The Lancaster ledger. (Lancaster, S.C.) 1852-1905, October 06, 1852, Image 1
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p DEVOTED TO LITERARY, COMMERCIAL, AGRICULTURAL, GENERAL AND LOCAL INTELLIGENCE.
f VOLUME I. LANCASTER, C. H, SOUTH CAROLINA, WEDNESDAY MORNING, OCTOBER 0, 1852. XUM BER 3i.
f - THE
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' ALL KINDS OF
TAD DDTlTTTUTf
L JUM xxumxxno
1 EXECUTED WITH NEATWESS AXD DF.SPATCI
^ At thin Office.
^f-Urteit CnlfD
From Harpers' I\'ew Monthly Mafraziiu
FRAGMENTS FROM A YOUNG
jk WIFE'8 DIARY.
I liuveltcen married seven weeks. * * '
I do not rave in girlish fashion about in
Ixjrfect happiness?I do not even say
ove my husband. Such words imply i
separate existence?a gift consciously Ik>
stowed on one being from another?I fee
not thus: iny husband is to me as in;
1 , own soul.
Ix>ng, very long, it is since I first knev
this. Gradually, not suddenly, the grea
inyswrry 01 iovo oversnauoweu mc, unti
tat last 1 found out the truth, that I \va
my own no more. All the world's beaut'
I saw through his eyes?all the world'
goodness and greatness camo reflectet
through his noble heart. In his prcsenc
, I was as a child : I forgot myself, my owi
existence, hopes and aim*. Every wher
?at all times and all places?his nowe
was upon me. lie seemed to absorb am
inhale my whole soul into his, until 1 be
came like a cloud melting away in sun
shine, and vanishing from the face c
. heaven.
All this reads very well and mad; bul
oh! Laurence?Laurence! none woul<
marvel at it who had once looked on the<
Not that he is a perfect Ajiollo? this woi
shipped husband of mine; you may met
a score far handsomer. Hut who cares
fNot I? All that is grand, all that is beau
tiful, all that makes a man look godlik
i. it : J
uirvugii we in??nj smiling Ol III* giXllIK
. houi?I tee in my Laurence. Hi* eyes
soft, yet proud?his wavy hair?hi* han
| that I sit and ciasp?his strong arm tha
I lean on?all compose an image wherei
I see no flaw. Nay, I could scarce believ
' in any lieauty that bore no likeness ?
Laureoce.
Thus is my husband?what am If Hi
.' wife?and no more. Every thing in m
is only a reflection of him. Hometimes
?ven marvel thai he loved me, so unwoi
thy as I seem : yet, when heaven raino
* on me the rich blessing of his love, m;
thirsty soul drank it in, and I felt that ha
it never come, for lack of it I must hav
died. I did almost die, for the joy wa
I long in coming. Though?as I knoi
now?he loved me well and dearly; yc
( tof some reason or other he would not te
I me so. The vail might never have falle
Iwyw viw iicmvA, euro wr onn OICTIC
e 9uuei( r I will relate it. I love to drear
otrer that brief hour, to which my whol
< MNAoe can never show a parallel.
We were walking all together?tny an
term, Laurence Shelmerdine and I?wl?e
-a there came on an Auguat Uiunder-etom
Otir danger wu great, for we were k. th
midst of a wood. My iatere fled ; but 1
being weak and ill?alaaf my heart wa
breaking quiet);, though he knew it notJ
had no strength to fly. He waa to
I wjtind to forsake ine: so we ataid in ai
K open apaea of the wood, I clinging to hi
arm, and thinking?God forgive me !m
*f\ if I eould otil v die then, cfoee to him
eooomneaeed by hie gentle care, it woul<
he ao happy?happier for than my 1H
?
I *
was then. What lie thought I knew not.
He sjxike in hurried, broken words, and
L turned his face from tnc all the while.
It grew dark, like night, and there came
flash after flash, peal after peal. I could
not stand?1 leaned against his arm. At
last there shone all around us a frightful
glare, as if the whole wood were in flames
?a crash of boughs?a roar a bore, as
though the heavens were falling?then
silence.
Death had passed close by its, and
smote us not?and Death was the pre*
cursor of Love.
f We looked at one another, Laurent"
f and I : then, with a groat cry, our hearts
t ?long-tortnred?sprang together. There
never can bo such a meeting, save that of
two parted ones, who meet in heaven. No
v.orus were spoken, Have a muriiier?"Ad,*
elaide !" " Luurance !M?-but we knew
, that between us two there was but one
soul. We stood there all the while the
' storm lasted. lie sheltered me in his
1 arms, and I felt neither the thunder nor
i the rain. I feared not life nor death, for I
1 now knew that in either I should never
be divided from him.
* * Ours was a brief engagement.?
