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j. uriisti!. EiiiTui:.;
VOLUME I.
|loctrii.
FOR THE INPEI'ENI 'ENT rRESS.
[Ko. 20.]
I think of thee
1 think of thw when twilight lingers,
And evening with her rosy lingers
Pumts on the «>nv is of the Western slcy
Those crimson clouds, all fringed with purple dye.
It minds me of thy blushing cheek, —
Thou loving, vet so coy and meek,
That tiiou could st hardly daro thy passion sigh.
In the still midnight hour I think
Os thee—that hour when all things shrink
Into the caverns of deep solitude, .
And silence is so reigning we condudo
We almost hear the flutterings
Around our couch, of spirit wings—
Our hearts with holy quiet all subdued.
That sacred hour with thee and God
Is shared :—my heart and soul’s abode
Js tlnne ; —and on the wings of memory como
Thoughts of the joyous past, and claim a home
With.kindred thoughts ot God and heaven: —
I feci the morn of life whose even
Will glad me when I cease on earth to roam.
I think of thee when night is gone,
And from the Ernst conies virgin morn
Enveloped in her flowing robe of gray:
I wake with thoughts of thee at break of day,
And' with the mantin chaunt of birds
Ascend to heaven, in whispered words,
Arisons tor thy happiness alway. ?-r
I think of thee when winter's o’er,
And spring returns with bounteous store
Os blooming shrubs, and flowers, and balmy ain—
On Chattahoochee's banks we gathered fair
Flower-blooms of various gaudy hues,
And honeysuckles gemmed with dews:—
Twas spring-time then, and theu had come no case.
1 think of thee when through the haunts
We used to rove, mid airy ehaunts
I roam again.—How oft I seek the groves
We wandered through, and o’er our passioned loves
Conversed in bliss, that there again
Mv heart may touch tlf electric chain
Os love, that through the deepest bosom moves.
1 think of thee when'er I turn
My thoughts within:—there on the urn
Which holds the ashes of rnv hopes consumed j
Thy name is written; and there lies entombed j
The cherished image of thy face ;
liove taught the hand of hope to trace
Thy features there, while pure affection bloomed, i
When love bkls hope write on the heart
The words it w rites can ne’er depart—
The scroll nor time nor distance can efface :
True from my breast is gone all of solace,
And thou dost love another now:—
With sullen heart and sombre brow,
I think of thee, who still canst claim thy place.
I think of thee oft in the crowd
Where merry laughter peels aloud: —
My faco in smiles, it seems that I rejoice,
As mingles With the rest my gladsome voice;
Hut oft away I slyly steal
Taat I may think of thee and feel
Within my bonl past thrilHngs rare and choice.
I think of thee,—can I forget thee?
None can forget who ever met thee.
A cold and selfish world bids me despise
Thee whom I loved—perhaps ’tw'ere worldly-wise:
Thou art another’s now, not mine;
Yet once thou wast, and I am thine,
And must be till in earth this body lies.
Tt ii.vwor.O, July 21th. 1848. L. L.
A mi
roll THE IMIEPENDK.NT VRM3.
B ENT- WOLD:
A TALE OF FLORIDA AND GEORGIA.
JSY T
( Con tin tied.')
CHAPTER XL
If Mrs. Holmes was a little surpris
ed at the polite nndr ceremonious re
ply to .her first question to Charley,
the re ruler can very well imagine what
vus her astonishment at the almost
rude character of the language in
which he j addressed her afterwards,
and especially at his leaving his seat
abruptly.
Alter that little,scene between the
two notorieties, they were freezingly
polite and distant to each other, for sev
eral days. * ' - Y'b *•. •'
One evening, Charley had a horse
saddled and sat out oil a ride, home
time before the usual hour at which the
guests at Bentwold were accustomed
to take a ride. At their usual hour
most of them ordered hdrses and sal
lied forth. It so happened tliat Hilly
Morton was cavalier to Mrs. Ilolkes.
As they were riding quietly along
the beach, the spirited animal on which
Mrs. Holmes was seated took fright
at the flapping of the sail attaclipd to
a fishing smack, and becoming perfect
ly uncoutrolable, even by so excellent
a horsewoman as she was,- dashed off
at a terrible pace;;,
George Washington had, that even
ing, without Mr. Bentley’s knowledge,
®Mlij Jjoiiriiiil:—llcliotcti to ifitaiiturt, politics, an'Ci (fatral Utkcrilstm.
