Wild Boy of the Woods of Indiana. 1838

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Vermont Phoenix. May 4, 1838 || Kentucky Gazette. May 3, 1838 || Tarboro' Press. June 23, 1838

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WILD BOY OF THE WOODS.
[A second Caspar Hauser.]

The following account of a boy found wild in the State of Indiana, is from the Canton (Ill.) Herald:

We have seen in several papers an account of a boy, apparently thirteen or fourteen years old, who was found in the woods in the vicinity of the Chathilinot Prairies, in the State of Indiana. It is said the boy is now in the family of a Col. Clark[, or] Clarkson, of Bush Hill, a place not far from the spot where he was found. He is handsomely formed, has fine limbs, very elastic in his movements, stout, with clear, full and intelligent black eyes. He has been several months with the Colonel's family, during which time he has uttered no articulate sound, expressed no wish by any sign, though he evidently pays considerable attention to things and events around him. He sometimes gives a sort of piercing screech, which by its being always at a measured elevation, and after which he seems to listen with care, affords ground for the conclusion that the poor fellow has been accustomed to receive some sort of answer from a source to us unknown. He chooses the naked earth for his bed, and utterly rejects all covering save a deer skin, which he wraps around his body. He takes his food in a raw state—principally beef, poultry, potatoes and nuts. It is astonishing with what voraciousness he consumes small birds. He will strip off its feathers and entrails, and devour it with a relish amounting to an extacy. He has thus far evinced a melancholy temperament, choosing to be much alone, and makes for the woods whenever an opportunity is presented, but when found attempts no escape, but passively returns. He manifests no attachment for any human being, save a servant girl in the family. By her request he has occasionally eat a little corn bread, and set down for a moment on a chair. Wheat bread he peremptorily refuses. He has made comparatively no advancement toward civilization.

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Similar stories:
Peter the Wild Boy, Victor of Aveyron, Kaspar Hauser [Wikipedia]

REMINISCENCES OF THIRTY-SEVEN by Leigh Cliffe. 1838 [poetry]

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The North-Carolina Standard. May 2, 1838

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FROM THE NEW YORK NEW ERA. REMINISCENCES OF THIRTY-SEVEN. BY LEIGH CLIFFE, ESQ. And so the poor old year is gone Where its numerous ancestors slumber, And Time's writing an epitaph on The defunct for his annual number! Oh! it really and truly is dead Of an illness years never surmounted;— I knew 't had a cold in its head, And some thousand pulsations I counted. 'Twas attack'd with dyspepsia last spring, When the chimney-pots tumbled about Like urchins, just breech'd, in a ring They have form'd to fight ill-humor out. Then symptoms appeared to decline Just when the last summer was over, And gossips hint at the last Wine —Season 'twas not very sober. After that the poor sufferer knew Low spirits, which set e'en clouds weeping; And this I can vouch to be true, For I once was their kerchief while sleeping At ease on a hillock of hay, Till they soused me all o'er with their fears; And a rheumatic twinge this fine day Brings to mind this departed of years! It had a sad chill last November, And got rather wet in the feet; And a warm-vapor had in December, Instead of a shower-bath of sleet. And it died! 'Twas a sad blow indeed To me:—it kept turkeys from riding From Norfolk to tempt me to feed, And silence my wife's tongue from chiding. I had “half an idea” of a ham, As we now call a very thin slice; A whole one of jellies and jam, All under the cost-selling price; And two or three Tiddington chicks— And four or five hares from the hills; Larks, neatly arranged on white sticks— But instead came some long Christmas bills. Small accounts, just for bread and for wine, With other odd items between, Which will never be paid by the Nine Old maids of Parnassus, I ween. One long bill of pleasure and pain, Sent in by a will-proving proctor, Which should have been brought up last reign— But the devil a line from the doctor! From Urlings, and Brussels, and Point; Flowers, feathers, and satins, and gloves, A foolscap, whose huge double-joint Might frighten the marrying loves. A list from the tailor, so long That it looks the whole length of the piece; Some hints from the warblers of song That a concert brings forward a niece. A benefit started for Miss, And her family—(tickets enclosed,) A subscription for that and for this, Ask'd by one who must not be opposed. And then there's a host of invites To soirees, and balls:—but what's worse, This dressing and dancing o' nights Makes a terrible hole in the purse! There's a knock! Oh! I'm sure 'tis a dun— I could swear to the horrid rat-tat:— Is't the tailor?—No, no, 'tis the son Of the man who tick'd me my new hat. Shut the door—say I'm out—any thing— So it leaves me in comfort and peace; If not I shall mourn till the spring, Poor old 'Thirty-Seven's decease!

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THE CHEROKEES.—The Colonel of this Regiment of North Carolina has had a requisition made upon him by the Governor for one company of Volunteers to be in readiness to repair to the Cherokee country, if necessary, to enforce the removal of those Indians, which is to take place on the 30th ultimo. We understand a similar requisition has been made upon the Regiments west of us. We hope our citizens will prove their readiness to obey the call of their country.—Western Carolinian.

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HEAVY TALK.—'Look here Sam Jonsing, is you gwoin to tha theatre to night?'

'No—is you?'

'Dat I is. Don't you see de great 'traction dere on de bill?'

'Yes, I does. Say, nig, what's de name ob dat big piece down dere at de bottom?'

'Well, I can't zackly specemfy de name ob dat piece, but dey say it's one dat possesses de biggest kind of interestariety.'

'Dat's enuff—dat last 'spression of yours conwinces me—I'm gwoin.'

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ADVICE FROM A WHIG.—The following is from the New York Herald, a Whig paper:—

Change your name, Whigs. It now means blood, blood, nothing but blood. Must re-organize, and take a new name—a new departure. Separate yourselves from the men of blood—from the wretches who gave you the name you bear. Change your name—change your name.

THE CHEROKEE'S FAREWELL by E. C. S. 1838 [poetry]

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The Caledonian., May 8, 1838

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FOR THE CALEDONIAN. THE CHEROKEE'S FAREWELL. Farewell, farewell to the place of our birth, The pale face commands us and we must obey, No rest to the red man while ling'ring on earth; Our lands, they are wanted, and we must away. Farewell, farewell to the home of our youth, To the woods and the vales, where in childhood we rov'd; Did the white man regard either justice, or truth, We should not from hence, far away be removed. Farewell, farewell to the graves of our sires, To the green turfs, long hallow'd, in seasons gone-by; We had hop'd to have liv'd by our own council fires; We had hop'd in the graves of our fathers to lie. Farewell to our hopes—they forever have flown, For the haughty pale faces now covet our lands; Faith kept with the Indian, to them is unknown, And oppression is all we receive from their hands. Ye who call yourselves Christians, come now and possess What of right should belong to the robb'd Cherokee; The poor weary red man will soon be at rest, And your hearts will rejoice when his downfall you see. Beyond Mississippi's dark waters we go, But the arm of your power, still our steps will pursue, No rest will the son of the forest e'er know, Till like night's dizzy visions, he passes from view. Regrets are now useless—complaint is in vain, Our remonstrance despis'd, on the table is laid; We must yield, to the white man, our much lov'd domain, For, by baseness unequall'd our rights are betray'd. But, though ye despise us, ye foes to our race, Think not to escape the just vengeance of Heaven; In the book of remembrance, our wrongs have a place, And full retribution to you will be given. Heard you that sad lament, Ye rulers of our land? Then, let your hearts relent, For judgment is at hand. The injured red man's cry Will not in vain ascend; The God who rules on high, A ready ear will lend. Repent ye of your wrong, Before it be too late; Repent, or you, ere long, Will share the Indian's fate. E. C. S. Waterford, April 1838.

Poland, Lithuania Absorbed by Russia. 1838

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Army and Navy Chronicle. May 3, 1838 || +1

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POLAND.—The Czar has issued an ukase abolishing the distinct existence and the name of Poland, absorbing the kingdom into Russia, and incorporating the Polish troops with his own barbarians. The following is the ukase: l. The boundaries of the governments of the kingdoms of Poland, and those of Lithuania, anciently incorporated with Russia, have ceased to exist. The inhabitants can pass freely from one country to the other without asking for passports at Warsaw or St. Petersburgh; there are to be no more custom-houses between the government of Russia and those of Poland.—2. The term of military service for the Polish recruits is to be 23 years, as in Russia. The children of married soldiers are to belong to the government, and are to be placed in its military schools.—3. The liberty which the Polish peasants enjoy of changing their domicile is abolished: they are to submit to the same rules as Russian peasants. The paper securities issued by government in January last have fallen from 500 to 490 florins, while the securities issued by the constitutional government previous to 1830 increase in value every day.

May Day of New York. Ignorance in USA. 1838

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The Caledonian. May 5, 1838

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The following amusing article from the New York Express, will give the reader an idea of the 1st day of May in that City, when a large portion of its inhabitants change their residence.

A WEEK OF UNHAPPINESS, NEW YORK IN TRAVAIL. May day is coming, every body knows—not the sweet May day of the Poets, known in England, or known in our Southern land, the May day of Flowers, and Balls, and Poesy,—but the May day of New York—the Rent Day—the day of whitewashing—of cleaning and scouring and trucking and removing—when wives, sisters, and sweethearts even, are cross—when there is not a place for a man's foot even in his own house, or his hat—or his coat, and when he goes hungry and wet, and torn, and ragged—the most miserable of all the days of his life. Home is topsy-turvy. The carpet is up, and is being shaken. The chairs are piled on heaps. The old chests are ransacked, and disgorged of their contents. Boots long thrown away come to light. The spiders are hunted down. The cobwebs are gathered together. The broom pursues you in every nook, and by-place, and there is no couch for your wearied body, nor resting place for your unhappy foot. The dinner is picked up, and what a dinner! The odds and ends of every thing are hashed. The calf mingles with the sheep, and the ox and the hog embrace each other. The remnants of forty days plenty eke some ten days of fast. Dishes go through all sorts of metamorphose. The boiled victuals of to-day become the baked victuals of to-morrow, and then baked is turned into fried—and the fried then goes back to the boiled, and becomes fricasseed, so that of what beast man is eating, or on what vegetable he lives, no human power can tell. Oh, save us from this week of moving.