1 Laurence wished it no ; and 1 disputed not
" ?I never disputed with him in anything,
r Besides, I was not happy at home?my
| sisters did not understand him. They jested
me because he was grave and reserved?even
subject to moody fits sometimes.
They said " I should have a great deal to
nut up with ; but it was worth while, for
- Sir. Shelrnerdine's grand estate atoned for
- all." My Laurence! as it I had ever
- thought whether he were rich or jioor!?
I smiled too, at my sisters, jested about his
- melancholy, and the possibility of his being
f a "bandit in disguise ! " None truly knew
s him?none but I. Vet I was half afraid
of him at times ; but that was only from
. the intensity of my love. I never asked
i him of his for me?how it grew?or how
e he had so long concealed it; enough for
me that it was thori>- Vnt i? wn?i lurm-a
calm; he never showed any passionate
- emotion, save one night?the night before
1 our wedding day.
I I went with iiim to the gate myself
f walking in tho moonlight under the holly
trees. I trembled a little; but I was happy?very
happy. He held mc long in his
arms ere ho could part with mc?the last
brief parting ere w e would iicimJ to part no
1 more. I said, looking up from his face to
|? the stars, 44 Laurence, in our full joy let us
1 thank God, and pray Iiim to bless us."
i His hesrt seemed bursting : he liowed
his proud head, dropped it down upon my
v.?vu, way. rather pray
him to forqxvt mc. Adelaide, I am not
worthy of happiness?1 am not worthy of
you."
lie, to talk in this way ! and aliout me 1
but I answered him soothingly, so that he
" might feel how dear was my love?how
entire was my trust.
lie said, at la>t, half mournfully, " You
me content to take me then, just as I am;
* to forgive my past?to boar with my presy
ent?to give hope to my future. Will
I yon do this, my love, my Adelaide f"
a I answered, solemnly, " 1 will." Then,
for the first time I dared to lift my arms
I to his neck ; and as he stooped I kissed his
y forehead. It was the seal of this iny
promise?which may God give mo strength
t to keep evermore !
t
I We were laughing to-day?Laurence
s and I?about jirnl love* It was scarcely
y a subject for mirth ; but one of his baclies
lor friends had been telling us of n new
J married couple, who in some comical fashe
ion, mutually made the discovery of each
ii other's " first loves." I said to my husband
e smiling liappily , " tliat he need havo no
r sneli fear." And 1 repeated, half in sjiort,
I the lines?
i* " He was her own, her ocean treasure ? at,
i- like a rich wreck?her first love .nut her
,f last."
So it was with your |ssir Adelaide."?
t, Touched by the thought, my gayety mel|
ted almost into tears. Hut 1 laughed
?! them off, and added, " Come, Laurence, j
?- confess the same. You never, never loved j
t any one but me f" I
f lie looked pained, said coldly, " I 1k?i
lieve I have not given cause?"then stoj>n
WhI. How I tPomkl<wl l.nl I ?" "
e iiint, unci whispered, 44 Laurence, dearest,
^ forgive me." He looked al ino a moment,
d then caught ine pSHsionately to his breast,
it I wept there a little?my heart was bo
n full. Yet I could not help again murmure
ing that question?44 You love tue, you do
0 love me.w
441 love you a* I never before loved wo1
man. 1 swear thin in the sight of heaven,
e Believe it, my wife." Waa hia vehement
I anawer. 1 hated myaelf for having so
pw tried liiin. My dear my nohle huahand !
J I waa mad to have a moment's douht of
y thae.
J v ?
e * Nearly a year married, and it
* seems a brief day: yet it seems also like a
v lifetime?as if I had never known any
ft other. My Laurance ! daily I grow cloa
II er to him?heart to heart. I understand
n him lietter, if possible, I love him more ;
d not with tho wild worship of my girlhood,
n but with something dearer, moro homee
like. I would not have him an 44 angel "
if I could. I know all hia little faulta and
e weaknesses quite well?I do not shut my
n eyes on any of them; but I gaze openly
?. at them, and love them down. There ?s
? lor? enough in my heart to fill up all
I, chasms?to remove all stumbling-blocks
S from nnr O..- U < >.)? -
? jmuii IS IIIIIJ ?? WCUUCW
- I?fe: not two jarring live*, but an hanmo.
t> nioua on#.
n
* I have taken a long journey, and am
- eomewhat dreary at being away, even for
i, three day*, fkpa my nleawnt home. But
A Laurence wal'obltged to go, and I would
e not let hisq|go alone; though, for tender
i dfe'-"
# . ' m *
fear, fie urged me to stay. So kind and !
thoughtful he was too. Because his en-!
gagcnients here would keep him much i
from me, he made me take likewise my
sister Louisa. She is a good girl, and a
dear girl ; but 1 mis* Laurence ; I did eslH'cially
in n?y walk to-day, through a lovely
wooded country and a sweet little village.