Mrs. Holmes, and the danger to which
she was exposed was imminent. Os
course Billy Morton did what he could
to stop the horse, galloping along by
his side and snatching at the bridle
rein. These efforts, though only in
creased the terror and speed of the
frightened animal.
lie was galloping toward a ravine,
formed by the accumulated water of
a late freshet and a few hundred yards
more it would have been a serious mat
ter indeed.
Just, however, as the lady began to
conclude —she was a lady of brave
heart —-just, as she began to conclude
that she would risk a sprained ankle
by a leap to the ground, she saw, gal
loping at right angles toward the
course she was pursuing, a gentleman
on horseback.
She failed to recognize him, until he
was close to her. When she perciev
ed it was Charley Hampton, she knew
well enough, that he would stop her
horse and save her, or perish in the
attempt, and strange to say, she had
almost rather have plunged headlong
into the ravine than be rescued by
him, after what had passed between
them.
As it was, she endeavored, by jerk
ing her horse, to slacken his speed
sufficiently to enable her to leap to
the ground, before Charley could at
tempt a rescue.
But it was too late. lie crossed her
path a few steps ahead, swung himself
down from his saddle, and springing
forward, seized her horse firmly by
the bit with both hands, and stopped
him, after being raised clear from the
ground, and carried several paces.
“Gallantly done,” shouted Morton,
who, though not possessing the nerve
or the physical strength sufficient to
perform the act himself, had the soul
and the heart to appreciate it when
performed by another.
“It is too bad,” said Mrs. Holmes to
herself. “Now his arrogance and pre
sumption will know no bounds.”
And she, the proud woman, burst
into tears!—tears of vexation and mor
tification.
“I will leave you now Mr. Hamp
ton,” said Morton.
“Oh I beg you will not,” said Mrs.
Holmes.
“I must,” was the reply. “Only the
brave deserve the fair, you know.—
You are a lucky man, Mr. Hampton.
As for rne, I must ride home in dis
grace.”
And he left them in spite of Mrs.
Holmes’s entreaties.
After he was gone Charley said in
his blandest tones,
‘‘Mrs. Holmes, will you allow me to
assist you to dismount, while I change
your saddle from that wild horse to
my gentle one?
He was still holding the reins and
she endeavored to draw them away as
she said,
“Oh! no. I entreat you to allow
me to rejoin the company. They are
not far behind.”
“I a-sure you this horse is danger
ous ; and mine is very gentle.”
“He is over his fright now.”
“You mistake. See how he trem
bles.”
“The party will leave me.”
Finally he persuaded her to allow
him to change the saddle, and they re
mounted, and rode slowly toward
home. They soon came in sight of the
rest of the party, after having enjoyed
a short and silent ride together.
“Permit me now,” said Charley, just
before they got within hearing of the
others, “to apologize for my apparent
rudeness to you some days ago, I only
take this opportunity of doing so, be
cause you now arc surely convinced
of my devotion.”
“Your conduct this evening would
make amends for anything," was the
reply. “And I am afraid you know
it but too well!”
It may be expected by the reader
now, that Charley, sought frequent op
portunities to have tete a tetes with Mrs.
Holmes. On the contrary, he rather
avoided conversation with her. Still,
he sought every occasion to render her
little services. If she complained of a
draught from a window, he hastened
to close it. If a chair was not conve
nieutj WheG slie. entered the room, he
"t —“if/T/for/rmiff, jvtrour on affectiojy.”
EATONTON, GA., SATURDAY, OCTOBER 7, 1854.
was before every one else in procuring
one for her. Indeed, he contrived by
a thousand little acts, to make it ap
pear that her happiness and conve
nience was Ids sole study. To all of
her thanks, liss answer would be a low
bow, or a disavowal of any act deserv
ing of thanks.
“Ahd what could have been his ob
ject in all this ■?” asks the reader. “Bid
he intend to try deliberately to win
a heart on purpose to spurn it? And
is this the man whose heart you said
“w r as in the right place?”
