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uri e/ "WE WILL CLING TO THE PILLARS OF TEE TEMPLE OF OUR LIBERTIES, AND IF IT MUST FALL, WE WILL PERISH AMIDST TE RUINS SIMKINS, DURISOE & C0., Proprietors. EDO-EFIELD S. C DECEMBER 28, 1859. From the Southern Presbyterian. The Old Year. Dr uAnar HOPE. The good Old Year is gone, 'Twill never more return, 'Tis buried in the past, And mem'ry is its urn. The vigil of the dead, I keep with many a tear, And chaunt, with midnight winds, The dirge of the Old Year! The dear Old Year that's gone, Had love, and life, and light; Had zephyrs for each day, And stars for ev'ry night. It summer was a dream, Of visions sweet and clear, And hope was but a name, For th' winter of the Year. The kind Old Year that's gone, Its luxuries diffus'd, Free, full on me and mine, Yet I it grace abus'd. For sunshine and for dow'rs, For all that life endears, I burthen'd with my faults, The best Old Year of years. The hones' Old Year's gone. Beyond a world of strife, Its spirits is with Cod, To read the serells of lire. May mercy blot the faults, With a forgiving tear, That we may never blush, To meet the good Old Year. Reveries. Y WILL T1OUGITLESs. Who thinks at merry Christmas time There may be sad hearts near, From whom the jest and sparkling rhyme But force the silent tear ? Who dreams that at the festive board, Where all seems glad and gay, There may be one whose inmost soul Soars from the scene away ? Above the earth our Saviour trod iiome to its place ot birth, And sees before the throne of God The saint it lost on earth ? Or who at twilights happy hour When day and noise depart, When maidens own Love's holy power, And heart speaks unto heart; Who knows but he who sits apart Watching the shadows clide. Written for the Advertisor. THE OPERA SINGER! -0 BY JENNY WOODBINE. -0 CHAPTER 1. Every sad and happy feeling Thou hast had in by gone years, Through thy lips comeC stealing, steatling, Clcear and low: All thy smiles anti all thy tears In thy voice awaken. And sweetness wove ofj joy and woe From their teaching it hath taken. It was Christmas night in the crowded city. FEvery street -,s in a blaze of ilhutnination. Fire-erackers were snapping-tar-barrels were blazing-rockets were looming up on the face of night, and snakes were wending their for tuos forms through the air. It was a bonnie night-for Christmas never seems like Christ mas unless it snows. The snowv was rery deep,-so the urchins said,-and truly the streets seemed covered with a beautiful white carpet, which glistened with preternatural brightness in the soft moonlight. Christmas with the rieh! Princely halls blazed with the light of chanduliers-fesiry-like feet moved lightly Over silken carpets in the merry mazes of the dance-floods of melody rang on the air-rich tables were spread as for a feast-costly wines sparkled in costly glasses, or lent their radiance to cheeks as rosy-bright eyes we re glancing--happy hearts were beating, and occasionally a cle-ar silvery voice rang out, " Merry Christmas !" Christmas for the children! Little eyes were big with wonder and delight--tiny feet danced aro.mnd the Chri.,tmas tree with its load of handsome treasur.es-li tile hearts leaped with joy, and jubilant voievs on every key screamed out "Merry Christmas!" Christ imas ihr the poor ! Ahlas ! Ijir the poor -thev who dwell in haunts of wrretdness they who till t he hovels fj despair-who shiv er over a handfull of ashies, ori repowse on a becd of rags-who shrink fromt the windi as it conmes whistling downt the chimney, or howls for aidmzittantce at the rag-pathedl windows, they fur whom no tutrkey is btutchtered-nuo "fattetd calf" is slain-where li:tle ones pe their cold noses against the brotken pantes andl look with envy "right across the street," where mierry lighit are gancin, and wher hiari tvs b~owl is li i'-d t) the brim ;andal here lit te hearts, obhlbfre their timae, aire throbbling with a vntgne va in wish that Santat (.!an< W woni remaembealr themi. Theaa pooar-Goaai help tl-m! tad ye-t fronm their hau tnts of tmi.ry there goeLs forth a feeb'. wail-a mo~ry- Mh-r rv Christmtas! Christmas for the negrues ! Ath.! who shall paint the wild! glee of this resp.-etab 'eh ment' oft our populationt-the shrih-ks and groans of the tired fiddler-t he bowls zandl screams of the well-used bantzjo-thme bows and scrampes of Mr. Charles Augustuts I )revnport, and his graceful partner 3Miss S-~rqaia, wvho~ apes with many a turn of the headit the helile of the ptarlour. Perhatps no where otn carth is Christmnas so much enjoyed as in the kitchen, whl. re the ladies and gentlemen of1 culo'r enact haigh life before stairs, and where sientairiatn lungs shotut ini indescribable mirth and me nrri mnent " Merry Christmas !'' Christmas for all!I Yet to many a sada so~ul it is anythinig but merry. At sonme table a vacant chair .is placed for the ocean wanderer of one over whose young beauty the grave has closed. Some pale mother counts the stockings in the chimney-and misses one-a tiny sock, that will nevermore have a wearer -a sock that covered a foot which will walk no more on earth I And she listens for a voice which will prattle to her no more-a voice of one, Who walked the paths of life awbilo And blessed her with its sunny smile But ere its