It may be, gentle reader, that you may be so happy as to have a fixed home, and not a home on trucks, that the cartmen cart about the every first day of May. But of such home you cannot now sing, “sweet home, there is no place like home.” Your wife, if you have one, and if you have not, not much matter now, beyond a doubt has at least two negroes whitewashing with all their might and main. Your breakfast is mingled with whitewash, and your supper too. Every thing in your closet is put in a state of disorder. Be you invited out, you have not a vest, it may be, that you can find, or a stock, or a collar, or a shirt, that can be found till it is too late to go abroad. Do you wish to read? there is not a book to be found,—or to write? there is not a leaf of paper unsoiled, or your manuscripts are put in irrevocable disorder. The women are cleaning, you are told,—or, horror on that word, or reforming, and all mankind must be made miserable till the reform is over.—The first week before May is thus made a week of misery, and the week after, there is no peace for this misery. Your wives, or your sisters, or your sweethearts, are turned into hags almost in their dresses. They get up in their nightcaps, and keep them on till noon. They go slipshod, and have holes in their hosiery. Their curls are wild draggling things that straddle down their cheeks. The red flies from their lips, and the coal dust gathers on them. There is not a chance for a kiss even,—and as for a blush, it cannot appear thro' the thick cloud of dust they have round them. With them, it is all broom, broom, broom. They broom you as you enter the door, as you eat up the picked up dinner of unmentionable things jumbled together,—and they sweep you at morning, and they sweep you at night; and with them, it is all 'sweep, oh! sweep,' from the rising to the going down of the sun.

But then even this picture is a Paradise, compared with the fate of him, who is a moving. Three hundred thousand people all in one day a moving! Think of it, reader in the Country, and think of the sad fate of the denizen of this city. The spectacle is already beginning to be. The beds are emptied into the streets, and the straw fire is blazing. The bedsteads, and trunks, and old chests, already line the side walks. Many a head now rests itself on the carpet on the floor, with but the cloak for a covering. The whole city is like a Tartar tent. We are all Loco Focos,—all squatters now,—all wandering Arabs. We don't live anywhere,—we only stay. We have no home, or what we have, we only divide another. As our wives and children go out one side of the door, some other body's wife and children are going in. What scowling there is, from woman to woman! How the young cherubs fight over the fragments of cradles, about cats, and kittens, and pokers and shovels! How the keen eye of scandal runs wild over another's affairs domestic, and how the sharp tongue waxes warm in hitting off this woman's bedclothes, or that man's wardrobe! The secrets of sly piles are discovered,—and the concealments of a year are dragged forth to light.

Happy on a moving day, is the humble Irishman who, with his wife, can shoulder his bed and bedding, and walk off with all that is his own. The more things a man has then, the worse for him. But what is a man good for on the day of a moving, but to be the butt of his wife, and to bear her wrath with the patience of a Christian. He cannot fold bed quilts well; he cannot take care of the pots and kettles. If the mirror is broken he is held accountable. If the sofa is scratched, he is scratched too. In whatever damage is done, all the scolding falls on him. A blockhead he must be expected to be called,—and if his head is not made a block of, thrice happy he. A woman is not expected to be a woman on a day of moving. She turns Furiband,—and has its prerogative.

After all, though the people in the country do have mud and mire,—no side walks,—no theatres,—no concerts,—no steam ships,—but few Balls, and less fun and frolic than we, yet they have a home, and are not all a moving on the 1st day of May. When they die, they are not dug up as we are. When they steal, their neighbors know it, whereas we don't know those who live next door to us, and might be sent to Sing Sing, and we never find it out. There they can have scandal, and tea parties, and taste all the tit-bits of gossip going about, but the city is too big for them. For our dirt and bricks and mortar they have flowers, and mud and mire, that they wallow in, on the roads. But they don't move, all of them on the 1st day of May, and are not then all made miserable at once. They are not scoured, cleansed, and whitewashed to death by their wives, or their mothers,—for if they are, we pity them from the bottom of our hearts. And is there no way for us to escape it? Can no physician discover a state of torpor that can be returned from? Is there no medical trance in which we can sleep a fortnight, or must we take,—and if so, oh, do let us take it with philosophic devotion.

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The number of children in the U. S. is estimated at four millions—of this number it is stated that one million are growing up without being instructed in reading or writing! Many thousands of the signatures of petitions to Congress consist merely of the marks of individuals who are unable to write their names! Such deplorable ignorance ought not to exist in this country. If we wish to transmit our republican government to posterity, we must extend the opportunities for intellectual and moral instruction. INTELLIGENCE and VIRTUE are the only safeguards of our free institutions.

THE YOUNG COUNTESS by Miss M. Miles. 1838 [fiction]

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The Lady's Book. December, 1838

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Written for the Lady's Book.
THE YOUNG COUNTESS;
OR, A FOLLY AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
BY MISS M. MILES.

“MOTHER, I dare not tell him!”—And Amy Bryant laid her head on her mother's bosom and sobbed as if her heart were breaking. “With all my love for Percy Roscoe, there is no one who I fear so much—I dare not tell him.”

“Fear him, my child, then let your mother entreat you in the strength of her affection, not to harbor such a sentiment. Judge not hastily, Amy, you are very young, and Mr. Roscoe's grave manners may perhaps have caused this feeling. He is certainly generous and noble-minded.”

“But not the less strict in his ideas of propriety, mother, and his words were stern and cold when he extorted from me the promise of giving up the society of Isabel Tracy—and can I tell him that I have broken my word, that I have passed hours, nay, days in her company?

“Yes, Amy, tell him the truth—believe me it is best to deal openly with him. He will not brook deceit in any form; but why did you again extend an invitation to Lady Tracy to visit us at this time of sickness and sorrow? Even I, lenient as I am towards the follies of the young, have opposed the intimacy. She is a dangerous woman, with her insinuating manners, and bewitching beauty.”

“I could not avoid it, mamma, without giving the true reason, and I was afraid of her ridicule; you know her wit, and satire, has weapons that cut deep.”

“Ah! Amy, I fear this sensitiveness to the shaft of ridicule will cause your path to be a thorny one. It often leads you, my love, to distrust your own resolves, even when they are on the side of right; why, my child, care for the laugh of the worldly minded? Is not the approval of your conscience more to be desired than their approbation? Act yourself in this instance at least, Amy, and tell Mr. Roscoe the truth. He will respect you the more for it.”

“But, dearest mamma, why cannot you? He loves and respects you so, and you could soften it, whilst I should only stand confused and trembling.”

The sunset ray shone full upon Mrs. Bryant's pale countenance as she reclined upon a couch, supported by pillows; consumption was fast doing its work of death, and her wan and emaciated hand was laid solemnly upon her daughter's fair head, as she replied:

“But would it restore Percy's confidence in you, dearest; you know my days are numbered, and he has asked from me the right of being your protector when I am gone. Let my last days be made happy by the knowledge that there is no cloud over your love. This fear of your noble hearted lover is unworthy of one who owns the presence of a higher power. I am feebler to day, and the time is at hand when I must leave my only child with none in the world to watch over her, but him to whom she has given her young affections—let her not deceive him.”

But ere Amy could reply, Roscoe had entered the apartment, and was pressing the thin hand of Mrs. Bryant in his, unable to speak from his excess of emotion, whilst his other arm encircled the drooping form of the half fainting girl. He saw at a glance that there was a great change in the invalid, and his voice faltered with strong feeling as he said:

“Why, why dearest Mrs. Bryant did you not write before? I would have come at any hour.”

“I knew it Percy,” answered she with a faint smile, “but you had duties more imperative elsewhere. But you will be with me to the last, and”—but Amy raised her face with such an expression of agony upon her features that she stopped and sent her from the room upon some trifling errand for herself, ere she finished the sentence.

“And your father has promised to give you the Percy estate. That, together with your high talents, Percy, for you are acknowledged to be one of the most rising lawyers of the day, will ensure to you all the comforts of life, and my poor girl will experience no change. She can bring you nothing, but beauty and goodness; for my annuity dies with me.”

“Whilst I live, she shall never know change; and my kind father has been most liberal. But not a word more, now; you are already exhausted, and I hear Amy's step.”

“Amy, dear,” said her mother, “I am inclined to sleep, and Martha shall sit by me whilst you take a turn in the garden with Percy; you are pale with watching and care.”

For a moment the fair girl hesitated, and the crimson that stained her cheek almost mocked the hue of the bright cloud that was floating even then in the western sky; but her lover's eye was full upon her face, and she dared not refuse when he drew her hand within his own, and said—“Come Amy, I have much to say to you.”

They wandered forth, on that eve of beauty, and she felt its sweet influences in her inmost soul. Gradually the feverish excitement under which she had been laboring became stilled, and gently and tenderly did he prepare her for the trial that so soon awaited her. Deeply grateful for his kindness and sympathy, Amy more than once opened her lips to tell him that she had broken her word, but the thought of his indignation was more than she coud bear at such a time. “I cannot wound him now,” was her thought, “to-morrow I well tell him all.”

There was a deeper change upon the face of Mrs. Bryant when they again stood beside her couch, and Amy entreated permission to remain with her during the night, and the mother could not deny her.

“Martha!” said Percy, as he closed Mrs. Bryant's door for the night, and passed into the kitchen where the old domestic and her husband, the only two servants who had followed Mrs. Bryant's variable fortunes, were sitting in mournful silence—“Martha, will you put lights for me in Miss Amy's little study? Mrs. Bryant is very low to-night, and I will sit up there; the nurse is with her, and your young mistress will not leave her.”

The tears fell fast over the withered cheeks of the old woman as she rose up to comply with his request. Mrs. Bryant's husband had been an officer, and these two faithful creatures had been servants of her own father; but they followed her whom they had seen grow up from a blooming child, through all the trials and vicissitudes to which she had been exposed; and when she returned a widow and orphan to her native land, upon a straitened income, remained to share her fallen fortunes.

“Ah! master Percy, these are sad hours,” said she, “it seems but yesterday since I saw my poor mistress a bonny bride, and the gallant captain, bless his memory, looking at her so pridefully—and she is young yet to die;” and her tears flowed faster. Percy, much affected, turned away.

Night waned, but still the young girl kept her lonely vigil by the sick bed. The nurse was in a deep sleep, her services being dispensed with, and she sat watching the laboured breathing of her only parent. Ah! that lonely watch by the deathbed of those we love—when the deep stillness of night is around us—the garnering up of every last word as they fall faintly from the pallid lips, and of the smiles of lingering love whose light will soon fade from earth—

“Oh! not an hour like this
For bitterness, has life.”

Midnight came, and Mrs. Bryant unclosed her eyes—Amy bent over her.

“My child!” and her voice was fearfully altered—“I shall not see the light of another glorious morning. I must see our good clergyman once more. Let him and Percy both come, for my hours are numbered.”

The nurse aroused from her slumbers, hurried from the room, and Amy with a strength which seemed as given in the hour of need, held a reviving cordial to Mrs. Bryant's lip, and wiped the damps from her brow. But a few moments elapsed, ere Percy and the silvery-headed old man, whose lessons had taught both mother and daughter to look beyond this veil of woe, entered the room. Percy folded his arms around the waist of his beloved, who stood pale as marble, but calmly, at the bedside; and the old pastor kneeling down, prayed fervently for the departing soul. An expression of peace and serenity gave the features of Mrs. Bryant almost a celestial beauty; with sudden strength she raised her head from the pillows that supported her.