Dear reader, 1 do not know exactly
what was Charley’s object. But I do
not believe he was endeavoring- to win
a heart merely to spurn it. These
fashionables, these men of the world
become, occasionally, so terribly en
nuye that they endeavor to get up a
little flirtation merely pour passer le
temps. Frequently, people of excel
lent hearts become butterflies of fash
ion, from force of circumstances—such
as possession of great wealth, perfect
idleness, <kc. Such people—l mean
those whose hearts are “in the right
o
place”—think that in entering into a
flirtation, the thing is perfectly well
understood on both sides to be merely
a resource against ennui —the heart not
being concerned at all. The advan
tage being, that it furnishes a little oc
cupation for the mind, and their pecu
liar kind of talent, ..
Such, I presume, must have been
the kind of flirtation intended to be
carried on between the parties in the
present instance. Let us see how it
resulted.
Frequently, after the company had
retired for the night, Mr. Bentley
would go with Charley to- his room,
or Charley would go with Mr. Bentley
to the library, near to the sleeping
apartment of the latter. They retired
to these rooms, for the purpose of un
bosoming. It was the only time Char
ley could spare from the company of
the ladies, from his billiards, and from
the oilier manifold amusements about
which be was busied during the day.
In company, he always wore a mask—
strange perversity—hiding the natural
warmth and geniality of liis nature.
In the moments when he was alone
with his friend, he threw off this mask
and appeared the manly, devoted
character that he was.
He and Mr. Bentley would often sit
for hours, with their social cigars, con
versing of past adventures, or of fu
ture plans. Os the latter, it is true
Charley hardly had any; but he could
at least express his’ candid views con
cerning the proper method of obtain
ing happiness.
“Charley,” said Mr. Bentley on one
occasion, “do you not believe marriage
essential to a man’s happiness ?”
“Yes,” said Charley, “to an old
man’s happiness.”
“Well you have never, to my knowl
edge, attempted to many.”
“True.”
“How then can you act in that way,
when you profess such opinions ?”.
“Am I an old man ?” asked Char
ley.
“Pshaw !” was the reply. “But tell
me first, what is it that makes marriage
essential to an old man’s happiness?”
Charley had been very quietly and
lazily puffing a cigar, and for some mo
ments, he did not reply to this last
question. At length he threw away
his cigar, and straightening himself up
exclaimed,
“Horace, this is a subject upon which
I do not often converse. Indeed it is
one which touches my feelings very
nearly. But the time has come for
me to deal candidly. Marriage alone,
cannot confer happiness on the old man,
any more than on the young o no. On
the contrary, marriage in old age I
think is rather a scource of unhappiness
than otherwise. What constitutes the
happiness of married life is, tho family
of sweet little ones which is under
stood to bo the natural accompaniment
of this phase of existence. To marry
in old age, lays one liable to disap
pointment in this regard, and to con
sequent, uuhpppiness. A young ,man
can be happy; unmarried. Perhaps
he can enjoy more of happiness in' this,
than in the married state. Or rather,
I will,say, a young man can be happy,
without,a family, growing up around
him. Ilis feelings are fresh, lie, is ac
tive, energetic and fond of roving and
adventure. Age has not yet so cooled
the ardor of youth as to cause the quiet
joys of domestic life to appear of such
value in his eyes as the excitement and
pleasures of the world, theipursuit of
wealth, or honor.
In old age, however, one is not capa
ble of enjoying these things, on ac
count of loss of energy, of physical
health and activity. Then, the sweets
of domestic life are valued as they de
serve to bo.
Shall the old man then attempt to
raise a family? Alas! it is too late!
If he has spent his youth, and his
manhood’s prime in what he calls
“single blessedness,” his old age will
remind one of the old, dried, decayed?
and withered trunk which stands in
the midst of the wide Held, alone,
stretching out its gaunt arms, beseech
ingly, to the storms which pelt pitiless
ly on its exposed and devoted head.
If one could wait, till he needed
them, to procure the comforts and
pleasures of family and homes then he
might leave marrying till old age. —
.Unfortunately, however, he must spend
the best part of his life in procuring
these things. Instead of spending the
prime of his life in partaking of those
pleasures best suited to his taste, he
must begin ivhile young to prepare for
old age”
A long pause followed this har
angue of Charley’s. At the end of it
he resumed,
“If I were sure of dying at fifty
years of age, I would never marry;
but as I am not sure but I shall live
to be much older than that, why ”
“Why what?” said Mr. Bentley.