childhood's morn was o'er Had "gone to sleep" to wake no more. The betrothed maiden lingers by an escritoir and pens loving words to the one afar; and wonders if Christmas will bring happiness to him in that distant land. The deserted wife crouches by her lonelyfireside and dreams of vows tiat all too soon were broken. Yet the jovial crowd out of doors think not of the mournful parts in the life-drama. Even old men have become children again: bands are discoursing sweet music-less heavenly sounds mingle with their strains-the whole town is in uproar; and from every street-cor ner rings forth the sound-" Merry Christ mas!" Eustace Walcot, fresh from his European travels, and filled with the memories of other lands, felt his soul swell with happiness as lie emerged from his elegant bachelor apart inents, and became. a part of the moving throng. This was h1ome-these were s/ire sounds, and the heart of the returned wander er swelled with rapture as he repeated, " There is no place like my own home." Yet, his was not a nature to be glad long. Elegant, wealthy, highly educated, an accom plished schollar and gentleman-the pet of so ciety, and the idol of his relatives,-nothing or what the world calls trouble had ever fal len to his Uot ia life. But the soul of genius creates its own troubles ; and indescribable fits of melancholy come over the sensitive, which a coarser organization could never feel. And as lie gazed on the scene he reflected : In the great Heart of Humanity how mnany chords are this night wailing forth a dirge-bow ma ny strings there are which can awaken to joyance no more! He moved a part from the rest-his smatill sympathy in their exuberant jollity having vanished,-and extended his walk to the less frequented streets. Shall 1 describe him as the moonlight falls on his lofty figure, with the costly talma hang ing gracefully over the shoulder,--gracelidly, but careless//, for Eustace Walcot is no fop, although he has dwelt in the heart of Parisian it is a sonr wnmc stops 11n) -anu no pau ses by a half-oopened window to look unseen on the singer-an old lay which lie had hum ned by the side of Lake Geneva, andI whose tmourntid notes had recalled his boy-hoods home. Listen to it! it conies like a breath of liea ventover the discordant noises without. Why my heart-ah! why this sadiness, Why midI scene's like tlese repine; Where all though :.trange, is juy and gladnei?, ay Wiat ish ial yet be thiIle Oh !.4.ywhat wish can yet he thine ? All that's dear to mue is wranting Lone and cheerless here I roam: The stranger's joys howe'er etu-bant intg Can neve-r be to we like home Can never be to tie like homne! The silken curtains parted-a pair of burn ing eyes were fixed on the stars above, and Eustace felt-fur he was faimiliar with the fa ce-s or foreign climes-that he gazed upon an Italian. Oh ! how lovely the face, and how divine that voice ! HeI could have looked for ever on a visiotn fairer than his poet-dreams. Ilow beautiful she was in her sweet uncon seiousness, as she warbled forth the song which brought back her own loved Italia-as she lingered over the litnes : " Can never be to we like home." Now Eustace could appreciate music-not the studied efforts of art-but the simple out gushing melodies of nature, amid he paused, spell-bound, attracted as much by the sad dened music breathitng from that sweet young face, as by the bird-like voice which entranced the listening ear of night. " That face would make the fortune of an artist," he murmured tmentally. " Would that I wvere one so that I might transfix itotn canvass even as it is pain ted on my heart. Oh ! glorious gift of beauty -the beauty of soul!' lie surveyed the t.partment frotm his retreat but it gave nto clue as to its ownter. A few paitnigs adorned the walls-tihey' were tmootn light scenes attd landscapes tuostly', and one was thte pictutre of a beautiful child nt phemy amtotng thne flowers. Several articles of furti turer weire p'aceed in diffe~rentt parts of the rootm --a pianto, harp and guitar were visible-fir companions for- atn (embhodied spirit of music! A lamp burned otn the table, and beside it wa~s a writing dles! of curious shanpe atnd in laidl with go!d. ilut whot couldt hook o:: things like the-se Wiet etle So fair wats near. Oncee miore his eyes rested on that face sad, /oo sad for thefatc of youth,-and he for got to speculate as to who and what she was. hirighit olive comtplexiotn, so clear that you eadsee the- smazll blue veins as they fcoursed und-' trut ath thetd.ee skiti--rt-gtdarantd t is Ih-aniing b...- miirbt htave- mti-L.,-ti for ii . midn'ghm~t nyes,-tnw .,f', -ubdlued, :im.d ten der-mnow lla-.lh ig, hI k letritn, brni:; hi .ill titht v .ie* warbi-s ont '-It hl .n *'.-ah a tc gI In.Ine, Yet it t.e nt sad:t Yeut it bill notmbi .- .lim.t Sweet, twiimaht v'oiC it i, Where to dwsi are'it..tmetd btue [s .1ver-;:nrav.yC~ wn itlh memottrice, Withit.tary feelintg quiveredl throutgh." Andi litstae Watlcot hats for the mnomnti forg''t .n te whole w'arbil int that one voice! I;utm thers :tte at tracted--o:her footsteps comie up atnd lrinte. 