1 was thinking ot' him all the time,
so much so, that 1 quite started when 1
heard one of the village children shouted
after as "Laur? nee."
Very foolish it is of mc?a loving weakness
1 have not yet got over?hut I never
hear the name m\ husband hears without I
a pleasant liirill; I never even sec it writ-1
ten ii|> in tin* street without turning again j
to look at it. So, unconsciously, I turned ]
to the little r?>s\ urchin, whom his grandma
honored by tin; natnu ??f " Laurence."
A pretty, sturdy hoy of five or mx years
old?a child to glad any mother. 1 won
do red had he a mother ? I stayed and
asked?I always notice children now.?
<>h, wonderful, solemn mystery sleeping at
my heart, my hope?my joy?my prayer!
1 think, with tears, how I may one day
watch the gambols of a hoy like this;and \
how, looking down in his little face, I may j
see therein my Laurence's eyes. For the j
sake of this future?which (Jod grant?1 j
went and kissed the little fellow who
chanced to hear my husband's name. 1 |
asked the old woman about the child's
mother. " Dead, dead five years." And
his father I A sneer, a muttered curse?
bitter words about44 poor folk" and "gentle
folk." Alas? alas! I saw it all. l'oor
beautiful unhappy child !
My heart was so pained, that I could
not tell the little incident to Laurence.?
Even when my sister began to talk of it I
asked her to cense. But I pondered over
it the more. I think, if I am strong enough,
I will go and see the poor littlo fellow
again to-morrow. One might do
some good?wlio knows i
To-inorrow lias conic?to-morrow litis
gone. What n gulf lies between that yesterday
ami its to-morrow !
* * * Louisa and I walked to the village?she
very much against her will.?
"it was wrong and foolish," she said "one
should not meddle with vice." And she
looked prudent and stern. I tried to
speak of the innocent child?of the poor
dead mother; and the shadow of motherhood
over my own soul taught me compassion
towards both. At last when Louisa
was half angry, I said I would go, for
1 had a secret reason which she did not
know. Thank heaven those words were
|?vs% mWv my li|*w
So w e went. My little beauty of a hoy
was not there; and I had the curiosity to
approach the cottage where his grandmother
lived. It stood in a garden, with
high hedge around. 1 heard a child's
laugh, and could not forbear peeping
through. There was my little favorite,
held aloft in the arms of a man, w ho stood i
halt hidden behind a tree. " lie looks
like a gentleman : perhaps it is the w retch
<>i a tatner!" whiskered Louisa. "Sister,
weought to eoine away." And -I talked
forward indignantly.
Hut I still staid?still looked. r
my horror of the crime, 1 f? >i .. .?ttraction
: it was some sign ' grace hi the
lilllll I lull In* slit >11 la I ill le:i>.- i.L-11. ?\v I... I ir..
and show kindness to the child. And tli?miserable
mother! I, a Imppy wife, could
have wept to think of In-r. I wondered, |
<li<l ho think of her too ! lie might ; for
though the Ih>v laughed hii?I clinttere<l, J
lavishing n hint nil those j>et diminutives I
which ?'hil<lfc-n make out of the sweet |
won I "father," I < li?l not hear this father |
answer hy a single word.
Louisa ante to hurry rnenwav. "IIush"l
I said, "one iii<>111**111 ami I will go."
The little one had ceased chattering:
| the father put it dow n ami came forth
from liia covert.
Heaven it was hunbnnd /
* * * I think I should then have fallI
en down dead, save for one thing?I tnrn|
ed ami met my sister's eves. They were I
I full of horror?indignation? pity. She,!
too, had seen.
Like lightning there Hashed across me
all the future: my father's wrath?the
, world's mockery?hin shame.
I said?and I had strength to say it
quite calmly?44 Louisa, you have guessed
our secret: hut keep it?promise! "
She looked aghast?confounded.
44 You see," 1 went on, and 1 actually
smiled, 44 you ace, I know all almutit, and
so does Laurence. It i??a friend's child."
May Heaven forgive mo for that lie I
ioni ; u was 10 save inv uusoanu s Honor. |
1 )ay after day, week after week, goes by
yet I live?live, and living, keep the horrible
secret in my soul. It inust remain
there, hurried forever, now.
It so chanced, that after that hour I did
not see my husband for some weeks: Louisa
and I were hastily summoned home.?
So I had time to think what 1 was to do.
I knew all now?all the mystery of his
fits of gloom?his secret sufferings. It
was remorse, perpetual remorse. No marvel
! And for a moment my stem heart
said, " Let it be so." I, too, was wronged,
Why did ho marry nto and hide all
this f O vile! O cruel! Then the
light broke on mo: hia long struggle againat
his love?his terror of winning mine.