“Let me.meditate a tew moments,”
said Charley, and lie lit another cigar.
After puffing it a little while lie again
looked up and said,
“Horace I am in love.”
“No doubt of it,” was the answer.
“How do you know it?” asked Char
ley in surprise.
“Why did six months of your man
hood ever pass, without your >elling
me the same thing ? It has been at
least six months since your last scrape,
and I knew it was time for you to be
gin another, independent of the letter
you wrote me.”
“Oh blast the letter!”
“But who has bound you with silk
en fetters this time?”
“Guess.”
“Miss Morton?”
“No.”
“It can’t be Holmes ?”
“Horace,” said Charley in his most
serious tone, “how am I to convince
you that this is no sham? Alas! it is
cold, sad reality.”
“How can you convince me?”
“Yes.”
“Why your tone has already half
convinced me. Look me m the eye
now, and say, ‘Horace, I fear lam
really in love,’ and I will know vvheth
er'or not you are serious.”
“Well then Horace, I do fear that I
am really in love. ”
“His voice, and the expression of
his eye were convincing and Horace
said,
“I am convinced.”
“Now then,” said Charley, “comes
the most embarrassing part of my
communication —-telling you who it is
that has enchained me.”
“Why should that be so embarass
ing?”
“Because it is one who, I am per
suaded, is not capable of sincere love,
and who if she were, I am afraid would
never be brought to love me. Besides,
if she really loved me, I believe she
would sacrifice the natural affection of
her heart rather than miss an opportu
nity of humbling me to the dust.”
“You must,” said Mr. Bentley “mean
Mrs. Holmes.”
“You have guessed it,” was the an
swer.
“Well how in the name of common
sense, Charley, can you love a woman
whom you suppose to be the heartless
creature youdepict?”
“How can you ask such a question,
Horace? Can we love whom we
please?”
“Not the person we please; but
there are certain qualities winch men
consider, loveable, and men are apt to
fall in love with those who possess
these qualities. Is it not so?”
‘TVvialnlv »
CAitaini).
“Well, f never supposed that heart
lessness was one of the qualities likely
to captivate your imagination.”
“Oh! ” said Charley, “I am by no
means sure Unit what I said on that
point is true. I. only awfully fear it.
And no doubt Mrs. Holmes has the same
opinion concerning me, that I have
concerning her; so. that it v would be
impossible for me to persuade her that
I were serious, even if I were to make
a declaration of love.”
“You perceive the truth of my fre
quent warnings,” said Mr. Bentley.
“Yes,” was the reply. “They prove
but too true. I have so long sustained
the character of a trifler, flirt, batter
fly, that it is now next to impossible
to persuade people that I am, or could
be, anything else. Oh that a man
should fritter away his life as I have
done!”
And Charley rose and paced the
floor excitedly. At length he resumed
his seat and began,
“I will tell you all about it. But
of what use ? I was about to tell you
when, where, and how, I first made
my discovery, and how fascinating I
haye found the object of my love to
be. Such tales must have become trite
and common to you by now. Indeed
I have contributed to make them so
myself.”
“But,” asked Mr. Bentley, “what
course do you intend to pursue?”
“I don’t know,” said Charley, rising
suddenly and going to the door. “Time
will show. Perhaps I shall bury my
secret in my own bosom. If Ido I
must leave Bentwold. Gcod-night
Horace.”
And be left the room.
That night, and for several nights
previous, indeed, Charley’s slumbers
were far from being as quiet as was
his wont.
The next morning at breakfast, he
got a scat by Mrs. Holmes, and en
deavored to carry on a conversation
with her in the extravagant, flippant
style, in which they had commenced
to converse at the beginning of their
flirtation. To the most of the guests
there was nothing in his bearing or
manner different from what they had
observed before. The quick eye of his
friend, however soon detected an awk
wardness and uneasiness in his man
ner which convinced him that poor
Charley was but too sincere in his com
munication of the night before.