“Come nearer, my children,” she whispered, and clasped their hands together. “Here at this solemn hour let me see my daughter united to him who will cherish her when I am gone.”

Amy hid her face in the pillow—“Oh! mother, dear mother, not now.”

“Yes, dearest, now, and I shall die happier—knowing that one good and noble has her happiness in keeping.” Exhausted she sunk back.

Percy raised the pale girl, and signed to Mr. Danby; and amidst the convulsive sobbings of deep grief, did Amy Bryant become the bride of him whom she so reverenced and loved. The rite was over, and she sunk on her knees beside her mother, whose hand was raised in dying blessings on her fair head, whilst her face was touched with a mother's holy love. That hand fell motionless, and Percy folded his bride to his heart, and felt she was an orphan; with none in the wide world but him to support and cherish her.

There was the sound of many feet in the quiet dwelling of the officer's widow, and more than one mourning carriage was at the humble door; for there were those amongst the good and great who had both loved and esteemed her, and who were now gathered to pay the last sad tribute of respect to her remains.

The funeral train moved slowly on; and in a pleasant sunny nook of the old church yard, a spot chosen by herself, it stopped. The touching service of the dead was read above her, and “dust committed to dust.” Amy was in her darkened chamber struggling with her passionate grief; but Percy Roscoe bowed his head in manly sorrow as the solemn words fell upon his ear.

When he returned to the mournful dwelling, he found Amy kneeling before a picture of her mother, and weeping bitterly. He drew her to his heart, and gently and seriously led her thoughts to that world where we shall meet the spirits of the “just made perfect.” Her agitation became almost alarming, and bursting from his arms she flung herself at his feet, exclaiming:

“Oh! Percy, I cannot deceive you. Even my sainted mother seems to look down in reproach upon me. I will not deceive you at this solemn hour; I will take that mother's last counsels. I have again seen lady Tracy; she has been here. Oh! do not! do not utterly forsake me,”—as he started back as if a serpent had stung him—“I have none but you”—and she clasped her hands wildly before him. For one moment the high-minded Roscoe covered his face. Disappointment, pity, and indignation were struggling for mastery, mingled with that sense of bitterness in being deceived in those we love; but the solemn scenes of the last two days had taught him true lessons of humbleness and humility. He looked upon the bowed head of the stricken one, thought of the holy vow by the dying bed, and of his own deep love for her from early youth. He raised her from her fallen posture, and placing her beside him, smoothed back the rich tresses which laid in disorder upon her throbbing forehead, and impressed a kiss upon it as he whispered:

“Poor child! far be it from me to add a pang to your sufferings; they are punishment enough. No, Amy, I will not cast you off—I will not even require a promise, lest you feel tempted to break it. Your blessed mother's last words must ever be held too sacred for you again to mingle in friendship with lady Tracy. I forgive you, dearest—but oh! never let your husband have the misery of finding his confidence misplaced.”

“Bless you, dear Percy, for these kind words, one look of harshness would have broken my heart;” and her head sunk down upon his shoulder, whilst tears, no longer those of bitterness, but of chastened sorrow, fell from her eyes.

Percy Roscoe did well to dread Lady Tracy's being the intimate of his affianced wife. She was a woman of fashion, and it was known that she played deeply, although over her vices there was thrown the veil of refinement and sensibility. She was but a few years older than Amy, and in her earlier days the lady had become passionately attached to Percy. He read her character at a glance, and she saw in the scorn with which he treated her that the mask of gentleness had not concealed the harsher traits that deformed her mind and character. Years passed on, and to gratify her ambition and love of riches she gave her hand to lord Tracy. His mansion was near the humble dwelling of Amy Bryant. She saw Percy's look of proud triumph as he gazed upon the beautiful girl who had given him her pure heart, and she marked that fair being as her victim. But Amy now felt, as she saw even her proud-souled Roscoe, forgive and pity her, that henceforth Isabel's arts would be of no avail.

But a single year had gone by, and Percy Roscoe's destiny had known a change. From being dependent upon his own talents and the income arising from the small estate that was his own in right of his mother, he had become possessed, by the successive deaths of his father and uncle, of the broad lands and the earldom of Clevemont. But although his house was the resort of the learned and good, of the high and noble, and his beautiful wife the star of fashion, there were those who loved him, that deemed their Percy's smile was less joyous than of old, and his brow more clouded than it was wont to be before his marriage. If he was unhappy, none knew it, and as he still looked with pride and fondness upon the fair face of Amy even in the festal hall, the world pronounced them a most happy couple.

The young countess was alone in her dressing room, when her attendant brought her a note; she glanced at the superscription, and her manner betrayed agitation as she perused its contents.

“Who brought this note, Ellis?” and she raised her eyes languidly from the paper.

“A person muffled in a large cloak, my lady; she would come in, and says she will see you.”

A proud flush rose to the cheek of the lady. “I may not deny her,” she murmured to herself; “I have tempted fate and must abide by it. Did lord Clevemont say he should not return 'till evening?” said she to the attendant.

“Yes, my lady. I told him that when you came in from your drive with lady Glenrock, you were so tired you had fallen asleep on the couch, and he told me to say he should dine out.”

Lady Clevemont sighed deeply. “Ellis! I believe you are faithful. Go to the person who waits below and conduct her here, and see that I am not interrupted whilst she remains.”

The waiting-maid left the room, and soon returning, ushered into the presence of the young countess a female of surpassing beauty. Amy rose up, and with mingled dignity and sadness greeted her as soon as Ellis closed the door.

“What does the lady Tracy,” she asked, “wish of the Countess of Clevemont, that she so unceremoniously forces herself into her presence?”

“Countess of Clevemont!” reiterated the other with a scornful curl of her proud lip—“Methinks you have a bold bearing, lady, for one whose destiny hangs on my slightest word. What if I whispered to the haughty Percy that his worshipped Amy had once both won and lost at play?”

Lady Clevemont buried her face in her trembling hands whilst she exclaimed—“But once, Isabel—you know it was but once, and then I was deceived; and have I had peace since? Does not the thought of that hour come to me in the festal hall? by my once happy hearth? and at the dark midnight hour when other eyes are closed in sleep? Does it not dreg with bitterness my cup, till at times my brain almost maddens? And did not you, you Isabel Tracy, lead me to the brink of the precipice? But I know you now, your mask is off.”

“But not the less are you in my power, fair countess,” replied Isabel with a smile of hatred and malice seldom seen on woman's face. “Not the less in my power. You cower and turn pale before your lord, I have read you well—lady, you fear him; and ere you would have him learn this secret you would lay down your young life. Well! Amy!” and her voice changed to one of insinuating softness—“you take this too much to heart, I will not betray you, but my losses are so heavy I dare not apply to Lord Tracy; lend me the sum I required in my note, and I will keep the secret for ever.”

Amy unclasped her hands from her convulsive features—“Isabel Tracy, I have already wronged the industrious poor to comply with your exorbitant demands; and when I again asked Clevemont for money but yesterday, his answer was stern as he said, “Amy, my fortune will not gratify boundless extravagance. I owe now more than the sum I have by me.” No! Isabel, I cannot give you this.”

“The countess of Clevemont will smile to-night when she welcomes her lord after he has seen Isabel Tracy”—and gathering her cloak about her she turned to go. Her hand was upon the knob of the door, when Amy springing forward arrested her progress—“There, lady Tracy,” and she flung down her purse at her feet—“Take all I have, but keep this secret; and now depart, with the malison of a breaking heart upon your head.”

“Thank you, lady, for the kind wish,” and with a scornful laugh she took it up and left the apartment.

A half hour after, Ellis entered the dressing room, and found her lady in a deep sleep. “Surely my lady is in a strange way,” she muttered, “to lay down with all this finery in which I dressed her for lady Glenrock's dinner.” Had she but looked beneath the pillow that supported the flushed cheek, she would have seen by the label'd phial there, why the slumber of her mistress was so deep and quiet.

“Whither away, Clevemont!” and lord Glenrock linked his arm in that of his old friend and schoolmate—“Come, we dine, en famille to-day. Go hence with me, Emily told me your wife had promised her to steal this day from her crowd of appointments, and pass it quietly with her.”

“Indeed! well then, my dear Glenrock, I will accept your invitation. Amy and I so seldom now know what quiet is, that I almost wish at times that title, fortune, and all this splendour were bestowed on some one else, and I again the plain Percy Roscoe, with my small estate and my young bride; for I hardly recognise her in the admired countess of Clevemont. But I ought to be proud of her.” The sentence ended with something very like a sigh.

“Percy,” said his friend, after a moment's thoughtful pause, “I may incur your displeasure, but both Emily and I have felt of late that your young and beautiful wife was treading on dangerous ground; Emily loves her sister-in-law, and has tried to win her confidence for your sake, but Amy is cold towards her, which you know is wholly unlike the affectionate kindness with which she treated all the members of your family the first few months of your marriage. I have read deeply the human character, and am convinced that there is something preying on her mind of which you are ignorant. I think, Clevemont, that she fears you.”

“Fears me!” exclaimed the astonished husband; why, Glenrock, you certainly have judged wrongly in this instance at least. Amy cannot fear me, for I have given her no cause for such a feeling—from my hands she has ever received kindness and indulgence. Believe me, my friend, that both you and Emily are mistaken; let us drop this subject.”

Dinner had been announced and served, but lady Clevemont did not make her appearance, or send any apology, and Percy was beginning to feel symptoms of alarm, when a message came that visitors at home prevented her ladyship from fulfilling her engagements with her sister-in-law.”

“Since that is the case, Emily,” said Clevemont, “why you must e'en go home with me and help her to entertain them; and pulling the bell he ordered the carriage.

They found Amy in the drawing room in the most brilliant spirits. Never had she appeared so beautiful, never so gay—

“She was like
A dream of poetry, that may not be
Written or told, exceeding beautiful!”

And her husband's eye followed her graceful form with an expression of love and pride—not so Glenrock and the watchful Emily. There was something unnatural in this excess of spirits, something unlike her sweet and almost pensive manners since the death of her mother, and they knew from the tone of her laughter that there was no mirth in it.

“Remember, to-morrow night, dear lady Clevemont,” said one of the ladies at parting.

“To-morrow night, Mrs. Devan,” interrupted Percy, “what plot are you laying to entice my little wife from home so soon again? These late hours will destroy her bloom.”

“Did she ever look more beautiful, my lord? 'Tis my masquerade night, and have her company I must—you may come too and play Argus;” and with these words the lively lady ran off.

“More money, Amy! why my dear girl you must be jesting with me. But this week I gave you bills to a large amount, surely you have not spent them already; you are only trying to see how far my indulgence will carry me.”