Tt..? l.? AlA I L.t/ u ? J -- I
'H> IIO UHI IUTC 1IIC I linil-IIIIHUI^Illll H* 1
was I grasped at that. Whatever black*
neaa was on the past, he loved mo now?
he had sworn it?" mow than he ever loved
woman."
I was yet voting: I know little of the
wickedness of the world; but 1 have beard
of that mad passion of the moment, which
ll,av u.'ir.> nn A hurl ?aI aiknllu ?!!.> ?<!
ut'terwanl* a whole Hfetime of remorae,
works out the exmation. Six years ago.
He muat have titan" then a mere boy, If
he had thu?*rrcd in youth, I who know
hie nature, Know how awful muat have
I
been the repeutance of his manhood. On j
any humbled sinner I would have mercy sli
?how much rather must I have me;cy on 11
Mi/ husband? o\
1 had mercy. Some, stern in virtue, p<
may condemn me ; but God knoweth all.
lie is?I believe in my soul?Ik is a I
good man now, and striving inor* and w
more after good. 1 will help him?1 will pi
save him. Never shall he know tint sc- y<
cret, which out of pride or bitterness might si
drive him back from virtue, or male him n<
feel shame before me. J t?i
! In
I took my resolution?I have fnlilled it. I n?
I have met him again, as a faithful wife
should meet her lite band: no wed, no
look betrays, nor shall betray, vliat I In
know. All ottr outward life sues on as m
before : his tenderness for me is contant, j l>]
overflowing. lint oh ! the agony,ofknow- i ?
ing my idol fallen?that where once t:
worshipped, I can only pity, weep, and t:
pray.
lie told inc yesterday, he did not feel u
like the same man that he was befo'e mar- j I
riage. He said 1 was his good angel ; ,j
that through me he became caltne*, hap- d
pier every day. It was title ; I rend the : o
change in his face. Others read it two.? b
Even his aged mother told me wit! tears, n
how much good I had done to Laurence, i
For this, thank God! ; o
My husband ! my husband! At times ri
I could almost think this horror wcie otne 1
delirious dream, cast it to the winds, and I e
worship him as of old. I do fee, as 1 1
ought,deep tenderness?compassion. No, l
no, lot me not deceive myself : I love him ; <|
in defiance of all I love him, and shall do j I;
evermore. : n
Sometimes his ohlen sufferings came j (
over nun ; aim men i, Knowing me wnoie r
truth, tell my very soul moved within inc. v
If he had only told inc all : if I could now 1 c
lay my heart open before him,with all its I
love and pardon ; if he would let nic com- s
fort him, and speak of hope, of heaven's
mercy?of atonement even on earth, hut 1
dare not?I dare not. r
Since, from this silence which he has i <
seen fit to keep, 1 must not share the st-rug- \
gle, but must stay afar off?then like the t
prophet who kueft on the rock, suppliea- .
ting for Israel in the battle, let my hands 1 i
fail not, noriny prayer cease, until Heaven
sendeth the victory. I i
Nearer and nearer comes the hour 1
which will be to mo one of a double life, i 1
or death. Sometimes, ^ nil I *
have lately suffered, there conic# tOiuc a ! J
neavv foreboding. What, if J, ?*>.young, v
to w hom one little y< ar ago, lire seemed ! J
ail opening paradise?what, if I should die ]
?die and leave hiw?, and he never know 1
how deeply I have loved?how much I
have forgiven t
Yes, he might know, and bitterly.? '
should Louisa tell. Hut I will prevent 1
that.
In my hushatn's absence I have sat up i
half (he night writing; that in ease of my
death he may know the whole truth, and (
hear it from me alone. I have poured ulil i
all my sufferings?all my tenderuesa : I (
nave mipiorcu mm tor tiicioveot Heaven, i
for the love of mo, tlint lie would in every [
way atone for the past, an-l lead for the {
future a righteous life ; that his sins innv
he forgiven, and that after death, we may i (
meet in joy evermore.
I I
I have heen to chureli with Laurence?
for tlie last time, as I think. We knelt I
together, and took the sacrament. Ilis i
face was grave hut peaceful. When we I
came home we sat in our Iteautiful little t
%?so garden, lie looking so content?even happy
; so tender over me, so full of hope j i
for tiie future. IIow should this l?e ifhe I
had on his soul that awful sin ! All seetn- I I
ed a delusion of mv own creating: I ;i
doubled even the evidence <>t" my own sen- t
sea. I longed to throw myself on his ho- j
sum and tell him all. Hut then, from I
some inexplicable cause, the olden cloud <
came over him; I read in his face, or
thought I read the torturing remorse which *
at once repelled me from him, and yet drew 1
me again, with a compassion that was ah <
most stronger than love. I
1 thought I would try to say, in some
passaing way, words that, should I die,* tl
might afterwards comfort him, by telling
him iiow his misery had wrung my heart, t
and how I did not scorn him, not even for I
his sin.