4 I Iandsomue otn or off the stage, InEl" " Eh ! who is she '' "~ The nmew opera singer you booby, that thte whole world is ravintg abu-s'sh iie? " llather-oht that I were a glove oti that r aad-see how daitntily those fintger-tips kiss her forehead-egad ! I wish it was My lips." "They say old B- is making a fortune utit of her,-her beauty as well as her voice wins everybody. Count T. followed her clear across the waters, and half Europe was mad about her. Deuce take it, I was dying for her myself, and actually had honorable intentions, but then-ah-she is an opera singer." Yes, she was an opera singer, about whom men were at liberty to say what they pleased, and that street dialogue bad disenchanted EtUstace Walcot, for he had all the false hor ror of a patrician for a public performer. He walked rapidly away casting no backward glance at the face which had well-nigh .un manned him-it was so like the one which had haunted him from early boyhood-mentally calling himself a fool, for remaining so long in the chilly night air to gaze, himself unseen, in a face that everybody could look at. And yethe caughthimself saying: "Fools may listen to that voice, heartless rouea and brainless puppies glare on those delicate fea tures. Hapless stranger, I could pray that heaven had given you a kinder fate." le pitied her.-She, the peerless queen of' beauty and of song, whom "half Europe was mad after "-whose voice could sway -he souls of thousands-who stood nightly, bla zing with jewels, before an almost worship ping audience. He remembered her partly in scorn, and partly in pity. And she, poor child! uncon ious of it all, kept looking on the night mur muring one sad snatch af er another, feeling that fame and grandeur may he won, and empiness. Recalling with a sigh her humble home, where to loving parents her simple beauty had been " A thing of joy forever." -looking back with mournful glance on the past scenes of her childhood, while "Merry Christmas" was ringing from mouth to mouth in the stranger land-; and feeling that one may have the world at one's feet, and yet be alone, utterly alone! CHAPTER II. Young ardent soul, graced with fair nature's truth ipring warmth of heart, and fervency ut mind, And still : large fate love of all thy kind, Spite of the world's cold practice and time's tooth. For all tbeso gits I know not in fair south Whether to give thee joy, or bid thee blind Thine eyes with tears. I1oo. Follow me to yonder brown stone mansion, --~.a and most handsome on that most seems to hang a gloom whiel not even sounds ;f music and dancing within can dis perse. The flowers in that large front garden lie pale and dead, and their withered leaves re tipped with snow. Ia the handsome well-filled up library, near a grate which sends forth a pleasant warmth, sits a lady of not more than twenty summers. She is plainly but elegantly dressed in a rich black satin which tells without words the re finement of its wearers. An air of delicate languor pervades her whole frame ; and her tee is startlingly pade. That Iace too is plain, ad has nothinig beauitiful about it but the cqes. In repose they remind you of a velvet violet, but when some quick expression flashes from their quiet depths they sparkle like the stars of midnight. A book lay on the lap but she was not rea ding; a Iharp stood near her, but God had not given her the power to express her thoughts in music. Her head was leaning on her hand, and her thoughts were wandering away, away. " Come with me to the window, Cousin Cor," and Lizzie Leigh. a merry blue-eyed girl of sixteen, drew the lady from her chair. " I have been dancing until I am tired to death. They are so merry below stairs. Agnes May is swaying it like a right royal queen when 1 lef t she~ lad a dozen admirers around her, all vieing for a smile-one wore her rose bud, another held her fan, while a third was tying her slipper. I wonder you are tnot with them, Cora ?" "I ?" and the young girl startedl. " I have no sympathy with such seenes, imy soul shrinks within itself, and I long to creep into some far corner, and hide myself. I live so much ini the world of fancy, that I cannot accustom myself to everyday life. I start like a guilty thing when sonme one calls my name, and blsh when I should retort with a brilliant repartee. All the truths with which I have store'1 tmy mind are out of place in a parlour, and 'in smal! talk' 1 am woefully deficient. Should I go back to antiquarianl topmies I would he calledl a pedant, sh~otld I talk of Poems they would term me 'lov-e-siek' or'mnoonstruck,' nd. I have nlo amnbitioni to wveari aniy one~ of hese titles. Do you know that I wish I had been orn poor, then .I could have been edu eatted for the sta~re. In the dehineationis of imina' life I should- have found my proper sphere. I feel tha~t within mec which could make me win reniownl as an actress. Then I should be rid of these vague longings-these easeless repinings, which fill ine with tan qiietess, which mauke my friends unhappy, atnd eni~e ltem tt imagine that I hatve " en eni oft the itnsane root." As an actress I shou~ll roamt from place to place, to-night qeto-monrrotw perha~ps a be-ggair. I should ifory ini the eblaiige, for I de-jpise mionotony. l.:vni the trials wich-l dishearteni timid debu taits wonuldh fill mec with reniewedl rigor. Then the wihd passionate e-xchtmnations of the Poets wotuld call every feeling which now lies drianit inlto play-it would be a buisy life a lili- of