfac
tion due from one gentleman—if you are a gen
tleman—to another. If you are not a gentle
man, this riding whip shall be my avenger.’
“ ‘ But where is your friend ?’ asked the fel
low.
“ ‘ I will procure one, by to-morrow after
noon.’
“ ‘ Yes,’ answered he, now seeing away to
get out of the difficulty, ‘ that is true, no doubt,
but we must leave this place early to-morrow
morning.’
“ * See here, sir,’ said I, for my blood had
got fully up, although I did not lose control over
myself, ‘ you perceive this riding whip ? Un
less you consent to remain and give me satis
faction, I shall apply it to your shoulders, you
cowardly poltroon !’
“ This I was determined to do; for I was well
armed—traveling in the mountains it's best you
know —and risk their worst. While I was al
lowing the puppy a moment to decide, these two
gentlemen here, Mr. Fitzwarrou and Mr. Ilope
ton, stepped out of a room opening on the piazza.
“* We ha"e heard your conversation, sir,’
said Mr. Hopeton, to me. ‘lama Georgian,
and shall be proud to act as your friend, in this
matter.’
‘“And I,’ said Mr. Fitzwarren, ‘can as
sure you that you could have no better friend.
As he is a Georgian, and I am not, of course I
must yield him ti« honor of acting in this case.’
“ ‘ I shall be mu*, obliged to you both, gen
tlemen, to give me you? assistance in this mat
ter. My father is a Georgian by birth, and we
spend nearly half our time in this State, at a
residence he still owns.’
“ With two such friends as Mr. Hopeton and
Mr. Fitzwarren, matters were soon arranged.—
They were cool and peremptory. Somewhat to
my surprise, the man with whom I had had the
altercation, chose to meet me rather than apolo
gize.
“ Next morning, before breakfast, we exchang
ed shots, and I sent a bullet into snob’s shoul
der—l-didn't want to hurt him much —while I
got Off with a very slight flesh wound.
“ Yon may be sure I cultivated the acquaint
ance of my t W o friends. Several weeks in their
company a high opinion of their merit,
and I invited thd«* to come and see us. Yet
they were passing as CO ar to us as D and
did not even intend to lc* me know they were
there. Fortunately, I saw sbeir names on the
.hotel register, and almost dragged them home
with me.”
During all this recital, Fitzwarren sipping
his tea, or dallying with his toast, whlK the old
expression of disdainful abstraction,
I had become so well acquainted, brooded <wpr
his countenance. Occasionally a smile of milw
gled bitterness and melancholy would flit across
his features, and then would become cold .and
rigid. Sometimes, too, he would gaze earnestly
at Helen Bently, to see how she regarded the
matter.
“ Pray, Mr. Bently,” said I to Frank’s father,
“ how do you like the part we acted ?”
“ You have placed us all under obligations,
gentlemen, which we will endeavor to repay by
all the means in our power.”
“ Madam,” now said Fitzwarren to Mrs. Bent
ly, “ I was sure that the father would thank us
for the part we acted ; but I fear that this reci
tal has lowered us as much in your opinion, as
it has elevated us in his.”
“ You acted,” began Mrs. Bently, “ from a
noble impulse I suppose, and —”
“ Not impulse, madam,” interrupted Fitzwar
ren, “so far as I am concerned—though you
must recollect that my friend Hopeton acted the
principal part, and to him your thanks are main
ly due—so far as I am concerned, I acted from
a long-settled principle—one which I think 1 can
jjjg SOW2K3£B3ff MM3 EXEXSXEE*
support with strong arguments, though this is
not the time nor the place for it.
“But I humbly beg your pardon, Madame,
for interrupting you. Please say on.”
“ I set out to say this,” resumed Mrs. Bently.
“If either of you had persuaded my son to
fight a duel against his inclination, or judgment,
then —excuse ray candor —I should hate and
despise you. Since you assisted him to carry
out an intention already formed, and it was one
considered justifiable by a great many men—my
husband among the number —however much I
may disagree with you all, I am bound to thant
you for acting as friends to my boy.” uecp h ow ,
Fitzwarren heard these ca im. look
ed then turned his Helen Bently. She
ing eyes enquiring^ ead jj y( and neither spoke. J
encounter^ * tQ )iear w ] iat s h e thought of our |
Venture.