"Laurence,"! said, very softly, I wish t
you and I had known one another all our ?
iives, from the time wo were little chiM a
dren." j I
a ol. I .1.-1 I I I .1 i l.?,l ?. _
"II . llhll wu UHU . llldll 1 IHIU WI'II 1% letter
and a happier man, my Adelaide!11 li
wan his answer.
"We will not talk of that, l'lcaae Uod ?
we may lire k long and happy life togetb- ji
cr; hut if not?" v
Ho looked atme with fear. " What ia h
that jrou aay t Adelaide, y<u arc not uo*
,ing ta die, ?ou whom 1 have loved, whom tl
I have made happy, you have no cause to n
die." IMF h
Oh, agony Mie thoughuof llie one who ii
had oanse?to whose shame and misery n
death was bettor than life, l'oor wretch, r
she, too, might have loved him. l>own, fi
wife's jealousy I down, woman's pride I It g
was long, long ago. She is dead ; and be <m
oh my husband ! may Ood forgive me ac- Ii
cording as I pardon you !
I said to him once more, putting my e
arm round his neck, leaning so that he h
oenld only hear, not sco me. " laurance.
iti should die, remember how happy we u
have been, and how dearly we have loved y
one another. Think of nothing aad or a
painful j think only, that living or dying, I
loved you, aa I have loved none eine in the ]
world. And ao, whatever chances, be
content," tl
Ho seemed afraid to apeak more, lest 1
lould be agitated ; but as he kissed me,
felt on my check tears?tears that my !
vii eyes, long scaled by misery, bad no
)\ver to shed. I
* * * I have done all I wished to do. !
have set my house in order. Now, !
hichevcr way (iod wills the event, 1 am
repared. Life is not what it once was: 1
t for Laurence's sake, and for one be- I
lies?Ah, now I dimly guess what that
>or mother felt, who, living, left her child
> the mercy of the bitter world. I>ut
raven's will be done. I shall write here
j more?perhaps forever.
* * * It is all past and gone. I have
roll a inotlior?mIhu ! />?> . !.. ? I
i'Vit knew it. I awoke oat of a long i
lank dream?a delirium of many weeks I
-to find the Messing had come,^nd hoen
iken away. Onk only givetli?one only
iketh. Amen.
For seven days, as they toll me, my ' j
ahe lay by my side?its tinny arms 11
melted mine?it slept at my breast. 11 ul I
remember nothing?nothing ! 1 was !:
nite mad all the while. And then?it
ied?and 1 have no little face to dream
f?no memory of the sweetness that has
eon, it is all to me as if I had never seen
iv ehild. *
If I only laid my senses for one day?
no hour: if 1 could but have seen Laut'liec
when they ga\e him his baby boy. ;
itterly he grieves, his mother says be
ause lie lias no heirs.
* * * My lirst waking fear was liorri- j
le. Had I l et nyed anything during my
lelirium i I think not. Louisa says I
iv all the time silent, dull, and did not ;
lotiec even my husband, though he hent
iver me like one ?listraeted. I'oor I.ait- i
ence! I see hut little of liiui now : they
iill not sutler me. It is perhaps well : I
otihl not hear his grief and nr. own two:
i . .11.. . i
imgm ih.il uu hiv m'cicl j
afe.
I wont yesterday to look at tli?> tinny
uouiul?all that is loft to mo of inv dream '<
I" motherhood. Such a happy dream it ]
vas, too 1 I low it comforted me many a
inn;: how 1 used t<> sit and think of my
larling that was to come : to picture it lyng
in my amis?playing at my feet?
growing in beauty?a hoy, a youth, a man !
\lid this?this is all?this little grave.
Perhaps I may never have another |
liild. It'so, all the deep h.ve that nature .
caches, and whieh nature has even now l
iwaketied in my heart, must lind no oh- j
ect, must droop ami wither away, or he I
into jlUM Uialf 1
/?'/shall never he: I will not embitter the I
ilessings 1 have by mourning over those j
leiiitd.
In Mr. Shelmordine's absence, 1 have
iceotupiished inv plan. 1 have contrived
0 visit the place whore lives that helpless
-hil.l?my husband's child.
1 do believe that my love to Pan ranee [
mist be such as never before was borne to
nan by woman. It draws me even tovards
this little one : forgetting all wifeike
pride, 1 seem to yearn over the hnv. t
Jut is this strange i In my first girlish
1 reams, many a time 1 had taken a hook
io had touched?a (lower he ha<l gather- '
d?hid it from my sisters, kissed ii, and
vept over it for days. ft was folly ; but
t only showed how precious I hold every
hing bob nging to him. And should I
Kit hold precious what is half himself*?
lis ow a son ?
