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NEW SERIES.]
SPUING.
RY THOR. W. NEW*AY.
Welcome! welcome! genial Spring.
With soft and balmy air—
♦ With all the tender gift* yoii bring
Os many dyes and fair!
Tby softness decks the sunset sky
In gold and purple hue ;
And thousand beauties richly Tie,
With changes fresh and new!
We trace, thy magic In the flowers,
As budding leaves unfold;
And see thy smile In the wildest bowers.
More fair than bard hath told.
We feel thy freshness In each breeze,
As soft It gently greets,
And bears from blooming flowers and trees,
its gifts of purest sweets.
Thu warbling of the birds, once more.
Falla sweetly on the ear
The bee hath left Us henay’d store
To tasteof liowre'U near.
Karth’s faded things renew,
Shall yontb, with man, fore’er take wing.
And bloom no more anew ?
Yes! beyond the verge ol time,
There la a clime. In truth,
Where man shall flourish In his prime,
And bloom in fadeless youth.
THE STORY TELLER.
[For the Southern Field and Ftreetde.]
CONSTANCE.
BY CYRILLS MEHI.E.
YVe retired soon after. Charles drew my at
tention to Honora as we went out. She bad
drawn a nouvelle marie in her meshes. He was
sunning himself in her presence, while his
young wife looked miserably on. I heard of
Honora next day. She had met Signor Palpiti
in Rome; attracted by their voices a mutual
admiration bad sprung up and grown steadily
ever since: he was,besides, intelligent and she
beautiful. In that laud of easy morals, Italy,
nothing was thought of their intimacy save by
the English. But she came to America, and
the next ship brought the Opera Troupe of
which Palpiti was etar. This was enough.
Slander revelled. Pray Heaven, Honora be
not fallen! was the burden of my heart all day
long I could not see her in the morning, beiDg
-but with Em, but sent her word I'would come
after dinner. Accordingly, dusk, I
knocked at her parlor door. I had thought the
-aloons handsome, but this surpassed them far.
It was hung with lace and rose »Uk, whose
soft glow heightened Honors’* beauty. She
was leaning back with tbo old witching abandon.
Several gentlemen eminent for talent and ac
complisbraeats stood around her. neither her
husband nor Palpiti were there. Sue received
mo kindly, soen managed to send her visitors
away, then took me to her heart.
•You are (aithful, Constance ; you dared to
keep your promise, with the world against
yon.’
‘Ob, Honora, why is this ?
‘Nothing to grieve you, child. They take
their pleasure —I mine.’
I tried to,awaken afl'ection for her husband—
it made her'worse.
‘He love me!' she cried, lam nothing to his
heart. Hi*j>rtde shudders to find scorn asso
ciated with his name.’
‘And do you love him ?’ I asked.
‘As God is my witness, I do!' she answered
Southern Field and Fireside.
AUGUSTA, GA., SATURDAY, APRIL 4, 1863.
solemnly. 'But you do not know to what length
neglect will drive a woman. You, leading a
peaceful life, cannot know the shoals and quick-
Bands of mine.’ •
Here sho seemed to remember, for she kiss
ed me impulsively, and went on :
'I liked Palpiti because of his voice; he is
nothing mero caso to a raro instru
ment When I found Ruy did not love me I
clung more to my sole passion. The world sneer
ed,and my husband believed. To night he has
commanded Palpiti to leave tbo country before
daybreak or die by his hand; and the craven
has lied. The Tsoupe will be infuriate at his
loss, and the precious world more than ever
oouvinced of my turpitude. Perhapß he loved
me—l believed sometimes be did, but I could
keep it iu check, and, sinful as it sounds to your
innocent heart, Constaace, the thought gave
me pleasure. There are so few who care for
me : no one besides my lather and perhaps—
you, Constance.' %
Ab I just censure will pierce a heart of mar
ble, it was working on this proud oue.
‘You have been kind to me, Honora.'
‘Kind I I loved serenity, and no one embod
ied it more than you, whom I knew as the pale
little girl years ago ; so, I kept you near me.
Kind 1 in unsettling Wilfred 8t- U& Ah 1 I
neve* meartfljrfto fWft. cMTEI; Was it all my
work?’
This was hard to bear, harder still to answer
truthfully—that sin seemed lo pain above the
others.
‘Not all- It wap my duty to free him.’
‘How could you do it ? for he loved you. I
have heard that called the absorbing desire of
the heart, but I would be content with very
little of it were only mine forever. It is to me
tbe ‘small sweet need’ and I cannot get it.’
Her voice fell iu dreariuess and sorrow. The
door opened, and Ruy Velasquez, entered ; be
looked with astonishment at the glowing, tear
fill woman. I fancy he never saw her thus be
fore.