“I am not used to jest upon such subjects,” she answered, and for once in her life, in a proud and resentful tone. “I have not always had money at my command, and perhaps I am not prudent enough for lord Clevemont's wife.”

Percy took her hand in his, and for one moment gazed steadily in her face. Her glance fell beneath that earnest gaze. “Amy, you are strangely altered, but if money can give you happiness you shall have it;” and putting a roll of bills into her hand he hastily left the room.

She stood a moment motionless when he had left her; then glancing at the paper she muttered, “So! I am estranging all I love from me.”

* * * * * * * * *

There was a pause in the dancing, and one after another of the strange figures in the lighted halls of Mrs. Devan were seen filing off in the direction of the refreshment rooms. One mask has singled out lord Clevemont. It was one in the character of a sybil, and more than once it crossed his path. At last put out of temper at its pertinacity, he determined to accost it.

“What does the sybil wish of the Earl of Clevemont that she so often crosses his path?” Percy had taken off his mask for air.

“To ask him if happiness dwells in his lordly home—but I read my answer on his brow. But I will shadow forth to him a page in the book of his blithesome wife's destiny. The sparkle of the diamond lights her brow, but in mockery of the aching heart.”

“And she will walk in silk attire
And siller have to spare,”

whilst the poor tradesman follows her carriage with maledictions upon her head. You pour the gold into her lap, and it buys her a respite from disgrace. Percy Roscoe, I am a true prophetess—your household gods are broken.” And ere he collected himself to reply, she lifted her mask, and discovering the features of lady Tracy, was about to pass him, when he grasped her arm firmly, and in a voice hoarse with conflicting emotions, exclaimed—“Fiend! what do you mean? Give me proof that your words are true, for lady Clevemont would not bend to associate with such as thou; answer me, Isabel Tracy”—and he grasped her arm almost convulsively.

“Proof! lord Clevemont,” replied she with a laugh of scorn. “Here I have proof, such as you would give all your broad lands did not exist. Ha! my lord, when you laid an interdict upon the friendship of your wife for me—when you held me up to her as one to be shunned—then, even then did I vow a vow of revenge against you. Read that packet, my lord”—and she flung a sealed one towards him, “and see there that your own fair Amy has like me lost some of your goodly thousands at the card table”—and snatching her arm away she darted amidst the crowd, leaving him amazed and stunned.

But he was soon aroused by the return of the dancers, and with an effort that cost him a more bitter pang than he had ever experienced, he passed through the assembled crowds with a jest for one, a smile for another, and gaining the street door was in a moment in the open air. It blew freshly upon his fevered brow, and seemed to allay the burning thoughts within. He sought his own mansion, and forbidding the servants interrupting him, locked himself up in the library.

But there was another listener to the conversation of Percy with lady Tracy.—Amy, the ill-fated Amy; and as her husband left the spot, with one sharp cry she sunk insensible to the floor. A multitude was in a moment around her, and her mask taken off.

“Lady Clevemont fainted!” was echoed from one to another, till the sound reached lady Glenrock. In a moment she was by her side, and she was borne into an inner room; but it was long ere she opened her eyes, and when she did, the expression was so cold and wandering as to terrify her sister.

“Will some one call lady Clevemont's carriage, where is my brother?” But lord Clevemont had been gone some moments, and Amy was conveyed to the carriage by Lord Glenrock, who with his wife supported her in it.

“Is your master at home, Robert?” asked he of the old man who was now butler to lord Clevemont, and who with Martha hastened into the hall at the first intimation of their lady's illness.

“Yes, my lord, he came in a few minutes ago, but forbid our disturbing him. But see, my lady is reviving.”

With a powerful effort Amy roused herself, and smiling faintly, said, in a low tone, “Do not be alarmed, Emily, I am better now, and will lie down in my dressing room.”

Lady Glenrock did not leave her 'till she saw her in a seemingly quiet slumber, and even then charged old Martha to remain by her side, whilst she sought the earl. Something was wrong she knew, for it was not like her attentive and affectionate brother to leave his wife alone in so public a place. She knocked at the library door, but no answer was returned. “Percy! dear Percy! I must see you. Amy is ill.”

At that sound the earl opened the door, but so deadly pale that she recoiled in alarm and amazement.

“Percy! what has happened! Something dreadful I know!” and she clasped his cold hand.

“Look here, Emily,” said he, in a tone hoarse with emotion, and he drew her to the table, upon which was scattered bills and papers. “Look there, Emily, and read how my trusting confidence has been abused;” and he buried his face in his hands as he sunk upon a seat.

Lady Glenrock, in terrified astonishment, saw bills to a large amount against her sister-in-law, unpaid; and notes from Isabel Tracy demanding money as the price of her silence respecting Amy's heavy loss to herself at play. She looked upon her lofty, spirited, generous brother, and thought of his tender love that had sheltered Amy when she was a lone orphan in the world, and of that young girl, too, with the deepest compassion. She felt the fire was quenched on the hearth-stone, the beautiful links in the chain of domestic happiness broken forever, and tears fell fast from her eyes. She laid her hand upon her brother's burning forehead as his head was bent down, and whispered tenderly of consolation.

“She is very, very young yet, Percy—but a child in the ways of the world.”

“But not the less able to discriminate between right and wrong, truth and falsehood. No, Emily, my idol is fallen, the fair temple despoiled of its beauty. I cannot forgive. She in whom I garnered up my heart, whose love was to me as some sweet star smiling upon my destiny, to deceive and distrust me! To forget the solemn scenes by her mother's deathbed. No! I cannot forgive. We must part.”

“Oh! do not say so, Percy. Cast her off, and who in the wide world can she cling to?” But ere she could finish the sentence Ellis rushed into the room, with horror imprinted upon every feature of his pale countenance.

“Oh! my lord, come quick, my lady has swallowed poison!”

They waited to hear no more. Lord Clevemont rushed to the hall—sent a servant for the physician, and almost distracted, entered the dressing-room. There was Amy, with the diamond still sparkling upon her pallid brow, and the festal robe around her, struggling in the arms of her old attendant. The fatal phial was by her side, and her cheek flushed to the deepest crimson, mocked the red rose wreath whose leaves were not yet withered in her hair. She had sent old Martha away for one moment, to get her something with which to quench her feverish thirst, and in the interim swallowed the laudanum. She shrieked violently when she beheld her husband, but he firmly supported her in his arms, till the physician came. The most powerful antidotes were administered, and owing to the timely discovery of Ellis, with success, but Dr. Morris, who was an old and confidential friend, called Clevemont from the room.

“My lord, I am sorry to pain you, but I fear the life of your lady hangs on a thread. Some great shock has been sustained, and the powerful remedies to which I have been obliged to have recourse, have prostrated her strength. Perfect quiet is necessary. I will myself remain through the night, for I fear the result.”

Percy wrung the hand of the good old man, with a heart too full for words, and again took his station by her pillow. The pale and altered girl was unconscious that they hovered round her couch, and the doctor's fears were well founded. Before morning she was raving in delirium, and fever was racking her frame. For days and weeks life did indeed hang on a thread, and when she was able for the first time to rise from her bed of sickness, none would have recognised in the attenuated and melancholy looking being before them, the once admired and caressed lady Clevemont. Not one word of explanation had passed between herself and Percy, nor did she once meet her husband's eye, but she saw the smile had vanished from his lip, and that many lines of painful thought marred the beauty of his glorious brow. He was kind and gentle in his manner, but the heart of woman felt that there was a change. The charm was gone, and steeped in tears of bitterness, did she deplore her own folies.

She was now able to sit up all day, and one morning when Lady Glenrock had left her alone for a few moments, she was startled by the entrance of her husband. She trembled almost to fainting, but the earl kindly inquired after her health, and seating himself by her, said, in a serious and quiet tone:

“Lay aside fear, Amy. I came not to reproach you, neither am I a stern and harsh tyrant, that you should be afraid to meet my eye. No! we have suffered too much, and your punishment has been sufficient. I came but to say that your debts are now all cancelled, and such measures taken that Lady Tracy cannot, by her malicious asseverations, injure your good name. Take my forgiveness also. In the first moment of wretchedness, I was tempted to part from you forever, but your dying mother's charge prevented me; and Amy, forget not now that Being whose promises cheered her last hours. Go to him in penitence, and pray for strength to resist temptation in future.”

Months passed on, and again Lady Clevemont was in the world's “crowded mart.” The brilliancy of her beauty had become dim, but there was an indescribable charm in her low thrilling tones that touched the heart of the hearer—they were so sadly plaintive. She was not happy amidst her splendor. She missed the fond smile that had once beamed upon her even in the place “where dancers meet;” the affection that had once anticipated every want. Kind as was Percy, there was wanting the charm of mutual confidence and love; and to her heart's inmost recesses did she feel the difference. Change was, indeed, on her spirit's dream of happiness.

“What reason have you for refusing to visit Lady Tracy?” one day asked Mrs. Devon. “Poor soul, she is in poverty now, and in bad health too. Do come with me, Lord Clevemont will not know it.”

“Never!” replied Amy, “and, Mrs. Devon, oblige me by avoiding the mention of her name in my presence. It is painful to me.”

It was extremely cold, and the young countess preferred the comfort of her own fire-side to a dinner engagement with Mrs. Devon. Lord Clevemont too was in the drawing room previous to going out, and had taken up a book, when a servant entered and presented his lady with a note. She turned pale as she saw the handwriting, and for a moment hesitated. Percy was apparently absorbed in his book, but he saw her change of colour. The footman left the room, and without breaking the seal, she stept lightly up to her husband:—

“I have a note from Lady Tracy, Lord Clevemont,” (it was a long time since she had called him Percy,) said she, in a voice she vainly endeavoured to render steady, whilst the colour deepened on her cheek, and her air was less humble than it was wont to be of late, “will you break the seal and peruse its contents?”

Her lord took it from her hand, with something of coldness in his manner, and the tears started into her eyes. Do I deserve this, was her thought, as she felt that she could have concealed the contents had she been so inclined. Surely he might have seemed pleased that I practised no deceit.

The earl folded it up after glancing over it, and for a moment bent down his head in thought. “Lady Tracy wishes to see you, Amy. You can go if it is your wish.”

She felt wounded by his manner, and drawing up her slight person, she haughtily replied, “I have no wish to act directly contrary to what I know would be Lord Clevemont's commands.”

“It is my wish now to have you visit your once gay friend, but I shall accompany you. Isabel Tracy can never injure you more. She is on her deathbed!”

The countess drew back and shuddered. “I cannot go!” was her involuntary exclamation.

“Yes, Lady Clevemont, that you MUST go is NOW my COMMAND.”

“I will obey it then,” and a pang wrung her heart when she thought how considerate Percy once was, and how anxious to spare her feelings.