1 will go and seethe child to-morrow, j
\\ ccks have passed, and yet 1 have had i
to strength to toll what that to-morrow \
jrouglit. Strange book of human fate! ',
aeh leaf closed until th<> appointed time
?if we could but turn and read. Vet it
s best not.
I went to the cottage?alone, of course. '
asked the old woman to let me come in '
ind rest, for I was a stranger, weak and !
ired. She did so kindly, remembering, j
crimps, how I bail once noticed the boy. j
le was her grandson, she told me?her
laughter's child.
Her daughter! And this old creature ,
vas a coarse, rough-spoken woman?a la* j
orcr's wife. Laurence Shclmcrdine?the
legant?tlie refined?what madness must
lave nnsseaaed him
44 She died very young, then, your
laughter!" I fouinl courage to say.
" Ay,av, in a few months after the hoy's
irth. She was hut a weekly tiling, at
est, and sh had troubles enow."
Quiekly came the blood to my heart? ,
o my cheek?in hitter, hitter shame.?
sot for myself hut for him. 1 .shrank like
guilty thing before that mother's eye.? j
dared not ask?what I longed to hear '
?concerning the poor girl, and her sad
listory.
44 Is the child like hor I " <vas all 1 could
ay, looking to where the little fellow was
laying, at the far end of thu garden. I
ran glad not to see him nearer. " Was i
lis mother as beautiful as he i "
44 Ay, a good looking lass enough, but
he lad's like his father, who w as a geiitlcaan
born : though Laurence had U-tter 1
a' been a ploughman's son. A had bus- !
[less ltess made of it. To this day I dun- ,
ot know her riirlit imnio nn, li,?l? I
? - --p? """"I "? ?eoce's
there. And so I canon makj his
ithcr own hiin. He ought, for tho lad's
Towing ii|> as gran<|ft gentleman as himelf:
he'll never do tTiivo with poor folk
ke granny."
" Alas! " kgnpd, forgetting all but my
ompassion ;**Won how w ill the child benr
is lot of shame !"
"Shame!" and tho old woman came
D fiercely tome, i* Yon hail Un?rmin,1
our own business : my Bern is as good
?y?u-n , ^
I trembled Jg^lently, but could not
peak, Tbe wlronn wont on : Jttfc
u I dunoot care If I blab MP out,
tiough Boss bogged mc not. Sho was a
ooI,hik1 the young follow something worse,
lis father tried?may-be lie wished to try
oo?but they cotildna undo what had
)eeii done. My girl was safe married to
litn, and the little lad's a gentleman's Uavul
son." ^
Oil! joy beyond belief! Oh! bursting
dossed teats! My Laurence! my Laucnce
!
* * * 1 have no dear recollection of
unthiug more, save that I suppose the
ivoman thought me mad, and tied out of
he cottage. My lirst consciousness is of
indir g myself <juito alone, with the doer
pen, and a chiid looking in at me in wonIcrnient,
but with a gentleness sikIi as I
lave seen my husband wear. No marvel
1 had loved the childish form : it was such
i> miglit have been his when he was a
bo v.
I evict!, tremulously, ' Laurence! little
Laurence'.*' lie came to me, smiling ami
[ileascl. (.>ne faint struggle 1 Lad?forgive
nie, poor dead girl 1? and then I took
the child in luv arms, ami kissed him as
though I had been his niothe . For th\
sake?for thy sake?my husband!
1 understand all the past now. '1 hewild,
boyish passion, making an ideal out
of a poor village girl; the uucipial tu ion;
thedreatn fading into common <!:u; coarseness
creating ivpulsion; the sting of urn*
folly whi h had marred a lifetime; dread
of the world, self-reproach and shame; all
these excuses 1 could Hnd : and yet Laurence
had acted ill. And wl.rsi the end
came, no wonder that remorse pursued
him, for he had broken a girl's heart.
She tnigl t, she must have loved him. 1
wept lot her?1 who so p:is.?;onaie!y lo\i <l
him too.
lb- was wrong, also, grie\eit-lv wrong
in id acknowledging the child. ^ el
th'-iv might ha\e been r? asoits. IL .father
ruled with an iron hand*, and, then
when h<- died, Laurence had jw-t kuowi
llle. Alas! I Weave nil ei Helill"-i t o 11 iib
his fault. Hut surely this strong, faithfu
love was implanted in my h- :srt f<>r good
It shall not fail him now : it shall eneom
pass him with arms ?,f peace: it shall statu
between him and the hitter past: it slta!
load him on to a worthy and happy ft;
til re.