“Miss Bently,” said I, “as a true and gallant
knight, I am anxious to know whether my con
duct in this affair meets with your approbation.” j
Again I encountered those eyes, now eloquent :
with emotion, as she replied,
“My mother has expressed my feelings ex
actly, and I must add my thanks to hers. In
deed, at the risk of being considered un
feminine by you, I must say, that I can’t ,
bear the idea of a brother or father submitting ;
to insult.”
“ Ah! Helen,” said her mother.
“ Perhaps I am wrong, mother; but how can I
change my nature?”
“ And how, Miss Bently,” said I, “ would you
like the lover who would submit tamely to in
sult?”
“Least of all,” was the reply. “Such a cra
ven could not be a lover of mine.” And her
eye flashed, and her nostril dilated proudly.
“Helen,” said her mother, “if men’s pas
sions needing arousing, there might be some
propriety in speaking thus; but it is the prov- j
ince of woman to lay the demons, anger and re
venge. Her mission is not to stir up strife,
but it is one of peace. It is for her, by gentle
words and kindly acts, to subdue and soften
the quarrelsome and turbulent spirit which
reigns in the bosom of the sterner sex.”
“ You are right," answered Helen, as her
whole mood seemed to change from proud defi
ance to maidenly gentleness, “You are right,
mother.”
“ Suppose, for instance, brother,” added she,
turning to Frank, “ you had killed that man,
merely for speaking a few arrogant words.”
“You put rather a strong case,” said Frank,
“ but I had no more idea of killing him, than I
have of killing you at this moment.”
“ Shoot at a man, and have no idea of killing
him!”
“ Exactly!”
“ Suppose, then, you had killed him acciden
tally.”
“ I handle a pistol too well for that. I mere
ly intended to punish his impertinence, by hit
ting him in the shoulder.”
“ You were right, Frank,” here spoke Mr.
Bently. “We should never seek the life of a
fellow man, except for the gravest considera
tions. That cur, though, deserved just the pun
ishment he got.”
“ But think,” interposed Mrs. Bently, “of the
risk Frank ran, of being killed himself.”
“ Os course,” answered the young gentleman,
“there is some risk in all duels; but where one
is a good shot, there is no more danger than
there is in a thousand other things we do, every
day of our lives. Think of galloping a horse.
If the girth breaks, or the horse falls, you may
be severely hurt —perhaps killed. You may
trip in running down a staircase, and if your
head shall strike the landing first, as it probably
will, your neck will not be worth much.”
“ It depends, then,” said Helen, “ on whether
a man is a good shot, whether —”
“We’ll come to that presently, Helen,” re
sumed Frank, interrupting. “Though, right
here, I will acknowledge that there are some
apparently insuperable arguments against duel
ling, and you were probably thinking of one
then.
“ But I say if we look for danger, we can find
it on all sides, at every moment; so our lives are
full of it. They hang by the most brittle
threads. Then when we are constantly exposed
to danger and cannot possibly escape such ex
posure, the fear of it should not prevent us from
resenting an insult.”
“It is useless,” said Mr. Bently, “to discuss
such a question as this. Wo shall never arrive
at a conclusion. As Frank says, there are
some arguments against duelling which are in
superable. There are others in favor of it,
which are equally unanswerable. Show me the
most nncomprising opponent of duelling, and if
he has a spark of spirit, or human feeling in his
bosom, I can put cases to him in which he must
acknowledge that a duel is the only resort. It
is folly to say, that under no circumstances is it
right to go on the field.”
“ Perhaps, then,” said Fitzwarren, “it is best
to lay down no rule for the guidance of a man’s
conduct in the matter, but let the circumstances
es each particular case, as it comes up, decide
for him.”
“ I think so,” answered our host.
“I am rather of the opinion,’’was now my remark
“ that men’s opinions on questions like this are
instinctive, and not to be altered by reasoning.
For this cause, we ought to be very charitable
towards those who entertain opinions different
from our own.”