' ‘Go to him, Honora,’ 1 whispered.
She sprung lo bis ueck iu passiouato weep
ing, and he did not recoil, though he was very
cold. I loft them thus.
I did not see Honora again. Early next morn
ing, we left the city on a visit to some friends a
lew wiles out, and I merely passed through on
my way back.
Dec. 25.—Christmas night. I have been hap
py to-day ; the only shadow was a letter from
Charles Haruourt, which pained while it grati
fied me. There was no flattery, though. Ido
not love him, and so I told him as gently as I
could. Presents came from Em and other
friends, and one from the whole village—a mas
sive silver vase, io a wreath o: chased Pongee’s
and Imlnortelles are engraven the words:
“Constance: Tbo Daughter of Consolation.”
'Tia not very (it for a acear de la misericurde ,
but an evidence that I have done soiao good.
Tbe Church was beautifully decorated with
evergreeus; should not the 'Kiug’s Daughter
be all glorieus within" at the coming of her
Lord ? There was a school feast, at which I
had to officiate; hard work it was to satisfy tbe
wee ones. In every assembly, however small,
I see disregard of tbo injunction “we who are
strong should help the weak.” In tbe afternoon
numerous old women and poor invalids were
made to remember the day by a helpful present;
warm shawls, shoes, delicate food, etc.; I enjoy
ed that. At night thore was a merry gather
ing at Mrs. HarcQurt’s —only relativ-sand con
nections, but they are not few. What with
games and music, the evening sped merrily. I
missed Em. We sang a Christmas Hymn at
parting ; it tuned our hearts aright. I was not
happier four years ago—more joyous—but
conscience is at rest new. Sbe wag up and
doing then, and I would not—Ah ! I could not
listen to her. Help, Lord ! “Grant that we,
being regenerate and made Thy children by
adoption and grace, may daily be renewed by
thy Holy Spirit through the same, our Lord
Jesus Christ.”
Jan. 20th.—Still hare. Km is come back to
die, and I must do what l ean o thank her for
the gift of love she never recalled. Iha ve
written that I cannot return to school, but Mr.
Selden will keep my place uutil May, Tea, I
can come then. All, me!—no murmuring.
Wouldst keep a soul sufl'ering here, when it
pants to go homo ?
May 7.—Em is dead. I write that word
without a shudder, without a tear, almost with
out a sigh. I think of her as of past violets, a
tender, fragrant remembrance that smiles rath
er then weeps. Rewrgam is engraven too
plainly on her tomb for mourning. If she eould
have chosen a day to die, I think it would have
been that very sth of April, when the faint,
clear sky and gentle breeze, the mild sunshine
and smiling earth seemed to promise the soul a
safe journey upwards. We knew she must die
that day, but did not think it so soon, so 1 was
alone with her.
‘Do not call any one, Constance/ she said as
I rose; for Death had laid his hand ou her, hut
so gently. She gave me her good-bye lor Wil
fred, bade me cut one of her fair curl# lor him,
then lay quiet, her cheek resting on her hand.
‘Dow pleasant it is, Cousumoe 1 The flowers
appear on the earth, the time of the singiug of
! birds is cagte, and tbe.ypke.of. :t*e turtle is
Tleafd in dirt land. Tho fig tree puttelh' forth
its grsou tigs and the vines with the tender
grapes give a good smell. Ah I everything
good comes to me. 'Tie only lately I have
known trouble. I have fed among the lilies.
Until tho day break and the ehadowt Bee
away.' She wont on after a pause: ‘They are
fleeing now. Kiss me Constanco—pray.'
‘Unto God's gracious mercy and protection
I commit thee,' I commenced. The Lord bless
thee aud keep thee; the Lord make his lace to
shine upon thee.’
He had I Even as I spoke, without change,
she ceased to breathe, tbe early suulighl rested
ouher face, the breeze caressed a stray lock.
lam at my old post. Duties—even that
hard one—are easier now. Oh! I would count
it gain to pass my whole life thus, did such a
death await me.
It was after evening service that Con stauce
took the path to an old woman's cottage to
whom she.road. Her (ace was peaceful as if
the Benediction rested there ; grave too, for
Wilfred St. Mar had como home. He had
written to ask to see her; she had appointed
that afternoon. More than ever she invoked
the angels to guard the secret in her heart.
The dame greeted her gladly; she enquired
after her ailments, then took the book and
read such passages as she asked for, or as were
suited to her. A pleasant picture she made,
sitting near the lattice, shaded with elm boughs,
her voice low and clear, thrilling at beautiful
passages, aud explaining or applying others.