excitemnent itnd forgetfitiess." iltut the immorality of the stage !" urged, Lizze who hatd bieen trained in a rigid school of orals, " the promtiscous imntercourse with Cora lauighed-" Promiscous intercourse ! An yet yout see nto immorality ini thte waltz you do not shrink wihm horror when you see the wisit of a fa'hionable woman encircled by te armi of a wine excited dandy of doubtful character. Even~ in yonder ball-room below, presi oe by my auntherself. the princes of propriety, I have seen a man with princi pIes as low as those of the most degraded ac tor, admitted breause forsooth he came of a noble family. ile danced the Schottische with Miss May, when he almost required a support, and bent over with disgusting familiarity to whisper in her ear his maudlin love-words. While society countenances such displays, never talk to me of the immorality of the stage." " Ab, well, Cora, you always could out talk me, but I have the right of it. I know how it is, you are what Eustace calls a genius, and what Aunt Lou calls a fool; and it makes you discontented with the whole world, and fills you with wild startling notions. Tell me se riously did you ever entertain the idea of be coming a public performer ?" "In my present position, cetainly never. And now let us change the subject. See how beautifully the pure white snow-flakes are fal ling, wrapping the whole earth as in a veil they fall, like the mantle of charity, and hide all defects. The humbleot dwelling has a sil ver roof, and the lowliest shrub is hung with pearls and diamonds-watch those icicles, how they glitter in the moonlight-u hat could be more beautiful? I love to see it snow when the year is dying-it seems so like a friendly shroud hiding her death agonies-It would be a noble Poem-the song of the dead Old Year." "Why not write it ?" asked Lizzie eagerly. Cora colored-she could not bear to hear one speak of her own gifts,-they seemed so humble in comparison with those of others. And she, whose soul was burning with the divine gift of Poesy, actually looked with a feeling almost akin to envy on the graceful belle who moved with ease, and had the power to enchant, and win by personal charms. With a soul keenly alive to the beautiful, she felt painfully her want of what the world calls attractions. She loathed a fashionable parlor, and seldom entered one but to be repelled immediately. While there, she either sat qui etly, entirely unnoticed, and all because tshe lacked vanity, and self-coifidence, or some one would disgust her by saying, "Your last Poem was divinely beautifl I do adore your poetry," Without one particle of feeling in the com pliment, and Cora knowing its emptiness would grow disgusted with herself and the whole world. Cora was 'out of place' in fashionable life -as she had not the passport of inordinate self-love. She had qniet lionie virtues which Is-Eutaw "No. Cousin Eustaceis a regular runaway. ie is ten times more unsociable than lie was before he went to Europe. He walks about so dignifiedly, and seems so " wrapped up in himself"-lie is a bad copy of Byron's Lara. Now to-night when we spoke of the Christ. inas party he said good-bye immediately "had no wish to be bored "- knew all about such things "-" did'ut want any such simple. ton asking him why he didn't bug Paris." I declare Eustace Waleot, is really hateful some times." " Is lie?" asked a quiet voice at the door, and the themie of'their conversationl entered. The two girlish faces flushed-the one with sppressed merriment-thie othier with a seine thing indescribable. " Well, I don't care Mastcer Eustace," laugh ed Lizzie, " Listeners never hear any good of thcmselves, is an old saying and a true one; and you had no business eaves-dropping. But I am going down stairs-see I'm off. " Cora, I am so glad to see you, and alone," and Eustace elasped the small white hand which was reached forth eagerly but timidly to meet his own. "Are you ?" And for the moment her plain face was radiantly beautiful. " Yes: 1 want to talk with some one who is sensible." She smiled, but the happy color faded, and she rejoined in an altered voice, a I fear you will be disappointed then." He looked upon her as did the rest who sought her-he wanted to) talk withs somec one sensible. " They tell me you have grown quite a wri ter ?" No answer. " A literary woman then if you like the title better." This time a half bitter smile. "I am proud of your acquirenments, Corn, as we can claim a third or fourth cousinshiis." She fidgeted 1measily. " The Editors, I hear, are lavish with their praises." " Talk of ye tr avels--your walk to night -of, in short, aiything but me.' He looked down on the reddened, somewhat angry check he fancied, and smiled. J, in my rambles I heard a voice like the voice of an angel, and it rang so sweetly that I lingered spell-hound for an hour in the cold. So you think me a madman ?" " No one is mad who pauses to listen to sweet music." " But it was the voice of a public singer, and I can hear it any night in a more com fortable situation by paiying for an opera box." "Eustace, you are so coolly satirical. I see you have not lost yuur quiet irony." " Nor you your quick perception-but sup pose0 we join the dancers." The proposal jarred on her nerves. lIe had been gone so long ; and it