“ Probably they are,” answered Fitzwarren,
“ but I must acknowledge I have a great con
tempt for the man who is not willing to hold
himself responsible for all his words and acts.”
“As it is likely that contempt of yours is in
stinctive,” answered I, “ you cannot be blamed
for it.”
“But such discussions,” said Mr. Bently, ris
ing, “are not for the presence of the gentler
sex. Let us adjourn to the drawing-room.”
“You are a musician, Miss Bently,” I said,
when I saw several different instruments, and
piles of music scattered about the room.
“ I must plead guilty to playing a good deal, at
least,” was the candid reply.
■ allowed to claim anything on
ees rendered your brother, I
songs. And I think my friend
•in in my request.”
i Fitzwarren, in his cold, con
could afford me more pleasure
Bently sing.”
such songs as ‘ McGregor’s
Gathering?”’ \
“Ah yes 1” I exeh™ n ed; “ and ; The Captive
Knight.’ ”
“ The harp is the fit accompaniment for them,”
was Helen's reply as she herself at that
instrument.
Reader have you ever hetfcd the two songs
above mentioned ? Perhaps yon have; but did
you ever hear them sung by a prayd, imperial
looking beauty, who accompanied her voice with
the harp? As Helen Bently’s powerful but
mellow voice rang out, “ Cease the wild slarion,”
and her glorious eyes lighted up, and her lovely
countenance glowed with animation, she seemed
the very personification of proud enthusiasm.
* 7, „ a » to young ladies
And then those model arD r* iarp ? I believe
with ugly arms ever play ‘ l £. om pi e t e the agita
not. It needed not all tl . us liv bosom,
tion of the flutterer j agt _
These songs were °Y’have, Mr. nopeton?”
“ What now will’ ag g j, e looked U p and
asked the young
j caught my eye. „ answered I. “The songs
“I like va s' n g’ are glorious, but now if you
you have jug' e „ u ; lar a nd favor us with some
j would expressive little melodies—”
; sw fioli!” w ,s the reply, “it will never do to
‘ touch the light guitar’ in the house. Let us
go out on tl ; colonade, where the breezes can
come to us irough the orange groves.”
And to 1 le colonade we went, where some
beautiful so gs, breathing of love and devotion,
warbled in i soft tone, made me conclude that
these were le themes, after all, which best suit
ed the voicetf Helen Bently.
But all thhgs human have an end, and so,
after an hoi passed in conversation, Helen
bade me gooJ night. I rose, as I returned her
good-night, aid watched her form, as its disap
peared through tie door-way. Then I sat down
and leaned over the balustrade, gazing out on
the still night, “he moon shone over the scene
I have already* described to the reader. The
gentle dash of the waves on the beach was
heard, and a bi-eze stirred the foliage of the
dark evergreens; The odor of orange blossoms,
of magnolias, ar* that most fragrant of all flow
era—the cape jefcamine—was wafted to me.
Over all, love ast a mantle of romance, and
its influence ste< ied my senses in a delicious in
toxication, as 11 ought on the vision of loveli
ness, brighter tl n any I had pictured to myself,
even in dreams, I’hicli had crossed my path.
I don’t know i>w long I sat thus, but I was
aroused by Fitzvtirren, who asked me if it was
not time to go to >ed. I rose mechanically, fol
lowing a servant who showed me to a room.
The reader nod hardly be told that, “sleep
ing I dreamed.” 1
_
CHAPTER XVIII.
“Gentlemen,”!laid Mr. Bently, next morning
at breakfast, “ofcourse that little portmanteau
you brought is ijt all of your baggage. Write
a note to your hoel-keeper, and I will send for
your trunks.” I
“We will notmed them, sir,” answered Fitz
warren. “We mist go on to-day.”
“That will nt'tr do,” said Mr. Bently.—
“ Frank, you surely are not going to allow your
friends to depart to soon?”
“I did my best,yesterday,” was Frank’s re
ply, “ to make than promise to stay a long while,
but I could jiot prevail on them.”
“ Mrs. Bently, r again spoke our host, “ and
you, Helen, must ry your powers of persuasion.