There is one tiling which ho mu-t do
I will strengthen him to do it. Vet, whet
1 toll him all, how will he tncct it.' X<
matter, I must <!o right. I have wnlkct
througli this cloud of misery ; shall m\
courage fail mo now }
He came home, nor knew that I hat
hcon awav. Something oppressed t.tm
ItisuliL&rkI iK'U.ans. My heh>\?I hav<
a l alm even for tliut now.
1 told liiiu the storv, as it wort
in a para hie, not of myself but of anotln r
a friend 1 had. His color came and wctil
?his hands trembled in my hold. 1 hit
nothing: 1 told him of the wife's lir.-t hor
rihle fear?of hor misery?the r. <I tlnsl
nionmed ft> his vt-rv Imw. I c<.11!< 1 Imv.
fallen at his feet ami prayed forgiveness
hut I dared not )> t. At last 1 spoke o
the end, still using 11.0 feigned names
had used all along..
lie said, hoar-elv, "i>o you think lie
wife?a good and pure woman?woul<
forgive ail tiiis
" Forgive! < 'i.I Laurence?Laurence!'
and I clung to him and wept.
A doubt seemed to strike him. "Adelaide?tell
me?"
"I have t<>!d. 11ushatid forgive me 1 1
know all, and still I love you?1 love you!
1 did not sav, / /umlon. 1 would not
let him think that I felt 1 had need to
pardon.
Luuroneesank down at my feet, hid hi*
face on my knees, and wept.
The tale of his youth was as I guessed
He told me it the same night, when w<
sat iu the twilight gloom. 1 was glad o
this; that not even his wife's eyes tuigh
scan too closely the pang it cost him tore
veal these long-past days. But all tin
while he spoke my head was on his breast
that he might feel I held my place then
still, and that no error, no grief, no shame
could change my love for liitn, nor maki
me doubt his own, which 1 had won.
My task is accomplished. I rested not
day or night, until the right was done
Why should he fear the w orld's sneer,w her
his wife stands hy him; his wife, win
most of all might he thought to shrink
from this confession that must be niadcl
But I have given him comfort?ay, courage.
I have urged him to do his duty,
which is one w ith mine.
t 1 1 ?
>i\ iiiim'.'iim iias ncaiiow isiiged lus first
marriage, ami taken home his son. His
mother, though shocked and bewildered
at first, rejoiced when she saw the beautiful
hoy, worthy to he the heir of the Slielinerdines.
All are happy in the thought
And 1?
I go, hut always secretly, to the small
daisy<1110111)11. My own lost one! my balw
wAose face I never saw! If I have nt
chihl 011 earth, 1 know there is a little nn
gel w aiting mo in heaven.
Let no one say I am not happy, as hap
py as one can he in this world : never was
any woman more blessed than I am ii
my husband and my son?mine. 1 tool
him as such : 1 will fulfill the pledge wliih
1 live.
The other day, my little Laurence die
something wrontr. He rarelv does ?<>?
he is hi* father's own child for gentlone?
nnd generosity. Hut here ho whs in error:
he quarrelled with his Aunt Louisa, nnd
refused to l?e friend*. Louisa was not
right either : she doc* not half love the
boy.
I took my son on my lap, and tried to
show him the holiness and beauty of returning
good for evil, and forgetting unkindness,
of pardoning sin. lie listened,
as he always listens to me. After a while
when hia heart was softened, I made him
i kneel down beside inc. saying the prayer
( ?" Fort/ire us our tresspasses, us tee Jarejire
those that trespass uyainst us."
Little Laurance stole away rcpentnut
ami go.nl. 1 sat thoughtful : I did not
| notice that behind me had stood my Laurence?
my husband. 11c came and knelt.
where his hoy had knelt. Like a child ho
laid his head upon my shoulder, and blessmo
in broken words. The sweetest of all
were :
"Mv t\ ife ! mv wife who has saved her
husband 1 "
The Indian Mother.
The affection of Indian parents for their
children, says Mrs. Moudic, in her Cuna1
dian scenes, entitled "Roughing it in the
lJush," and the deference which they |?av
to the aged, is a beautiful and touching
trait in their character.
< >ne extremely cold, wintrv day, as I
was huddled with niv little ones over (ho
j stove, the door softly unclosed, and tho
mocaasitied foot of an Indian crossed the
floor. I raised niv h< ad, for I was too
much accustomed to their sudden appearand-at
any hour to feel alarmed, and perceived
a tall woman standing silently and
' respectfully before me, wrapped in a largo^
> blanket. The moment she caught my eye.
1 she dropped the tohls of her covering from
' around her, and laid at my feet the at ten.
uat< 1 figure of a boy, about twelve years
of age, who was in the last stage of consumption.