The carriage of Lord Clevemont stopped before the door of a small dwelling in one of the by-streets of the great metropolis, and he handed Amy out, and was shown into a low dark room, where, upon a dingy couch, and supported by pillows, was the faded form of the once brilliant Lady Tracy. Poverty and disease were fast doing their work of death, and at intervals a racking cough threatened existence itself.

“Well, my lord,” said she, in a hollow tone, as they approached her, “you are willing at last for your young wife to come into the presence of Isabel Tracy. 'Tis well! for she has no longer reason to fear her. The serpent is deprived of his sting;” and her wild laugh rung fearfully on the ear of the trembling countess.

She knelt beside the couch, and essayed to clasp the wan thin hand of Isabel. Her sweet face wore an expression of angelic pity as she murmured, “I forgive you, Isabel, from the bottom of my soul, I forgive you.”

“Forgive me”—and her eye for a moment softened—“Poor child, you have much to forgive, for I have cast to the dust your golden fabric of happiness; but at times, Amy, I have sorrowed over your fate—no matter, it could not serve you.” Then turning suddenly to Percy she tauntingly exclaimed—“Ere I knew the dark passions that have since stained my soul with crime, I loved you, Earl of Clevemont, whilst you were the poor Percy Roscoe. You cast my love from you as a worthless thing, and bowed to yon trembling girl. I saw she feared you, and I saw you worshipped her as pure and faultless. I vowed revenge, and, Clevemont, I have had it. I strewed thorns in your path of flowers. I have thrown a cloud over the sunshine of your proud home, and broken the silver link of confidence forever. And now, neglected by my friends, deserted by the man I never loved, and in poverty and death, I tell you I do not repent.”

“Oh! Isabel Tracy, turn to Him, who will pardon even at the last hour. He can soften and support you even at this dread time. Oh turn to him, Isabel.”

“It is too late, Amy, my doom is sealed, my sands run low. I am sorry I have made your misery, young girl, but glory in destroying his happiness. I cannot conquer the evil passion of my heart; take warning by me.” And her gestures and words became so wild, they summoned the nurse.

They remained some time longer, and endeavoured to lead the poor sufferer's mind into a better state, but she remained sullenly silent, and with heavy hearts they left her dwelling.

That night Isabel Tracy died.

Amy was deeply affected by this event, but Christmas was approaching, and they removed to Clevemont castle to celebrate it, as all the members of Percy's family assembled together at that time. With a feeling of loneliness she wandered through the lordly apartments of her splendid home, and memory flew back to the little cottage, and pleasant village where she had first met her husband; but her guests claimed her attention, and the kindness and caresses of Emily won her from her melancholy.

Christmas day came, and the sounds of mirth and festivity rung through the castle. The song floated round, and the merry dancers were leading many a gay measure.

“Come Amy, lead one dance with me,” said lord Glenrock, “I shall believe you are studying the stars if you linger so long beneath the concealment of yon crimson drapery.”

“I never dance, now,” she answered.

“Not dance!” exclaimed a young lady near, “why how whimsical—well, your lord does, and is going to waltz with me.”

Amy sighed, and turned away.

The festival was over, one by one the guests sought their carriages or rooms, and the countess was alone in the ball room, with the flowers yet breathing freshness around, and the lamps burning brightly. She leaned her head against the marble ornaments of the fireplace, and the past came straining over her heart with its sweet memories. On her dressing table that day had glittered many a costly present, but from her husband she had received no gift, and tears fell fast and thick from her eyes. She started from her despondent attitude in amazement. Her husband's arm folded her to his heart, and his voice in the kind tones of old whispered—“Let there again be love and confidence between us, dear Amy. I knew you must be made to feel deeply the effect of your want of confidence, and the follies it led you into, that the impression might be lasting. Your punishment is over; I know you have resisted temptation. I have suffered more than yourself in maintaining a cold manner, when I longed to fold you to my heart in approval and love. Let the past be forgotten—but why do you weep?” “Dear Percy!” was all she could say, as she laid her head on his shoulder, and wept with almost childlike tears from happiness. “You thought yourself forgotten to-day, but I have a gift for you, dearest;” and as he bent to her lips with the kiss of reconciliation, he whispered—“One you will prize more than pearl or gem—the restored affection and confidence of your husband.”

THE PEASANT BRIDE by Miss M. Miles. 1838 [fiction]

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The Lady's Book. November, 1838 || The Rochester Gem. Volume XV. 1843, August 19

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Written for the Lady's Book.
THE PEASANT BRIDE.
BY MISS M. MILES.

“Without one tie of kindred or of love To bind her to the earth.” * * * “To that soft and pleading eye Who is there could suit deny.” * * * “And Selim to his heart has caught, In blushes, more than ever bright, His Nourmahal.”———

'TWAS a sweet summer sunset, and the lingering beams fell soft upon an English cottage with its clustering roses, and grass plat in front, so pleasant and green. It seemed fitted for the abode of peace and happiness, yet the stillness around it, the carefully closed casement, and neglected garden, bespoke it the abode of sickness or sorrow. The sunset hues faded, and the shadows of evening fell deeper, and, as a dim light appeared in one window of that lonely cottage, two travellers dismounted at the inn opposite, and having refreshed themselves strolled through the village.

“Well!” exclaimed the older of the two, in a tone that plainly denoted vexation, “of all your wildgoose vagaries, this is the most outré! What on earth tempted you, Roscoe, to leave Castle Clarendon, and set forth like some doubty knight without your retinue, upon an unfrequented road, merely because your lady mother informed you of the approach of the beautiful Miss Leston, the heiress?”

A smile passed over the handsome features of the Earl of Clarendon, one of the most popular young noblemen of the day, who had just come into possession of a large unincumbered estate, but he vouchsafed no reply to the petulant inquiry of his friend, who continued in the same tone:

“Now, Roscoe, I really believe you were afraid of the arrows tipped with gold, or you would never have made so precipitate a retreat merely because she was expected upon a visit at the Castle. She is reported to be young and pretty.”

“She may be all these,” answered the young nobleman, with something of a curl upon his handsome lip, “and withal not suited to fill the station of Lady Clarendon, for which my lady mother designs her, without a thought that her only son may choose to please myself in this most momentous case—now clear that brow, George, and let us for one month lay aside the 'pomp and ceremony' of our rank, and wander where

“There is no sound of festival
Echoing from the lighted Hall.”

“I am weary of being the 'lion' of the hour, and for the ensuing four weeks am plain Mr. Wilmot.”

“That aristocratic bearing will betray the friend,” exclaimed Capt. Beaumont, “and as I am a younger son with nothing but my good sword to recommend me, I will retain my own cognizance, it being one but little known in these barbarous regions.”

The young men sauntered by the banks of the pretty stream that ran meandering through the village till the moon was high in the blue vault; and then turned towards the sun. In passing the cottage which was retired from the road, they stopped a moment to admire its lonely beauty, and were standing within the pretty yard when the house door was thrown open, and a girl apparently about fifteen, of surpassing beauty, stood in the moonlight, the rich curls flung back from her brow, as she gazed upon the intruders with a bewildered look. Suddenly she sprang towards Roscoe, and grasping his arm, cried in imploring accents:

“Oh! my father is dying, do come with me, for he is so wild”—and she wrung her hands in agony.

The beauty and artlessness of the girl, joined to his own kindly feelings, induced him to comply, and with Beaumont he entered the low door-way.

Upon a bed was extended the corpse of the father, evidently the victim of intemperance, and the death-pang no doubt terrified his child in her lonely watch till she rushed forth for assistance. The life had but just departed, and it was long ere they could persuade the desolate girl that he was no more. When the dreadful truth rushed upon her mind, she buried her head in the clothes of the bed sobbing convulsively, and muttering to herself—

“All! all! alone! I wish that I could die too—Jeannette has now no home!”

Every feeling of compassion and pity was aroused in Roscoe's mind, as he gazed upon the sad and beautiful being thus cast upon a rude world deprived of all natural protectors.

“Can we leave her thus?” burst involuntarily from his lip.

“No!” was the immediate response of his friend. “Remain, Roscoe,” he added, “and I will go for some one to assist this poor girl.”

The young Earl did not think his dignity lowered as he stooped to raise the bereaved child from her painful position beside the corpse. He seated her beside him, and used every argument to soothe and console. Her convulsive sobbings gradually became stilled, and by the time that Capt. Beaumont arrived with the landlady of the inn, she was restored to a state of calmness; but with an expression of such utter forlornness imprinted upon her lovely face, as powerfully affected the two young men, and putting a purse into her hand, they hastily left the cottage to conceal their emotions.

From the idlers round the inn, they learnt the history of Jeannette Gray, the “Village Flower,” as she was called by the peasantry round. Her father had removed there about two years before, and had neither held communication with the inhabitants or suffered his young and beautiful daughter to mingle in the village sports—and excepting the old gray-headed school-master—who loved the child, and occasionally gave her instruction, none entered the cottage. The father was a cold and stern man, and it was rumored that many a dark act had compelled him to seek the shelter of that quiet spot—and at last he became a thing for the finger of scorn to point at; seeking in deep inebriating draughts an oblivion for memory.

A few of the peasants assembled to pay the last duties to the old man, from a feeling of pity for the child; and as the grave was filled up, turned carelessly away—whilst she flung herself upon the small mound weeping passionately, notwithstanding the efforts of the kind landlady to console.

“Law, now, don't grieve so, you shall come home with me, and every one will do you a kind act—do not grieve so—poor girl”—and she drew her from the church yard to her own dwelling.

Days passed on, and Roscoe and his friend spent their time in rambling over “hill and vale,” but evening invariably brought them back to the village inn. Capt. Beaumont began to feel uneasy. Why was Clarendon so unwilling to leave? Why almost petulantly tell him that he might return to the Castle when he pleased, if he was tired of ruralizing? He knew his friend well, and that with all his great and good qualities he was romantic and enthusiastic in the extreme—and Jeannette was one to realize a poet's dream—

“Not the face of heaven
In its serenest colors, nor earth in all
Its garniture of flowers, nor all that live
In the bright world of dreams, nor all the eye
Of a creative spirit meets in air,
Could in the smile and sunshine of her charms,
Not feel itself o'ermaster'd by such rare
And perfect beauty:—yet she bore herself
So gently, that the lily on its stalk,
Bends not so easily its dewy head.”

Well might he fear for him—for the haughty spirit of the young noble had indeed bowed low to the innocence and holy purity enshrined in the bosom of the lowly peasant girl.

“This is worse than madness,” exclaimed Beaumont at the close of a long argument, “what can Jeannette be to you but a passing dream. Consider your long line of ancestors—your rank in society—the prejudices of all your titled connexions; and last, not least, her utter want of education, of accomplishments to fit her for such a high station, and then whether your proud name would not be tarnished by such an alliance.”