Our character for iospitality is at stake.”
“If any thing l can say gentlemen,” com
menced Mrs. Bently, “would have any influence,
just consider it as laid.”
“Come,” she added, as we were silent, “I
can hardly believe that young gentlemen just
out of college are! so pressed with business as
not to be able to sjare a week or two for those
who are so anxious to entertain them, and we
even flatter oursehes, so capable of doing so.”
“We do not doult your willingness, Madam,”
answered Fitzwarren in his grave tone. “We
do not doubt your willingness, nor your capacity,
to entertain us, fhr beyond our deserts—though
I beg pardon of my friend; I continually forget
that liis services were far greater than mine.—
Only the most urgent business could induce us
to forego your hospitable invitation.”
“ Could a simple maiden like myself,” now
said Helen, as she turned her lustrous eyes from
one of us to the other. “Could a simple maiden
like myself say ought to change the determina
tion of two of ‘creation’s lords?” It is only
doubt on this point which has kept me so long
silent.”
For sometime, I had been debating with
myself whether, if Fitzwarren could not be
prevailed on to remain, I should not suffer him
to go on alone. ’ Finally Helen’s bright eyes had
settled the question, and the only difficulty con
sisted in framing an excuse for the sudden altera
tion in my plans, since the day previous I had
assured Frank Bently that it was utterly im
possible for us to spend more than a day or two
with him.
I was confident there would be a letter for me
in D by the next mail, and I thought once I
would send for that, and pretend I had received
intelligence in it which would allow' me to spend
a longer time at Bentwold; but the lively tone
of Helen’s enquiry, determined me on a bold
stroke. I would address her in a tone of such
exaggerated compliment, announcing my accept
ance of their invitation, that they should not
suspect how much in earnest I was.
“ I cannot answer for Mr. Fitzwarrcnn,” said I,
“but as for myself, I am the slave of beauty,
and the slightest wish expressed by one like
Miss Bently is to me a law.”
“Then,” again spoke Helen, “allow me to
express a very earnest wish, that you will re
main long enough for us to show you how grate
ful we can be for services rendered one of our
family.”
“ Mr. Bently,” was my answer to this speech,
“you may send for my baggage.”
At this moment I caught Fitzwarren’s eye
fixed on me with a look of enquiry, so slight
though, that no one not well acquainted with
him would have noticed it.
“ Mr. Fitzwarren,” said Helen, turning to him,
“ since I have discovered that I have such influ
ence, I am vain enough to imagine that I may
even persuade you. What is your answer?”
“ Still the same,” was the reply; and Fitzwar
ren gazed, as if fascinated, into the bright eyes
fixed on him. •
“Indeed,” he continued, while his pale face
grew still paler, and his voice sunk almost to a
whisper, “ Indeed, I dare not stay.”
“Mr. Hopeton, then, as having obeyed my
commands, merits the appellation of “ tme and
gallant knight,” while you, I am sixty to say,
prove rather recreant.”
All this was said in a gay playful humor, but
hardly a smile did Fitzwarren call to his lips, in
response to the general laughter of the par
ty.
“Are you serious,” said he to me, at last,
“ in saying that you intend to remain longer ?”
“Never more so,” was my reply. “You
would not, surely, have me to forfeit the good
name you perceive I have now gained?”
“No, certainly not,” he answered, after a mo
ment's abs traction.
“ Well ” he added, “as alone, my move
ments perhaps will bo more expeditious. I must
be off soon.”
He rose from the breakfast table, to go to his
room, and I followed him.
“And so, Jack,” said Fitzwarren, when we
were alone, “ you love her?”
“It would be useless for me to deny it, Fitz,”
replied I, though slightly coloring, as I was some
what surprised.
“ Well she is worthy of all the wealth of love
you can bestow.”
“Is she not? I have dreamed of beauty,
but never such as hers. Such eyes! such eye
brows ! such a magnificent figure I”
“Yes,” said Fitzwarren musingly, “she is in
deed lovely. Why are such visions sent on
earth, to disturb men’s hearts?”
“ Why! my dear friend ? To be worshipped,
adored, striven for, sought after; wooed and
won!”