Matters proceeded in this way for
several days; and during that time
Charley avoided a tete a tete with his
friend Horace. He sought and obtain
ed frequent opportunities of convers
ing with the lady who had fascinated
him. He rode with her, he promenad
ed with her, but it all resulted in
nothing.
“The truth is,” he said to Mr. Bent
ley one night a short time before his
departure from Bentwold, when the lat
ter had forced himself upon him,
with the familiarity and freedom war
ranted by their long established inti
macy. “The truth is I cannot muster
sufficient courage to make a declara
tion. If I were not really in love, I
could make it twenty times, without
the least embarrassment. What has
come over me ?” he added, stamping
his foot with vexation.
“Go, and declare your lore,” said
Horace.
“Yes,” was the answer. “It is very
easy to say that; but only place your
self in my situation.”
“What?—in love? Have I not been
so ? Mrs. Bentley once thought so, at
least, and the declaration followed
very speedily upon my discovery of
the fact too.”
“You had no flirt to deal with.. —
But why do I say this? If I were con
vinced that Mrs. Holmes was a flirt, in
the real acceptation of the term, I
could not love her. Still, if I did not
think she was a flirt, I should not fear
to avow my feelings to her. Such is
loye.”
“Upon my word,” said Mr. Bent
ley, “you are the most philosophical
lorer I ever met with. ”
“I wish to heaven I were philoso
pher enough to reason this foolish whim
out of my head.”
CHAPTER XII.
Let us leave Mr. Charley awhile to
the first real trouble lie ever knew,
DTT * 1
to all, that Frank Bentley was very
deeply smitten with Kate Morgan,—
So entirely absorbed was he by this
passion, that if the comfort of the
guests at Bentwold had depended on
him, they would have suffered sadly.
Fortunately, Mr. Bentley saw and did
not disapprove of his attachment, and
very willingly took entirely on his
own shoulders, whatever of burden
there was in the entertainment of his
friends. This burden, in an establish
ment so perfect, was very light—and
a knowledge of this fact, perhaps ren
dered Frank more careless than he
would otherwise have been.
Os all the ladies at Bentwold —all
good horsewomen too —none were so
fearless as Kate Morgan. Miss Banks
was more seemingly wild and reckless,
where she thought there was no dan
ger; but if areally dangerous horse
was to be mounted, she generally al
lowed Kate to have the honor of riding
him ; she preferring the very spirited
and apparently wild, but really well
broken and gentle saddle-horse. About
Miss Banks, too, there was a species of
fidgetiness— very slight—combined with
her wildness, which Frank could not
fancy. She lacked dignity of manner,
and that quiet, self-command which
he liked to see in a woman. She had
more self-command, though, than one
would suppose, although it did not ap
pear, in her manner. Being something
of a flirt, reader, you know she must
have been possessed of a reasonable
share of this essential quality.
Mrs. Holmes,'on the contrary, was
entirely too' self-possessed, dignified—
immobile, in fact—to suit his taste.
Kate, though, struck a most happy
medium. She was reserved, without
timidity, self-possessed without immo
bility, and dignified without stiffness.
In fact, she appeared under a great
many different phases. Sometimes she
was gay, thoughtless, and rattling;
again she was quiet, calm and pen
sive. Sometimes she appeared, with
her flashing eyes and her regal carriage,
proud and haughty as a queen ; then
again, she would appear meek and tim
id and bashful asj. a peasant maiden.—
Aud of all these different phases, it
was impossible for Frank to tell in
which he loved her best.
She wrote poetry —“because,” she
said, “she could not help it.” She nev
er published it. She could not bear
to let her name go before the world as
an authoress. She showed her verses
though, to those in whose taste and
judgment she had confidence. To
those whom she thought capable of ap
preciating them.
She and Frank danced together,
read together, rode together, walked
together. Somehow, it made no differ
ence how many ladies and gentlemen
started with them on their rides, they
managed to get away from them all,
and strike off into some secluded path,
of which Frank knew many. Ah !
many a gallop did they take together,
and Frank when he could manage to
occupy a place by her side, as they
galloped along the sandy beach, with
her raven ringlets waiving in the
breeze and her dark eyes flashing forth
tho intense enthusiasm of her soul, felt
as if his cup of bliss were full. To be
with her, to gaze upon her, to listen
to the sound of her voice—this was
happiness enough for him.