So thought Wfifred, who came in at the last.
Could It be he ? That grave, pale man. the
careless one of three years past ? Sorrows had
fallen fast upon him. Remorse was there too;
the pride of his parents, the idol of his sister,
bis pleasure had been theirs, and the retro
spect showed him much to lament.
‘I am very glad to see you.’ said Constance,
as she gave him her hand. •
He grasped it, and answered with bis eyes,,
be could not speak. They went away together-
She told him all the sad history, passed light
ly over her services, and treasured words and
expressions whieh comforted him silently. He
took it with tears ; be had not so realized it,
until these tokens lay before him. In broken
tones, he blessed her, and went his way.
The truth was, Wilfred loved Constance more
than over. Throughout his voyage, her serene,
steadfast presence had haunted him, and he
made basts to tell her so. But years had done
their work in strengthening the heart which
sought for duty. So they were good friends ;
but Constance was careful there should be no
relapse into tbs old fashion.
V **
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AT FOTB BOIUHS Per AWNUM.
Houora came home in July. Her husband
hnd returned to Spain, and she was to live with
her father henceforth. The little village bridled
and talked virtuously, maliciously. Only Con
stance was faithful. Wilfred expostulated in
vain, she would have given him up again rather
than renounce right. Besides, Honors would
receive no one else, and sometimes showed
herself penitent and broken-hearted.
lu August, Mr. Harwood was taken danger,
ously ill. Wilfred was in coostaut attendance,
and chanced to be there one aultry afternoou.
The clouds lay black m the heavens; a tbrkad
flama and a crashing peal now and tneu attest
ed their burden- ~
'V'on canuot go, Dr. St.-Mar,’ said Honors
behind him, as the wind blew the clouds to
wards them. 'The storm is coming; let it spend
its lury.
This was the first time he bad met hor since
they mot in tbegay Spanish town; be was se
cretly moved by her white face and restless
oyos, but bowed formally, nevertheless and re
gretted he should hare to trouble her. Here,
Constance entered breathless
‘Almost overtaken, Honora, I thought it •
.would not rain until to-night.’
Honora met her warmly, took off her mantle
-k
Mias tiai wood, a mna, obtuse spinster came
iu; they stood at the door watching the grad*
uai slops of the tempest.
"Dear me! How agreeable,’ remarked Miss
Harwood, as the wind scattered her scant
hair and filled her eyes with dust. “It has
beeu so oppressive ail day, this is really re
freshing.’
’How like a mild cowl’ exclaimed Honors,
impaiicuily. The simile was not luapt, as she
stood with half-closed, placid eyes, aud a ru
minant expression of content. Wilfred coughed
and Constance felt her mouth twitch.
‘What did you say, dear t You kuow I don’t
bear well.’ Houora repeated her remark. ’You
mean that sneei/?’ pointing to a lorioru oue
scudding uguiust the wind. ‘Yes he does loos
harmless aud frolicsome.’
Down came the rushing rain, and the broad
red flashes lighted the room. Constance pulled
Honora back.
‘Come in; it is wrong to stand there.’
Houora had been cut to tho quick by Wil
fred's coldness. He whom she tormerly orougtit
to her feet by a look, now stood aloot, show
ing plainly disenchantment, disapproval.
'I will not come, Ooustauce, tnere is no dan
ger. Iflhere was, what matter?"
The reet returned to the room. Miss Har
wood conned her beads, aud muttered Aue
Maria* at every peal; Constance sat wild
clasped hands and reverent lace. ‘Tne Lord
reigueth this was his insignia.
Honora turned suddenly:
’Dr. St. Mar, you love Coustauce.aud she will
not marry you. Ido not cousider her reasons
sufficient; shell I tell you mem V
’No, madam, I am not at Uoerty to hear.’
•You should know, uevertneiess. It is be
cause '
Constance rose pale and stern, ‘Honora,’ she
said. , 1
A glittering arrowy flame leapt trom the
door upon Houora’s head. The house rocked
aud resounded to tne terrific crasu. Amidst
1 rag meats of glass aud masonry, Houora lay
dead, a laiut blue line from brow to lip showed
the course of tne electric fluid.
The reckless aout had rushed unshriven to
tne Judgment Bar; nut wuo snail follow it
there auu tell what doom the God of Mercy
pronounced '! J
A year glided on. No ripple disturbed tb
friendship of Wilfred and goustance. Harwood
Lodge raised its stately head auew, but the
light was gone. Few visitors were received
by the broken-hearted duo, who were kept in
constant memory of their loss by the repairs ail
unmellowed by time; the piasza where climb
ed no vines since those had died that fearful
August evening.
[VOL 1.-NUMBER 14.