“True!” said he, still musing and gazing on
me without seeming conscious of it.
None without hope, can love the brightest fair—
But love can hope, where reason would despair.
“ There is no reason why you should not win
her. You are good looking, ardent, eloquent,
true-hearted.”
“ Let me ask you one thing, though, Fitzwar
ren,” said I suddenly. “ Have I been so trans
parent, think you, that the family here have read
me, as you have ?”
“Oh no. Friendship, like love, is sharp eyed.
I, being acquainted with you, and having stu
died human nature long and earnestly, was able
to see symptoms, which entirely escape ordina
ry observation.”
“ You relieve me very much.”
“ For one who is no older than you Jack, you
have a fair share of self-possession.”
“I am glad, though, Fitzwarren, to find that
you agree with me so well in opinion, concern
ing Miss Bently.”
“ The man who differs with you is totally de
void of taste.”
“But how long,” continued Fitzwarren, “do
you remain at Bentwold?”
“ A week. Where shall I meet you at the
end of that time?”
“In Tallahassee. At least I shall be there.”
“ So will I.”
“ Provided you can tear yourself away.”
“Do not fear me. I will not disappoint you.
Have I ever failed to keep an engagement with
you?”
“ No.”
“ Nor will I now.”
“ I have never known you to be in love be
fore, Jack,” said Fitzwarren, as a sickly smile
flitted across his features.
“ That is very true. A new phase of exis
tence seems to be opened to me. * ‘ Still let me
love.’ l ’Tis sweet, oh ’tis sweet.’ It is ‘joy
forever ’ to love such a being as Helen Bent
ly.”
A sort of spasm passed over Fitzwarren’s
face.
“This tooth!” he exclaimed, as he put up his
hand.
“My friend,” said I, hardly noticing his ex
clamation, “it is a luxury to love. You are too
cold. Is it not strange that beauty such as
Helen Bently’s can only extort from you the
most common place and trite compliments?”
“My God!” he suddenly exclaimed with start
ling energy. “Would you have me loose my
wild spirit ? You know it not. Do you wish
to see a volcano exposed ? What have Ito do
with love ? —unless, indeed I act up to the spir
it of the quotation you made just now —but you
did not begin far enough back.
’Tis time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it has never moved;
But though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!
“You must excuse me, Jack;” continued Fitz
warren “this damned tooth makes me nervous
and almost petulant.”
It was the first time I had ever heard my
friend use an oath on so trivial an occasion,
though occasionally I had heard him, when
deeply moved, breathe forth maledictions which
made my blood run cold.
But he left Bentwold, taking leave of the gen
tlemen in a rather formal, but very polite way,
and bowing almost reverently, as he bade adieu
to the ladies.
chapter xix.
How that week at Bentwold passed, I can
hardly tell—pleasantly, though. It turned out
that my mother had been well known to Mrs.
Bently’ in their younger days, so that the Bent
ly’s were very well satisfied as to my family.
I rode, walked, sung, read, with Helen Bent
ly, I didn’t tell her I loved her. What was the
use? She was a woman, and did a woman
ever require to be told that she was loved?—
Instinct Informs women upon this subject, with
out the intervention of words.
Oh! those glorious rides on the beach, “while
nature’s lyre, in one harmonious concert broke.”
Those bewitching walks through the orange
groves, "when the full moon poured down her
flood of radiance! “ Who could e’er be cold or
coy, with love and moonlight blessed?”
Doubtless the reader is very thankful that I
have forgotten the talks I had with the
adored object of my affections. Love-making in
novels is generally tiresome to every one but
the author, even when indulged in a few scenes
at a time. A whole week of love-sick discourse,
would “do for" what might be otherwise the
best tale ever written.
The first few days of my visit passed swiftly
and happily. But the time began to approach
when I had promised to meet Fitzwarren, in
Tallahassee. As long as there was no imme
diate prospect of separation, I dreamed on, con
tent that 1 was allowed to be by Helen s side;
to look on her lovely countenance, to listen to
hsr musical cadences.