was so pleasant to have him standing therc with no one else near, playing idly with the fringe of the cur tain, with the moonlight sontening his usually stern features, and the stm-s peeping out fros tily but friendly from their quiet homes. Tihen came the painful reflection, "1I can not enter tain him for one short hour, and we have been parted so long." She entered the brilliantly lighted room leaning on his arm, just as refreshments were being served ; and taking a sofa by ani open widowv they sipped their cordials, arid ate t-i.h nf cake. "The best part of the entertainment, eh Cora? But I suppose you have not enough of the animal in your spiritual organization to appreciate the luxuries of earth. I guess you find breakfast in a Novel-dine on History, and 'take tea' from Poems." She colored, painfully as she always did un. der his jesting badinage, good-bumoured as it was, but rallied sufficiently to reply: . "No, Eustace, I rise too late for breakfast -for dinner I take a boiled ham, and for sup per--" " Baked beens " whispered Lizzie Leigh in her ear. "The essence of a rose leaf," suggested Eustace. " Those whist players look very merry suppose we move nearer, and watch them." Another painful jar, but she assented. And y et when he moved onward, she stopped un der pretext of talking to a friend. He missed her, and came back-" I can't :ave you slipping off, Cora. I have placed a chair for you by mine." He took her hand, and led her to the seat. 1ut while he was bending over Miss May, who, excited with the- game, waq at he-r liveliest, nd while he whispered in her ear those deli. dons nothings which he knew so well how to *tter, Cora stole noiselessly away. He looked around but her chair was vacant. "Where is Miss Cora Harvy?" "Oh ! she has gone off with one of her ev rlasting headaches," sneered Miss May. "Such a strange nervous girl-cau't stand a drowd-she makes me fidgetty-whose play is it?" And Cora, strange indeed, was in her old haunt the bbrary alone, weeping silently but litterly-she knew not why. -An hour afterwards when a portion of the revellers had departed, Eustace found her at the same old window gazing earnestly on the af+rs as though she had no other aim on earth. 1" It strikes me you are very restless, Cora .v--you disappear like the memory of the magi. eian.. Have you turned astrologer? I guess we'll have you predicting future events before long; won't you tell my fortune, little sooth .sayer; what do the planets say of your hum. ble servant? But honestly, Cora, you must be more social-society demands it-these q ueer ways of yours come of so much reading and writing. Get out of it, Cora, as speedily % possible; and now, lady fair, good night." 411e bowed himself away. And Cora sat down by the dying embers ifeeling that life was very dark. She had pic :tured this meeting so ditiereitly; she had al glance-it was that which unfitted her for everyday life. Woe to those who build castles -some day or other they themselves will be wrecked Umid the beautiful ruins. The meeting was over I Her reality had not equalled her anticipations; the realities of dreamers seldom do. CHAPTER III. Yet must her brow b., paler, sba has vowed To erown it witthe cro,'wn that cannot t'iu, When it is faided. E. B. IauMOr4Y. And as thy young tipa sunag, they 'aught So beautiful a ray, Thtm, as I gazed, I atmuost thought Thu spirit of the hay Hlad left while nelting in the air Its own expression painmted there. With a portfolio on her ktnee-with a pen in her hand, and any quantity of' loose papers scattered around, sat Cora irvy, with a kindling cheek and flashing ey o, engaged in a web of' brain-work, and as perf'ctly eblivius of the world without and its petty tminaths, as though she had plunged in the wateirs of' Lethe. TIhe room was the picture of comnf'ort ; and was covered with a rich velvet carpet so soft. that it echoed no footfiall. Sever'al rich pain tings encased in eleganat gilt frames adornied the walls. A massive chandtelier was suspen ded from the ceiling andl gave a brilliant but subdued light-a costly mahogany rocking chair was wheeled in front of the fireside, and there Cora reclined. Cura enjoyed a real winter evening-but she loved to spend it alone in her room-and although from earli est infancy cradled in the lap of luxury she yet appreciated the cemforts by which she was surrounded, for she contrasted them with the hovels of the poor which she often visited. With a rustle and sweep of silken garments Mrs. Leigh, the aunt with whom Cora Harvy (for she was an ophan) resided, entered the room. With a slightly contemptuos curl of the lip she glanced around at -he evidences of her niece's literary accomplishments and said: " The veriesi slave labors less hard than you, Miss Harvy ; One would think you were working for the dear taily bread ; from morn ing till night, and from night till morning, (for Jane tells me that the lights burn in your room all night) that pen is in your hand." "Be seated, Aunt Margaret" said Cora, looking up. " No, my dear, I haven't time ; I have an elaborate toilette to get up which will occupy me for some hours. I camne in to beg you to dress for the evening, knowing that if I sent a servant you would disregard the sutmmons." "Dress for the evening I oh I lam too much at