' J'apousc die." she said mournfully,
ela-ping her hands against her breast, and
|o< king down noon the sutleving lad with
the ino-t i'.eartfelt expression of maternal
love, wli.i tears trickled down her dark
face. ' M lodi. 's sipiaw save papottse-?
poor Indian wotnun niueb glad.'
lb r child was lu-yond all biiman aid. I
l<'ookci.l a\loti-l\ upon lam, and knew.
by t!> | imbed-up feuturi - and purple bue
\ ..i" iiis \v:t >1 ehecks. that lie had not
, | many ! i:r : > live. I ?<only answer
I with tear- fr her agonizing appeal to niv
. skill.
_l "Trv an 1 miw liiin All die but him,
j 1 (Sin- 1:M up iive of her lingers.) Urought
| liiin ail tin* way iroiu Malta Lake (Mini
. Lain , <>r I ike Shomong, ill Indiana) upon
my bin k. I'iir white squaw to cure."'
" I cannot euro him, my poor friend.
, lb- is in < 1 oil's rare: in a few hours he
, will be with liiin."' ^
] The rhiM was smkil with a dreadful
lit of roughing which 1 expected every
inoment would^Jeruiinate bis frail exist1
i nee. I gave him a teaspoonful of eur^
' r-.nl j .Uy, wltioll lift took with avidit V,
t nt e>>uld not retain a moment on his
stomach. ?"? - -v
"l'apouse <ii"," murmured the poor
. j woman ; alone?alone! No paponsc: the
t mother all alone.*'
1 Slie began re-adjusting the poor sufferer
. , in l.er blanket. I got bor some food, and
, j begged ln-r to stay and rest herself; but
j i sin- was too distressed to remain. She
i said little, but her face expressed tho
f I keenest anguish. She took up her tnournI
ful load, pn id for a moment It is wasted,
burning hand in ln rs, and left tho room.
, ) My heal t follow' d Iter a long w ay on
I her inelaiieholy journey. Think what this
i woman's love must have b-un for that dy
ing si u, wlien she bad c.jried a lad of
I bis age six miles, through the deep snow,
. upon Iter ba.-k, < nstieh a day.in ths hopo
of mv being able to do him some good.
[ I'oor heart-broken motlier! I learned
> fii m Joe Mu-krat's squaw, some days af.
ter, that the hoy died a few minutes after
, Klizaheili Iron, Ins mother, got home.
Imi*ko\ i.mi:nt <>n \ ioi.ins.? Moses Cohnrn,
of Savannah, (Jcorgin, lias taken
measures tn secure a patent lor a uni?i e
' improvement on violins. The instrument
i> made of a gradually increasing width
from the neck to the bottom, or of a near1
; ly angular form, only so lar departing from
it as to destroy sharp corners and stillness
of form. I lie external convexity of top
' and l>ottom?Jioti'c\cr, are preserved. The
! reasons for departing from the common
' l form of violins, is, that the instrument being
iioide so much narrower at the middle,
| it inalas two vibrating bodies instead of
| one, as by the new improvement. The
' two parts of the common violin vibrate in'
depondently, and not in accordance with
> each other, therefore they interrupt the
free and perfect intonation of the strings,
j Mr. (.'churn is a professor of music, and
1 loaches it in Savannah ; ho is, therefore,
1 capable of forming an excellent judgment
' j respecting the defects of the old violin,and
the improvement which scientifically will
remove Um evils. In his violin lie places
i the air apertures in the sides, in order that
the tfsp?hinv not he weakened bv cutting
' 11 icm through. Thus the top of his instuiment
presents a fair, unbroken, trian'
gular table, and looks r.e.tand handsome
[ I to our notion of such things.? Scientific.
, < American.
' i A N'"\v Cl he fou ltdnvnmi.
' j Consumptive Complaint*. ? Dr Cartwright,
of New Orleans, communicates to
tli? Huston Modicul and Surgical Journal,
j an article entitled?"The Sugar-House
Cure t'nr l'ronchirtt. Dyspeptic, and Coni
1 suinptive ('omnluints.'' It is stated tliat a
i residence in a sugar-1 muse, during the rolJ
ling season, far surpasses any other know n
! means of restoring flesh, strength, and
I ' health, lost l?y chronic aliments < f tho
j chest, throat, or stomach. The rcllingseat
son is the harvest, when the <anc*arc cut,
! the juice expressed and converted into
i sugar. In Louisiana it commences about
< tho middle of Oetol>cr, and ends at Christi
mas, but it is sometimes protracted into
January. Dr. C. says the vapor it niost^
1 agreeable and toothing to the lungs, and
in his own case entirely removed a diatrea
sing cough. Ho stood for hours in tho
i sugar-hoiiso inhaling tho rapor, and drink1
ing occasionally a glass of the hot cansJ"
io*? ?
*
* +