The near approach of the time for my depar
ture brought up the painful thought that per
haps I might never again see her whose influ
ence had caused the world —life—to appear to
my eyes in brighter colors than ever before.
On the day previous to my departure, we
were returning from a ride, in which we had en
countered the handsome, dashing Dick Butler,
and his charming sister. I was introduced *o
the former, and could not help being leased
with him; yet a certain little thnl> oi nervous
ness, or uneasiness—could it fee jealousy ?—agi
tated my breast, as I nou'ced the ease and elo
quence of his address, as well as the evident and
unconcealed pleasure the meeting seemed to af
ford Ilffcn.
I was but a human being, and as such liable
to annoyance from the green eyed monster.—
However, I know I was not very jealous, for I
had rather too much of another human weakness
to wit: vanity—to suffer a great deal from the
first.
But I said we were returning from a ride. I
could not resist a certain impulse.
“To-morrow,”l began, “I must leave Bent
wold.”
There was no reply, and I continued,
“This is indeed a delightful portion of coun
try, and my sojourn has been pleasant in the
extreme.”
I looked at Helen, who seemed to have lost
her tongue, but not her presence of mind. Once
more I essayed.
“ Miss Bently, you can never be ennuyie, resi
ding among the noble groves, near this pleasant
soashore, in the vicinity of such attractive neigh
bors as those we met but just now ?”
“ You like Clara Butler, then. lam so glad.
I assure you she is worthy the admiration of any
one.”
“Yes; I admire her very much, but young
ladies—Miss Bently for instance—might possi
bly admire the brother more than the sister.”
“Oh,” was the ready and unembarrassed re
ply. “ Mr. Butler is one of our nearest neigh
bors ; a noble young man, a great friend of my
brother. Our families are very intimate, and I
like him very much.”
After all, “ Thinks Ito myself)” I am wasting
breath. I can find out nothing, and what right
have 1 to be prying into Miss Bently’s secrets,
even if she has any! I addressed Helen again.
“ I shall never forget the pleasant rides you
and I have had together, even if I try. I shall
always remember them, and—Miss Bently, I
crave permission to remember you."
“ There is no need of asking permission, Mr.
Hopeton,” was the reply, “ I certainly do not
wish to be forgotten by my brother’s friend.”
“ Your brother’s friend! Is that all ?
“ I know I am talking rather strangely”’ I
continued, “but I wish to think of you as ‘my
star.’ Perhaps it may be as the 4 bright par
ticular star’ Shakspeare speaks of, but let it be
so.”
My fair companion seemed at a loss how to
reply.
“As for myself, I had rather be hated than
forgotten,” said I again, “ and in all my
but perhaps my garrulity offends Miss Bent
ly?”
She raised her eye to mine, and I looked ea
gerly into them, striving to penetrate the very
depths of their expression, as she answered,
“ I cannot be offended, Mr. Hopeton, at any
thing which I do not understand.”
“I mean,” said I, “simply this, that I hope
ydu will remember me as one to whom your
good opinion is worth more than that of all the
world besides. At the same time, I ask per
mission to think of you, as one who has allowed
me to partake somewhat of the kindly thoughts
which it is natural for you to bestow on all with
whom you come in contact.”
There was no reply.
“ Does this offend you ?” I asked.
“ Offend me ?” was the answer, to me inex
pressibly musical. “ Offend me? Oh no!”
And our ride was now over.
When faraway from Bentwold, I repealed
over and over again,
“ On the wide sea of life, shines one unclouded light.
And still it burns softest and clearest by night;
But its lustre, though lovely, alas! is afar.
And that is the reason I call thee —my star.”
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
CATHOLIC UNI?Y t>F*’t3e PROTESTANT
CHURCHES.
We happered, fortunately, to be present at
Epiphany Church, yesterday morning, and were
interested much beyond our expectations. Some
time since, it appears, that a number of our
principal clergymen of different denominations,
signed a paper which was published in all the
religious and some of the daily journals, the
bearing of which was that they were deeply
concerned at the divisions among Christians. —
They proposed that there should be a concert of
prayer for Catholic Unity ori the first Monday
in October.