“And look abroad into the world, Beaumont, and see amidst its tinsel glare if you know of one heart as pure from corrupting passions as hers, beauty as perfect without a touch of woman's vanity to mar it. Seems she not more like a guileless child, free from a taint of worldliness or sin?”

“When the whisper of adulation is on her ear, when crowds bow and offer up incense at the shrine of the new beauty, and she is surrounded by splendor and wealth, think you she will retain this simplicity, this purity!—You are fascinated now, Roscoe, but with all your intellectual gifts, you will find that mind as well as beauty will be wanting to constitute happiness. But I have warned you, and shall leave you to yourself.”

“Not without giving me your word as a man of honor not to betray my confidence,” replied Roscoe, with something of pique in his tone.

“On this you may rely,” said Beaumont, and they separated.

Beaumont was obliged to leave his friend and rejoin his regiment, and dearly as he had loved him from his boyhood, Roscoe was glad to be relieved from the restraint his presence imposed.

Jeannette was his constant companion in his rambles, by the side of the river and over the pleasant meadows. Her sadness has worn off, and there was a sweet playfulness in her manners, joined to her entire dependence upon him, that completed the conquest of his heart. He saw in her, indications of native talent, and the mildness and beauty of many of her ideas just suited his romantic turn of mind. And she, that beautiful being, whose every look betrayed his influence over his affections, whose eye so timidly turned to his for approval, was she to bow as some sweet flower, because the stormcloud was near. Her destiny remains yet to be told.

They were wandering one evening by the river's banks, and after watching the waves reflect a thousand radiant colors from the beautiful sunset, Clarendon drew her towards a rustic seat in silence. He felt the time was drawing near when he must leave her, and many contending emotions were swelling in his proud heart. She gazed into his face with something of fear, for the expression of it was different from what she had ever known it. He caught the look, and smiling sadly said:

“Do not be frightened, Jeannette, I am perfectly well.”

“Then why do you look so, Mr. Wilmot?” for so she had been accustomed to call him, “Have I offended you?” and a tear started to her eye.

“Offended,” he repeated—“Blest angel as you are, you could not offend.” Then seizing her hand he added impetuously—“Jeannette will you unite your fate with mine? Will you give me a husband's right to protect you?”

Jeannette covered her face with her hands, and trembled violently, and even her neck was stained with the deep crimson. He needed no other reply, and folding her to his heart, whispered “mine forever.” Then it was that her tears burst forth, and she wept on his bosom from excess of happiness.

They were wedded in the village church, and then for the first time did the astonished girl learn, that instead of Mr. Wilmot, she had wedded the wealthy and powerful Earl of Clarendon, whose name had reached even that secluded spot. All were glad for the “Village Flower,” and blessed her as she passed through the church-yard, where she had so lately been a mourner, a young and happy bride.

But when Roscoe folded her to his heart as his own, and called her by the sacred name of wife, a cloud dimmed her brow, and the smile that had before wreathed her lip faded. “Do you repent already, my own Jeannette?” he asked in the deep tone of strong affection. “Dearest, I shall take you to my own proud home, ere many weeks are over, whose sunshine you will make. I long to present my beautiful bride to my kindred.”

“But will not those kindred despise me?” she asked in a low, sad voice. “Will they not look down on the peasant girl with scorn? Better had it been that we never had met.” And Roscoe, even whilst he fondly soothed her, could not but acknowledge to himself that her fears were not wholly groundless. But she was now his own, and the solemn tie could only be broken by death.

Some weeks passed on, and Jeannette saw with the quick-sightedness of woman, that her husband, although tender and kind as ever, was ill at ease. The time was drawing near when he must present his young bride to his family, as he could not remain longer from his home. Innocent and lovely as was the being who looked up to him with such confiding tenderness, he felt that she was incapable of appreciating the powers of his mind. The magic touch of education was wanting to render her perfect. One evening he was sitting buried in reverie, unmindful of the presence of his wife, who was standing by a distant window. Suddenly he exclaimed, “Oh! that she possessed the knowledge, the accomplishments of others!” Jeannette's quick ear caught the words, and her trembling limbs almost refused their support; but she succeeded in leaving the room unobserved. What a world of misery was opened to her view. She threw herself upon the bed and wept long and bitterly. But though lowly born, she was possessed of a more lofty spirit than one would have deemed could dwell in that timid girl. She felt that she was not fitted for the wife of one so gifted. “He is ashamed of his choice,” was her thought, and even amidst those passionate tears was her resolution taken. She knelt down to ask aid from above, for when her father in her childish days sternly forbade her to pray, she would wander forth and in some lonely place, with only the canopy of the deep blue sky above, pour forth the orisons of her innocent heart. She arose from that prayer, sad indeed, but calm and collected; and sought her husband. He raised his eyes upon her entrance, and putting out his hand drew her fondly towards him, and kissed her cheek. “You have been weeping, dearest,” he said, as he gazed anxiously in her pale face. “Have you any sorrow unshared by me?”

Jeannette laid her head upon his shoulder, so as to screen her face, and for one moment her resolution wavered; but she soon nerved herself to speak—and with all the artlessness of her character told him that she had heard his exclamation and long read his thoughts.

“I am not worthy of you, dear Roscoe,” she said in conclusion—“and you ought to have sought a bride amongst those in your own rank—but our fate is one. Send me from you awhile, and I will try and learn those accomplishments, and gain the knowledge you prize so much. I already bless the good old schoolmaster who did not let me grow up in utter ignorance;” and overcome by her feelings, she covered her face and wept.

Clarendon was both affected and pleased, although his heart sunk at the prospect of separation; but he had been communing with himself, and felt all the disadvantages to which he had subjected her. He knew with her natural abilities, that a few months would model the tinged child into the intellectual woman—and he was touched to the heart with the generous sacrifice she was willing to make. He soothed her with many a tender word of affection and approval, and smilingly said— “Only a few months dear Jeannette, and then my kindred shall be proud of my beautiful bride. 'Till then no one shall even have a glimpse of that sweet face”—playfully kissing away her tears.

* * * * * *

The curtains in the small but pretty drawing room of Mrs. Everard, (a widowed sister of the Dowager Lady Clarendon, who was a rare and superior character, and having early known sorrow, had withdrawn from the world upon a limited income) were closely drawn, for it was a damp and dreary evening. The candles were lighted, and a good fire in the grate, although it was early in the fall. She was busily engaged in reading, when a ring, somewhat louder than usual, roused her attention, and her servant ushered the Earl of Clarendon accompanied by a female into her presence. She started from her seat to welcome her favorite nephew, and after warmly embracing him, turned a look of inquiry towards his companion. With one hand he put aside the veil that shaded the surpassing beauty of his Jeannette, and leading her to the lady, said with a look of pride and love—

“My wife! my dear aunt, and to your care and kindness I must commit her.”

There was an expression of innocence and purity in the countenance of the young creature before her, that won her heart, and she kissed her fair brow and bid her welcome as warmly as if she had known her for years; without a single inquiry for the solution of what seemed to her a strange mystery. But soon was the romance of the past weeks confided to her, and in a moment she felt how all important it was for Jeannette to be other than she was, ere she could be presented to his ambitious and aristocratical family, whose pride would at best meet with a severe blow, and and though she lamented her nephew's imprudence, she would for his sake save his sweet bride from the chilling influence of his titled connexions.

“I will not betray your confidence,” said she to him, when they had discussed many plans—“Jeannette is but a child yet. Leave her one year with me, and go abroad, and when you return, she shall be all you wish. Till then, she shall pass a protégée of my own; and that look of love tells how she will for her husband's sake employ the hours of absence.”

Captain Beaumont remained with his friend a few weeks at the castle before the latter went abroad, and laughingly told him, that as he chose to give up the heiress, he would win her himself. Maria Leston was one calculated to please him—lively and affectionate, with a warm heart, but a mind wholly undisciplined; this, however, was not perceptible in every-day intercourse, and he soon became one of her most devoted admirers. “Take care,” said Roscoe, who had studied her character with more attention from the time he had seen his friend's predilection. “Remember—I in turn warn you. But now dear Beaumont, I leave my cause in your hands. Use your influence with my mother, and remove her prejudices against unequal alliances, ere I return; for I have expressly told her I should not select a bride from the ranks of fashionable society.” And they parted to meet again, under what different circumstances.

* * * * * * * * *

Month after month passed away, and Mrs. Everard saw with surprise and delight the facility with which Jeannette acquired those accomplishments necessary to the high station she was to occupy. She studied early and late, and though her cheek was a shade paler, yet her countenance bore an expression of intellect that greatly added to its charm. She seemed to rouse as from a dream, and her mind drank deeply at the fountain of knowledge. Of music, Roscoe was fond, and had delighted to hear her warble simple airs she had caught from the village girls—for her voice and ear were both fine, and when after passing hours at either the harp or piano, she would rise pale and exhausted from weariness—the thought was constantly, “Roscoe shall not be ashamed of his wife!”

Mrs. Everard often intreated her to desist, fearing such unremitting attention might undermine her health; but a playful smile was her answer, as she reminded her protectress that in a few months more her husband would return. Dearly did the lady love the sweet girl, and she gazed upon her with a feeling of reverence, as she felt the beauty of her character, and the holiness of her young love. Their days passed peacefully on, interrupted only by frequent letters of encouragement and affection from Clarendon, when a message from Lady Clarendon, announcing her intention of visiting her sister, threw Mrs. Everard into a state of perplexity. To refuse the visit was impossible, and to expose Jeannette to the scrutiny of this woman of the world equally so. Jeannette herself immediately proposed remaining in her own apartments until the lady left. Her heart grew heavy, she knew not why, at the idea of being under the same roof with Roscoe's mother, and when she first caught a tone of her voice as she passed at a distance, she wept without being able to give a reason for her tears.

A night or two before the intended departure of the lady, Jeannette felt more than usually oppressed. She threw open her window, and gazed forth upon the beauty of the scene. It was calm and clear, and the blossoms that clustered beneath it, whose fragrance was “borne upon the night wind,” were glittering in the moonbeams. It was midnight, and although so late, she felt no inclination to retire. Her thoughts were afar with the wanderer, and she thought of all his love, and the state of lowly dependence from which he had rescued her, with a feeling of veneration and gratitude, blended with the deep strong devotion of woman, till tears mingled with the prayer she murmured for his safety. A light slumber surprised her even where she sat. How long she remained she was incapable of telling, but she roused from an uneasy dream in wonder at the position in which she had fallen asleep. Her hair was damp with the night dew, and gathering up its rich folds she was preparing to seek her bed, when a distant grating sound fell on her ear. She listened, and again she heard it, as if some one was attempting to force a window. She cautiously approached one from which she had a view of the front entrance, and plainly distinguished a ladder planted against the house. Throwing a shawl over her head she stole gently from the room to that part of the house where the servants slept. Not a feeling of self intruded, and though her face was a shade paler, her step was firm. Opening the door of the room of an old servant of Mrs. Everard's, she went directly up to the bed, and rousing him gently, whispered in deep concentrated accents—

“Hugh! your mistress is in danger—there are persons even now attempting to force an entrance into the house. Hush! make no noise for your life, but wake the men servants, and come quick to the street door.”