home in this wrapper-see how thickly it is wadded, and then you know this velvet sacque makes me perfectly comfortable-I can't think of a change." " But you must; there is to be a new opera to night, so Eustace writes me, and our box must not b)e empty. Eustace particularly charged me to bring you out. He fears too strict conihinment will injure your health and spirits." " Did he ?" and Cora's pale face brightened. "Ahm, but I forgot. I promised poor Mrs. Browvn to sit up with her baby to night--the little creature is dying as fast as it can. She needs help and the pmoor you know have not many friends." " And you actually sit up of nights with a Mrs. Brown ? Edmund tiarvy's daughter!i Weall, I bklieve yon are somathing worse thman roiantie,-insLn. And I suppose bhe intro duces you to all her companions, the Smiths, the Joneses' and the Iobinsons'l Bah ! I won der your nerve would l.:t you pass through the ordeal. Lizzie tells rue that on last eve ning you took a beggar woman in the carriage with you, and drove down the most fashiona ble part of Broadway-then turned to some filthy alley, and deposited her in some hut." " Well Aunt, the old creature was tottering with age, and shivering with cold; and my respectability does not stand on so insecure a foundation that I fear to lose it, by being seen in company with the poor. My father was a poor man ; his mother took in sewing and educated him ; he has told me often how he used to make the lightwood fires, and his mother would sit in one corner with sewing in her lap and he in the other with an alge bra." " Al well, I never inquired into your fath er's lineage-he belonged to sociey when I knew him, and was LhP first lawyer of the day. But your mother was a Walcot; no parvenu, but the real old aristocracy. We can trace our ancestry in a direct line to royalty. It is not poverty I despise, it is low blood. I would assist a lady in ditiiculties, I could feel for her distress. But to go about, and become famil iar with every Mrs. Brown-ugh ! It is more than my pride would allow.' " But about the Opera ?" smiled Cora, who saw that Mrs. Leigh had mounted her hobby, and was riding it furiously. "I believe I will go, but I must send Jane to sit up with the sick baby. Yes, and I must prepare some niceties to send, so dear aunt excuse me, for I must pay a visit to the pantry." Cora selected a large basket, and with her own hand-i put in first some ham and biscuit, then several large slices of turkey, and a host of sweetmeats, for the family of which she spoke was supported almost entirely by her bounty. This over, she repaired to her dressing-room and arrayed herself in an elegant evening. dress; one which the fastidious taste of Eu stace had condescended to admire. She ar ranged her hair in narrow braids around her clssical forehead, and when the task was ended, glanced in the mirror with a fceling al mott of ,fatixjectiun. When her party entered that night, there was what the vulgar call "a sensation"-and many a voice whispered, " %rs. Leigh, her daughter and niece, what a lovely trio: What a disingue air Mrs. Leigh has; and what an intellectual face is Miss Hfarvy's "They say Miss Harvy is engaged to Eu What a shy timid little thing it is off the stage-why when I assail her with compli ments she stares at me so innocently that I forget what I was going to say. Mrs. Leigh is bowing to me, and I must be oif. Meet me below stairs when the performance is over, and we will go to my rooms and have an oyster supper." And so saying Lieutenant Edvard Fitzroy left his friend to number one of the select few who were surr-ounding the Leigh party. Cora, IHarvy had never looked more love ly. 11er light Opera cloak was thrown care lessly back revealing a really elegant ligure ; and excitementt caused by the crowd of smil ing faces around her, combined with the soul stirring music, had imparted a rich rose tint to cheeks usually too pale to be beautiful. Ihow mxerry they were!- Mrs. Leigh and Liz zie entertaining between them four 'exquis ites,' and Lieutenant Fitzroy whispering in Cora's ear tho~se elegant nothings which made him such a favorite with the ladics. But all noises are hushed for the moment as La Belle Florence appears I-for a moment only-and then what deafening applause homage paid to beauty alone, for the first timec. A wreath of natural flowe~s wvas bound around the luxuriant curls which waved around her queenly forehead ; a fewv white rosebuds were in her bosunm, and the tiniest of all tiny feet peeped from beneath the rich white satin robe which enveloped her slender but graceful figure. She bowed on either side as the applause died away and then fold ing her small white hands on her bosom, the peerless cantatrice poured forth such a flood of melody as made that audience hold their ve ry breath to listen, lest one note of that bird !!ise voIce should escape thetn. Cora Hlarvy bent forward with patrted lips; she weas a passionate adorer of human beauty, and here was beauty of the highest order. She drank in every linecamnent of the glorious face before her, and was only aroused from the spell when Fitzroy touched her hand and mnade< some careless remark. " Walcot is not with us to night." " No," and the face saddened-with all that sea of human forms around her, Cora