And she treated him, oh ! how kind
ly! But a few days of her visit at
Bentwold had elapsed, before she be
gan to show marks of confidence in
him. She showed him some verses,
after he had made the request several
times. She showed them to him be
cause she had confidence, not only in
his taste in such matters, but because
she had confidence in his discretion.—
She did not wish many to know she
ever indulged in rhyming. Oh ! how
pleasant to Frank was the dawn of
love !
And. Frank was happy. If any orie
had asked him if he were in love, he
would have answered in' the negative.
If any one had told him that lie was
in love, he would have been astdnish
ed. There to a charm and a fascina
tion about Kale Morgan ivlnch had
struck him at first sight. It attracted
him irresistibly towards -her, and.when
‘ TTa rK/1 tif/'wx frv aolr triO’nl'P tKia
{TERMS, 52,00 A YEAR.
NUMBER 25.
were love. He never thought of that.;
Ife did not have time to think of it.
Consequently, Frank did not make
any formal declaration of love to Kate.
He may have told her he loved her—
he could not say whether he had done
so or not, in words. It was very cer
tain that liis ewes and his actions told
her so a dozen times a day. She could
not help knowing it. And he never
asked her whether she loved him. She
treated him kindly—they had many
congenial tastes—she permitted him
to be with her—and he was satisfied.
If he did tell her lie loved her, or if he
had done so, he did not and would not
have asked her if she loved him. The
assertion of the fact on his part would
have been a mere relief to a surcharg
ed heart; and he would not have look
ed for an answer to it.
But it was utterly impossible for this
state of things to last. Something hap
pened, she understood by a letter,
which rendered it necessary for her
to return very soon to Georgia. She
received her letter early one morning,
but made no mention of its contents.
It was arranged that a relative should
soon follow the letter to fetch her home.
This relative she expected in a day or
two from the receipt of the letter. It
so happened that she and Frank were
enjoying one of their favorite rides, on
the evening of the very day she re
ceived the letter. They frequently
rode a long ways in silence. This was
the case on that evening. The silence
was finally broken by Kate, who said,
“How attached I have become to
this ride.”
“It is indeed delightful,” said Frank.
Accustomed as I have been to it all my
life, it lias of late, from some cause,
become more endeared to me than
ever.”
“We have had many pleasant rides
together Mr. Bentley,” said Kate. “I
shall carry with me, on my departure,
which will be very spe|dy, reminis
cences which will prove a resource
against many a moment of listlcssncsa
or ennui." W'" :
“Your speedy departure?” exclaim
ed Frank in astonishment and conster
nation.
lie was completely thrown off his
guard by tne suddenness of the news.
I have said that Mr. Bentley had stud
ied self-control, and had endeavored to
teach it to his children. Frank had
endeavored to do honor to his teach
ings too, and had, to someiextent suc
ceeded. But how love, in the plenitude
of his power, laughs at such things !
What respect has he for dignity, and
self-command, and all these things?—
The man of iron nerve,’of strongest will,
of most absolute imperturbability, be
comes, under the wand of this migfoy
magician, the fearful and timid swain.
- Frank proved no exception to this
rule. The first effect of the inidligenMj
lie had just heard, was to stun him
to silence. Foolish boy ! He had 1
never thought of the fact that they,
would have to. part. He had gong-ons
and indulged his passion, without befog
aware of its existence, onlv#knowing
that ho had met with
pleasant acqUninfancOglvith whom his
intercourse had beengfost happy, and
never once allowed, lip mind to dwell
on the fact that thcjjpnd of all this was
nigh. She, awakeggffg from this dream
was startled, 9
Few words pa«fed between them on
their ride homcAwdr Strange thoughts
were chasing fflPbugh Frank’s brain,
and his compf|n6n, after several inel
fectnai conversation, final
ly relapsed int«ilencc, almost offend
ed at his want <m®,ttention.
During the tfjjL, following days,
Frank naturally so®ht Kate’s compa
ny the same a&evcr.night after
he discovered that she lrfcyded return
ing soon to Qcorgia, lie
that he was in love. It seemed
pleasure he hail ever known injrar'