She had no time for more, for a loud scream burst upon her ear—she sprung from the room into the passage—another and louder shriek made her heart almost sink within her, but rallying all her energies she ran swiftly along in the direction from which it proceeded, and paused almost breathless before the door of lady Clarendon. A stifled sound as of distress, left her not a moment for reflection, and bursting open the door she recoiled a moment in horror. A strong and dark looking ruffian had drawn a handkerchief round the lady's throat, and she was already purple in the face. The noise caused him to turn round, and the beautiful girl heedless of her own danger, had only time to spring past him, and catch the handkerchief from her neck and raise her up, when she felt her own hands grasped tightly, and a glittering weapon flourished above her head. She did not scream—she did not even quail as his laugh rang through the apartment, she only felt that death was near, and her soul went up in prayer. Whether it was her firmness, or look of angelic purity that intimidated the ruffian she knew not, but the knife glanced aside, and fastened securely in the floor. Ere he could draw it forth, the room was filled with the servants and Mrs. Everard, and he was secured. All necessity for exertion was over, and she fainted. When she recovered, she found herself upon a sofa in her own room, and surrounded by anxious faces.

“Where am I?” she exclaimed, starting up with the impression of horror fresh on her mind.

“With friends, my dear girl,” said Mrs. Everard, folding her to her heart, “and free from danger, but how much do we all owe you!”

From the confessions of the man, they gathered that he had heard of the arrival of the Countess at Mrs. Everard's, and knowing her to be wealthy, had left a gang to which he belonged at a little distance, 'till he had secured an entrance; but her screams exasperated him, and fearful of detection, he resorted on the most effectual mode of silencing her.

In consequence of the fright and agitation she had undergone, the lady was confined for a few days to her room; and Jeannette again resumed her employments. The third evening after, she was playing a sweet and plaintive air, when the countess suddenly entered. She rose hastily, and stood blushing and trembling beneath the earnest gaze of the mother of her husband. The proud lady stooped and kissed her brow. “Young and beautiful maiden,” said she, “you have saved my life, I know not who you are, but whatever boon you ask of the lady of Clarendon, it shall not be denied you.”

Jeannette's forehead was stained with crimson one moment, and she turned deadly pale the next, as kneeling before her, she answered:

“Your affection, and blessing, lady, is all I seek.”

“Methinks it were easy to love such a one as thou,” said the lady with a smile, “but I must know who it is upon whom I must bestow this blessing.”

“Upon the wife of your absent son, lady,” she replied, rising with an air of gentle dignity, “and the only boon she craves is the blessing of his parent.”

The lady started back in astonishment, and looked at Mrs. Everard, who had entered the room, for an explanation. In a few words, simple, but full of feeling, she told the events of the past months. Lady Clarendon was a woman of the world, and few deemed her to possess acute feelings—but she had a warm heart, that early sorrow had somewhat chilled. Thoughts of other days came over her, and she remembered, that in giving up one who had loved her well, to fulfil a father's stern command, and wedding the earl, she had passed through life with blighted affections. Her pride was lulled to rest, as she thought of the high-minded girl who had risked so much for her. “Shall I condemn them to a life of sorrow?” was her question to herself—“No!” and whilst both her sister and Jeannette waited tremblingly for her next words, she laid her hand upon the clustering ringlets of the latter, as she solemnly said:

“Bless you my sweet and noble child, and may you be blest in your young love,” and amidst many tears drew her to her bosom.

* * * * * * * * *

A year had gone by, and again the young Earl of Clarendon set foot upon his native shores. His heart bounded with delight as he came in view of Mrs. Everard's pleasant dwelling; but it sunk within him as he saw, that excepting in the servants' rooms, the shutters were closed. With a foreboding of something wrong, he rung, and old Hugh presented himself.

“Where is your mistress?” was his hurried question.

“At the castle with your mother, my lord,” said the man, as he looked in surprise upon his agitated face.

“And—my wife,” he was about to say, but recollecting himself, turned hastily away, and throwing himself into his carriage, he told them to drive on to the castle, where he was received with open arms by his mother and aunt. The next day was his birth-day, and great preparations having been made to celebrate it, his appearance was hailed with every demonstration of joy.

Mrs. Everard drew her nephew aside, and told him that as she was obliged to visit his mother, that she had carried Jeannette to pass the time with her husband's sister. “So you see my dear Roscoe I have placed your treasure in safe hands, and as you cannot leave to visit her 'till after to-morrow, you must clear your brow, and do honour to your guests by amusing them. I am not so certain Jeannette would feel as anxious to run to you,” and with an arch smile, she left him.

* * * * * * * * *

The halls of Clarendon Castle resounded with mirth and revelry—but there was no smile upon the lip of its master. He wandered about restless and uneasy. The sound of distant music fell on his ear, and there was something in it that soothed his harrassed spirits, and he drew near the room from which floated such bewitching harmony. The lady sat with her back towards him, but his mother, and Beaumont, who was one of the few who surrounded her, beckoned him in. A veil hung in loose folds around her person, and concealed her features. She rose from her seat, and at the same moment, lady Clarendon raising the veil, said:

“It is in this way that I punish the want of confidence in my son,” and rich in beauty, and warmed into life by the Promethean touch of mind, he clasped to his bosom his own Jeannette.

“What think you of my peasant bride?” asked Roscoe of his friend, as she gracefully returned the greeting of her husband's kindred and acquaintances to whom his stately mother presented her—“Is she not lovely?”

“Lovely indeed, and good too withal,” replied his friend in a melancholy tone, as he glanced toward his own gay and thoughtless wife, the once courted Miss Leston. “I would that Maria possessed but a grain of yon fair girl's gentleness. Her jealous whims embitter every moment of my life.”

“Jeannette shall try her influence over her,” was Roscoe's reply—“Perhaps her magic wand may transform her.”

“Pray heaven it may, for there is but little happiness for either.”

And she did transform the proud and haughty girl into a being gentle as herself; for her sweetness and persuasion made her to see her own folly, and in the renewed confidence and happiness of his married life, George Beaumont acknowledged that he blessed the hour in which his friend wedded his peasant bride.

Hingham, August, 1838.

THE INDIAN GIRL'S FUNERAL by Lydia H. Sigourney. 1838, January [poetry]

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The Lady's Book. January, 1838

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Written for the Lady's Book.
THE INDIAN GIRL'S FUNERAL.
BY MRS. SIGOURNEY.

“Died, in the vicinity of Monroe, Wisconsin Territory, the only daughter of Meko, an Indian woman of the Sac tribe, at the age of 18, of a lingering consumption. A few of the tribe, and a few of the pale faces were in attendance—yet no one wept over the maiden's grave, but the poor mother.”—Herald of the Upper Mississippi.

A WAIL upon the prairies, A cry of woman's woe, That mingleth with the autumn blast All fitfully and low. It is a mother's wailing; Hath Earth another tone Like that with which a mother mourns Her last, her only one? Pale faces gather round her, They mark the storm swell high Which rends and reeks the tossing soul, Yet their cold blue eyes are dry. Pale faces gaze upon her, As the wild winds waft her moan, But she was an Indian mother— So she wept those tears alone. Long, o'er that wasting idol, She watch'd and toil'd and pray'd, Though every dreary dawn reveal'd Some ravage Death had made; Till the fleshless sinews started, And Hope no opiate gave, And hoarse and hollow grew her voice— An echo from the grave. She was a gentle creature, Of raven eye and tress, And dove-like were the tones that breath'd Her bosom's tenderness, Save when some quick emotion The warm blood strongly sent, To revel in her olive cheek, So richly eloquent. I said consumption smote her, And the healer's art was vain, But she was an Indian maiden, So none deplored her pain— None, save that widow'd mother, Who now, by her open tomb, Is writhing like the smitten wretch Whom judgment marks for doom. Alas! that lonely cabin, That couch beside the wall, That seat beneath the mantling vine, They're lone and empty all! What hand shall pluck the tall, green corn, That ripeneth on the plain, Since she, for whom the board was spread, Must ne'er return again? Rest, rest thee, Indian maiden! Nor let thy murmuring shade Grieve that those pale-brow'd ones, with scorn, Thy burial-rite survey'd. There's many a king, whose funeral A black-rob'd realm shall see, For whom no tear of grief is shed, Like that which falls for thee. Rest, rest thee, forest maiden! Beneath thy native free, The proud may boast their little day, Then sink to dust, like thee; But there's many a one whose funeral With nodding plumes may be, Whom Nature nor affection mourn, As now they mourn for thee. September 22, 1837.

THE SISTER'S REVENGE by Miss M. Miles. 1838 [fiction]

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The Lady's Book. May, 1838

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Written for the Lady's Book.
THE SISTER'S REVENGE.
BY MISS M. MILES.

IT was a night of storms, but Mrs. Osmond, the wife of one of the wealthiest merchants in the city of P———, prepared herself to abide its pitiless beating. The tea hour was just over, and her son, whose talents had already rendered him conspicuous, entered the apartment which contained all the appurtenances of luxury. He hastily drew near her—

“My dear mother! this is kind, indeed, but you will surely have the carriage—'tis too stormy for you to venture from home.”

“No, Henly, poor Cato has been far from well to-day, and I will not call him out. You know it is but a step to Mrs. Delville's, and with the aid of your strong arm I shall succeed very well in my attempt. Have you heard how Therese is to-day?”

“I stopped as I came up,” replied her son. “She was very low; Florence told me that she needed no assistance to-night; but, dear mother, I fear for her. Her manner was so strange—I wish they were with us. How could her uncle leave her in that boarding house so destitute of all the comforts of a home?” and a dark flush rose to his forehead.

“Well, well, my son,” said the mother, soothingly, “I will not leave the sweet orphans 'till something better offers—come!”

Hour after hour passed by, and Florence Lancy sat by her dying sister's side. She heeded not the storm that was raging without, as her eye was fixed upon the changing countenance before her. Oh! those who have stood by the deathbed of the loved, alone can tell the bursting agony of such a moment. To feel they must go from us for ever, and the smile that has come as a gleam of gladness over our path, be quenched in death—that there must ever be one void place in our home, and a weary longing for the music of a voice whose melody is hushed. Such hours of anguish come as chasteners, to wean us from earth's ties. Deeper grew the shadows upon that young pale face, and Florence bent over the slumberer. She opened her eyes and a faint smile lit up her wasted countenance.

