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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'