The Rev. J. W. Cracraft offered the Epiphany
Church, Fifteenth and Chestnut Streets, for a
meeting of ministers at nine o’clock. When we
arrived at the church, at perhaps twenty min
utes after nine, we found it crowded in almost
every part, with an audience of ladies and gen
tlemen. This, of itself, of so early an hour, on
a week day, was exciting. Looking around, we
saw, everywhere, clergymen of all denomina
tions, and we have been told that 150 were
present. Mr. Cracraft presided, ministers of
the churches crowding about him in and around
the chancel. The Rev. Dr. Boardman, of the
Presbyterian Church (O. 5.,) opened the meeting
with prayer; Mr. Cracraft read from the Scrip
tures. He then read a letter from Bishop Mcll
van, of Ohio, cordially approving the object of
the meeting. Dr. Nott, for half a century Presi
dent of the Union College, Schoneclady, N. Y.,
of the Presbyterian Church (0. 5.,) then rose,
with some assistance from Dr. Jenkins and Dr.
Duffield, of Detroit—an exceedingly venerable
figure, with snow white hair —and leauing on
his staff, for he feels the weight of four score
years, he addressed to the assemblage a few
words breathing the spirit of Christian Union. —
The chairman then called upon the venerable
Dr. Humphrey, of the Congregational Church,
late President of Amherst College, Mass., who
responded in a similar strain, marked with much
modesty as well as Christian fervor.
The Rev. W. B. Stevens, D. D., of the Epis
copal Church, who as we understood from his
remarks, drafted the original paper, then ad
dressed the meeting, stating that he had not
imagined, when he wrote it in his study, that
such consequences were to grow out of so
simple and unobtrusive a movement. He was
followed by the Rev. Albert Barnes, one of the
signers of the paper, who carried forward the
meeting in the same spirit. Prayer and singing
were interspersed at intervals. Dr. Jenkins, of
the Calvary Church, Presbyterian (N. S.) made a
very earnest speech as to the necessity of the
manifestation of the Unity which really exists
among Christians, stating among other things
that there is a cure for all existing divisions.
The most interesting incident of the meeting
occurred at this point, an incident so far as we
know unparalleled in the history of Protestan
ism. Dr. Nevin, of the Presbyterian Church, (0.
5.,) rose and stated that the Apostles’ Creed
was one of the symbols oC his branch of the
church, and it might be of all the churches repre
sented, and proposed that Mr. Cracraft should
repeat it as th« creed of the meeting, all stand
ing and jeering m it- Instantly every individ
ual efthe vast assemblage sprang to his feet —
TTie Chairman began, “ I believe in God, the
Father, Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth.”
Every voice joined him. Nearly two thousand
people—Episcopalians, Presbyterians, (Old and
New School,) Seceders, Covenanters, Dutch Re
formed, German Reformed, Baptists, Methodists,
Lutherans, Moravians, Congregationalists, In
dependents—all repeated with the simplicity of
children, this grand old formula which has come
down to us on the stream of ages—“l believe
in God, the Father, Almighty!” Even a calm
spectator, not easily excited, and standing aloof
from any enthusiasm of the moment,could not but
bo moved. As the “ Apostles Creed,” so called,
is the only uninspired summary of Christian doc
trine in which all these Churches believe, it
seemed like an Act of Union of the Church Uni
versal. It brought startingly, and judging from
the appearance of the congregation, affectingly,
to every individual the idea, so much lost sight
of, that in all that is essential these Christians,
cut up into what are called sects , are in fact one.
Addresses and prayers followed from Rev.
Dr. Newton, of the Episcopal Church, the ven
erable Mr. Kennard, of the Baptist Church, Mr.
Alfred Cookman, of tho Methodist, and Mr. Tay
lor, of the Reformed Dutch. Mr. Cookman
made the excellent remark that the points in
w’hich the Evangelical Churches agree are facts,
while those on which they differ are, for the
most part, theories; and the latter made a touch
ing allusion to the funeral of the Rev. Dudley
A. Tyng, the former rector of Epiphany Church.
The last speaker was Mr. Wilder, a missionary
from India, who dwelt upon the interest which
would be taken in this scone by the missionaries