“Sister! dear sister!” she murmured in inexpressibly sweet and thrilling accents, “I am fast sinking to my rest—I thank you, dearest, for all your love to your wayward Therese. Do not mourn that I am early called away. Earth would have been but a weary place for the stricken heart; but, Florence, I would that I could have once more seen him,” and a faint flush tinged her pallid cheek, as she buried her face in her pale hands.

Florence sprung to her feet, and her dark eye flashed wildly as she cried, “Name him not, Therese, if you would have me keep my senses. Cold-hearted villain as he is, how can your heart even to the last so cling to him?” Then seeing the effect her vehemence had caused upon the sufferer, she became instantly calm, and bent above her with the fondest soothings.

“You will forgive, as I do, dearest,” whispered the dying girl, looking into her face with an expression of mingled resignation and fear. “I have long since ceased to think of him with anger, and have prayed long and earnestly for his happiness. Promise me to forgive”—

But ere Florence could make that promise, Mrs. Osmond entered, and but an hour had passed by, when the pure and gentle Therese was released from earthly suffering. The two sweet orphans had been left to the guardianship of an uncle, by Mr. Lancy, their father, a gentleman of fortune and respectability. He was totally unfit for the charge, although as regarded their pecuniary affairs, he was strictly honourable. He placed them at a fashionable boarding house in P———, unmindful of their need of a protector, and then set off upon a tour of the Western States. Therese, a few months after, left P——— to visit a friend in a neighbouring city, and whilst there, fell into the society of Liston Howard, a man of most fascinating exterior, and insinuating manners. He knelt in homage at the shrine of her youthful loveliness, and cast around her heart many a spell of power, until he made it all his own, and then triumphing in this offering to his vanity, he coldly forsook her. She had

“Pour'd her heart's rich treasures forth,
But was unrepaid for their priceless worth,”

and she sunk beneath the blow—but never until earth and its visions were fast fading away, did she breathe his name to her fond devoted sister. Florence Lancy's character was cast in a different mould from her meek and gentle sister's, and deeply feeling the want of all the kindly influences of home, she became cold and haughty, and although her nature was peculiarly affectionate and her feelings warm, yet was there something about her that repulsed the approaches of mere worldly friends. It was the day of Therese Lancy's funeral, and Florence knelt beside the bed upon which was extended her motionless form, weeping in all the bitterness of a desolate heart. She was now to take a last look of the sweet, pale face upon which still lingered the spirit's smile. It was a moment of agony—

“Oh, not an hour like this,
For bitterness, has earth,”

and she felt that she must go forth into a cold world without one kindred tie around which her young affection might cling. There is something sacred and hallowed in the strong link of sisterly love. The unclouded days in which they share together the same childish spirits, the confidence in which they turn to each other when the cares and sorrows of after life leave a sad signet on the brow, serve but to make the silver chain still brighter as years pass on. Florence heeded not the time that passed, and a step in that silent chamber roused her. Henly Osmond, with a countenance pale and mournful, drew near, and gazing down a moment upon the calm and peaceful face of the dead, cast his arm round her waist, and raised her from her kneeling posture.

“Florence! my own Florence! let me lead you hence, this is too trying for you, love.”

“Your Florence!” she exclaimed wildly—“away! I know you all too well, you can smile with the lip, and teach the voice affection's music, and the heart be cold, cold. Oh! man! how will you crush the sweet hopes you kindle. Look! Henly Osmond, on that beautiful slumberer. Would you deem man's perfidy had broken her hear?” “'Tis even so,” she added, more wildly, “and never, never, sweet sister, till I take revenge for your injuries, will I rest satisfied!”

“Florence! Florence !” exclaimed her lover, for such he was, in great alarm, “come with me, dearest, and rest a while—my mother is here.”

“Henly Osmond, I tell you here, at this dread hour, that I never can be yours—never, never!” and with a fresh burst of grief, she was about to throw herself upon the bed, when Henly forcibly prevented her, and removed her from the room in an insensible state.

The uncle of Florence returned a day or two after these sad scenes, and she soon left P———. No expression of sorrow passed her lips, but her cheek was colourless as marble, and her brow strangely contracted for one so young and fair. There was a tear indeed in her eye as she received Mrs. Osmond's affectionate farewell, and she almost gasped for breath, so strong was her emotion, when she charged her with a letter for Henly, who was not at home. Little did the kind lady dream of the misery its contents would entail upon her noble-minded son.

Henly Osmond read that epistle in the solitude of his own apartment, and from that hour he went forth to his daily duties a changed man. She told him her sister's sad story, and in conclusion, said—

“I have told you, Henly, that I have only one aim in life to accomplish, and to do that, I must give you up. The sacrifice is made! Henly! in this parting hour, I may tell you how dear your love has been to the orphan; sweet visions of happiness with you, have mingled with my daily dreams, and oft when my spirit has been chilled by the coldness and indifference of the world, I have turned to you in the devotion of my lone spirit, and felt life was not all dark. But love may never again shed its sweet influence upon my path; and now, my noble-minded Henly, farewell! May you seek some happier bride to make the sunshine of your splendid home.”

A year had passed away. Liston Howard had heard of the death of his victim, but it interrupted not his career of pleasure, and so heartless was his vanity, that he scarcely gave her memory one sigh, and now was assiduously attentive to a young and beautiful southerner.

A gay party was assembled at Mrs. Fortescue's—the sister of Howard, and Miss Pinckney was there. She stood apart, in seemingly abstracted mood, until the entrance of Liston; then her dark eye lighted up, and a radiant smile broke over a face, whose expression was “somewhat too cold.” He was soon at her side pouring upon her willing ear the honeyed words of flattery. Friends looked on with significant smiles, but, though all knew well his character, there was none to warn that artless and lovely girl. But Liston Howard was not now trifling. She had bowed his proud spirit as it never had been bowed before, and he was now really and sincerely in earnest in his devotion. He loved her with all the feeling of which his selfish heart was capable. Few knew aught of her parentage or fortune; but her dress was always in a style of costly magnificence, and her white hand was gemmed with many a jewel of rare value. She had come to ——— some months back, with one of its proudest inhabitants, and was the chosen friend of that gentleman's daughter.

Miss Pinckney and her friend joined not the merry dancers, but sat apart with Liston Howard. Agnes Gray, apparently absorbed in contemplation of the gay scene; and Ellen's cheek wearing a bright tint as she listened to the admiration of Howard. Suddenly Agnes bent over her friend and whispered a few words in a low tone. The bright flush faded, and taking her arm, she made good her retreat from the room by the side-door.

“What caprice is this?” muttered Liston, as some of his gay associates approached and began rallying upon his desertion.

In the ante-room, Ellen Pinckney lay half fainting on a sofa, and Agnes hanging over her in great perplexity.

“Command yourself, dearest, can you not?” she exclaimed, as she applied restoratives. “Try for one moment, whilst I seek papa,” and she glided hastily from the room.

Ellen tried to rouse herself, and thinking her friend had re-entered, said, faintly, “I am better, now, Agnes—come, let us go home.”

An exclamation of joy! and some one knelt at her side—“My own one, and will you make life to me a way of weariness? I have sought you 'midst garish crowds, and now will you give all your young affections to yon worldling? He cannot love as I love. Tell me I may yet hope, and I will go forth and wait through long, long years, till you again call me to your side.”

Deep and unutterable emotion was depicted upon the face of the young girl, and for a moment she suffered her hand to remain in his passionate grasp. A sudden resolution seemed to nerve her soul, and she said, calmly, “When I met Mr. Gray and his daughter, I thought I was dying—and they watched over me with tried disinterested friendship—I have told them all my wayward destiny—Liston Howard has sought my love, and only in the presence of those friends will I give either an answer. Come to me then on Tuesday evening, and now leave me.”

The young man was about to reply, but an impatient wave of the hand obliged him to withdraw.

Agnes and Ellen sat alone in the solitude of their chamber, at the still midnight hour—“And you will give this party, dearest,” said the latter. “Thank you, I have learned to think differently of the world since I have been under the influence of your gentle teaching. Many of my wild fancies have passed away, and I think my estimate of human nature has been somewhat wrong. I will not cast away my own happiness—but 'tis but just he should be made to feel.”

“It was the twilight hour, and the moonbeams stole gently in through the half-closed curtains of the parlour in which Miss Pinckney sat alone. There was no light in the room, and tears fell fast from her dark eye upon a picture over which she was bending. The senseless ivory was covered with her passionate kisses, and murmured words of strong affection broke from her lip. An opening door caused her to start up, and hastily concealing it in the folds of her dress, she wiped all traces of emotion from her countenance. Mr. Gray entered, and giving her a letter, said, “from Liston Howard, my dear.”

Ellen Pinckney retreated to her own room, and an indescribable expression passed over her face as she perused the epistle she held in her hand. She threw it from her, and paced the room with a proud step—“Yes, it must be so! Retribution is but just!” and hastily penning a line, she gave it to a servant.

All was brilliant and light in the spacious drawing-rooms of Mr. Gray. The beautiful heiress was simply dressed, and her only ornament a single diamond that sparkled upon the outside of her glove. Liston Howard was there, and the noble-looking stranger, both with anxious and perplexed countenances. She stood apart, her dark eye flashing brilliantly, and a deep flush on her cheek. Both the rivals approached to claim her hand for the dance. The circle round her dispersed, and she lightly said, “He to whom I give my hand for the dance, I give it to for life.” Liston Howard pressed forward, but waving him aside, with a proud gesture, she gave her hand to the other, and joined the waltzers. Words cannot describe the rage and disappointment painted upon the handsome features of Howard; but his hour of mortification was not yet over. He sought her as soon as the dance was concluded, as she stood surrounded by a chosen few—those too whose suffrages he most coveted, and, carried away by passion, demanded an explanation!

She drew her figure to its full height—“Liston Howard, in this very place, in the bosom of this family, you threw your serpent wiles round a young heart till you made it all your own. She went down to the grave with a blighted spirit, the victim of your heartless vanity—and here, in this public assembly, I denounce you as the cold-blooded destroyer of the peace of one too good and beautiful and pure, to have been loved by such a being as you. To do this, I have smiled when my heart has seemed breaking.” Her voice slightly faltered, but she recovered herself, and holding up her hand, added, “With this ring I have betrothed myself to one more noble and good. Away! the sister of Therese Lancy would not stoop to love such a one as you—but she has worn concealment long to fulfil the vow she made by that sister's death bed.” And whilst the conscience-stricken Howard rushed, humbly, from the room, Florence turned with a smile of softened feeling, to the noble and gifted Osmond, who had sought her long, and who, with all others, deemed that the retribution was just, and that he who deliberately wins woman's love to cast it from him as a worthless thing, deserves his punishment.