missed one ; and that feeling of loneliness came over her which comes over us all uometimes even in the gayest crowd--a vague restlessness best expressed by that opening line of a beau tiful Poem, " The loved one is not here." It was soon dispelled-for the friendly voice of a new-comner saluted her with, "C-an you find room for me?" 11cr eyes brightened as only eyes can brighten when they rest upon the breathing features of that face which love has daguer reotyped on her heart. SCertainly, I am so glad you are come, Eustace. I want you to look at one lovely enough to drive an artist mad. We have on ly two more songs from her-fortunately you arec in time to hear them." " The queen of the night Isuppose you mean?" " Yes: is she not divinely beautiful ?" " Possibly" replied he with a. dreamy air as his eyes were fixed on the stage. IIe did not remove them on-e. Cora grew red and pale by turns-she was not envious-but-the thought twould come as she watched his intense gaze of admiration, n Whyr did not natna- snake e uentifl 7" She scarcely heard Fitzroy..; wmisperei compliments, and that gentleman noticing her abstraction, yawned, and touching Wal cot on the shoulder said: "I will call for you to-morrow, and present you to the nightingale-wid you go?" "Yes. Name the hour." Cora felt a strange pang at his ready ac quiescence-he would be introduced-what would follow? -0 The morning dawned clear and cloudless, and at the appointed hour Eustace and his friend sought the Hotel of Florence De Vero. They found her in her private parlor prac ticing several new pieces of inuic. She re ceived them with quiet cordiality, but with a timidity Eustace had not imagined of one in her position. Her floating curls were pushed back impa tieutly, but she looked as lovely :n the dark colored, neatly-littitig muorning dress as in the costly array of the stage. ler beauty needed not the trappings of art-it was given by na ture and nature alone. She entered into a light jesting conversa tion with Fitzroy, and Eustace sat, a litener I more than once repeating to himself, . "Gloriously beautiful, but frivolous." But whet he conver sed with her himself her whole counteaice underwent a change. He spoke of musik; dwelt on her glorious calling, and her whole soul seemed to breatie from her features ; he wondered lie had ever thought her frivolous; and this time hi. soul said, " As intellectual as she i.i beautiful.' He asked her to sing, and once mnore the whole world was forgotten in that one voice of surpa.ing sweetness. When the song was ended, and her small fingers were playing idly among the Piano keys, he bent over her, and said in a low voice: "I have heard you sing before, Signoritha ?1" "When and where ?" her look was one of surprise. " Beneath your window on Christmas night." "Indeed"-this time the blushing glance expreised pleasure-" Ah! I was very sad then. I was thitnking of my far-off home. I was feeling the exile's feeling of lonelines when lie sees around him only strange faces -hears only strange voices. I was longing so much for one friend." "Feel so no more-you have found a friend." His words, simple though they were, sent a quick thrill through her heart-a feeling waich the eyee betr-ayed. etiquette extends to a first visit; and he caught himself promising to call soon as'ain, as though they had known each other for years. And his calls multiplied until he became a daily visitor. The world wondered. for it had given in to Cora IHarvy, and many tongues began to whisper of fickleness and inconstancy. Some pitied Cora openly, for alas! her secret was but too well known, while others laughed and asked her if she, had donned " the yellow gown." Florence De Vere was living an enchanted~ life--the beautiful Italian loved, with all the fervor and passion of her clime, the wvealthy Southerner who sought her society so often. She had told him her simple history, one evening when they sat alone in the dim twi light. "Alh, Signor' you see me now courted and admired, but 1 havo known a weary life. I was a lit tle street singer, and [ have wrandered for whole days weary, hungry, a-:d foot-sore, singing for the mniseraLble pittance which the passers by gave me in charity. Once I sang before the door of a celebrated musician-he caine out, pattedI me kindly on the head ; and after discovering my utter poverty and friend. liness promised to educate me, because he said nature had niade me for the stage and I should not walk about with a hand organ any more. In two years I made moy debut, and the world found favor in me. I gloried in my profession, because it brought a com fortable home for my parents, and the suffer ings of poverty were over. But alas ! they are dead now, and I know of not one in the wide world to whomi I am boundl by ties of blood," This simple recital condensed as It was, woa the sympathy of Thustace, and he ceased to remember the singer in the lonely, suffer ing woman. His low deep words of kindli ness cheered her and in this new friendship Florence was exquisitely happy. One word of his was more to her than the adulation of the crowd-one smiile more dearly prized than the loud applause which greeted her in pub lie. The outer life brilliant as it was, was insigniicant in camnparison with the inner life into which the world could not enter. And Cora Harvy had heard of this grow ing intimacy-she had marked the change which had gradually come over, Eustace she noticed his absent mindedness--his rest lessness, and her heart told hcr all too quick ly the cause. Yet rhe could not accuse him of faithlessness ; she alone of all the world knew that his attentions to her had been those of a tender friendship-nothing more. Perhaps he did not dream that be had won her heart unconsciously-that love for him had made her pale checks paler ; he attributed her want of the light happiness of youth to constant study-study only. But the greatest trial was yet to come. Eu stace sought her one evening, and his quick excited manner betokened somethinig un usual. "ora dear, can you lay aside your pen one mnoment. I have something for your private ear." And then he told her the story of his love for Florence. She heard him calmly, and he little knew that each passion ate word went to the heart of his listener like a keen arrow. "You, Cora, whose quiet lip has never narn the insanity of Love must look unon me as a maIMU, aIr uu - . - - - never loved, sympathise with me." I Never loved! she started, but covered her confusion with a quiet smile. " And yet madly, passionately as I adore Florence, knowing as I do -her purity, there is an odious feeling of family pride which I cannot get over. I hate the monster. I have tried to strangle him, but he has a thousand lives, and although he is silent in her presence, yet as soon as I am alone, he is resuscitated. Somehow this false pride abrinks from the thought that the world should say Eustace Walcot tock his wife from the stage-in her early life she carried a hand -organ about the strecls. See how my prejudic.es cling to me -and when in a moment of delirium I would ask her to share my destiny, this feeling strug gles into life; and I tirn away from my en. chantress with vague promises of a future meeting. I have the highest opinion of your judgment; the firmest reliance on your friend ship, and I come to you for your candid ad. vice. Shall I leave her entirely, or shall I, bearing all, take her to my heart and home ? there can be no middle course for me. I mu.lt claim her as imine, or I must see her u) more 7" Cora muwed for a moment; shall we blame her if she listened to the tempter that whis pered " one word of yours might influence him--argue with him-tell him that reason Mlunbers, and he will regret the step should it be made. Once free from this attachment Wis friendship for you might ripen into leve -improve your chance i" It was but a moment--and principle tri umphed o% er the weakness of humanity. Her voice was low but it was firm: "Eustace, I acknowledge no aristocracy, but the aristocr - cy of worth. We are all the descendants cf a common father-fortune and what is termed high birth are accidents. I see no distinction between the child of the patrician and the child -of the plebian. As for her being a public performer, I honor the motive which caused her to adopt the stage. If you lois her, your love should enable you to brave the sarcasm of the set in which you move ' and if you know her to be pure and worthy of your affection, my honest advice is to woo and win her if possible." " Thank you Con, dear Cora, that was spoken like your own true self-you make me blush for my own false mean sentiments. How superior you are to every other woman of my acquaintance." "But one Eustace," she added gaily. "Yes: but one. You know each lover im agines that his own particular idotisashioned with nothing to love but a book." "Never mind me, Eustace, I shall do very well; and if human love is denied me, why when my short life is ended, and the grave has closed upon me it will make no difference then. As for my companions here, you know the verse: Wealth may flee, and friends deceive us, Love may change his sunny leek.; But these treabures never leave us Which we garner in from book.." " Ah, well, so you are contented, I suppose it is all right, Cora; yet it does seem to me if you had a little more heard now, it would be better. Yet we are told that intellc~t swallows up the affections ogre like, and loie of fame sometimes destroys 'the grand pa sion.' God bless you, Cora, and may yos r' wilest dreams be realised." She sat in the same position where he haid lef t her, for many weary hours, murmuiing to herself almost bitterly, " he wishes Ihad mco e hear/. Thank heaven he is blind, and at le. at I amfl apared his pily ; that would kill m<. Alas ! for me, my young dreams lie far behi, d me ; life's eup is very bitter, but since love has left me, oh ! fame be thou my happiness !" Happiness! the thought jarred upon L.r soul-her grief was too new for that werd just yet,--she changed it for content. Sorrow did not make her selfish-when tL~e servant admitted .Mrs. Brown, the poor wc man who subsisted by her charity, Corn wel comed her kindly, and for one whole hot r' she listened patiently to a recital of the simr ple old soul's trials, comforting her alike with kind words and alms. There was no impa tience In her tones, although her spirit ached for solitude1 and she longed to pour in apcret prayer the feelings of her bursting heart, and to find in silont petition to Heaven the peace no hiutan voice could give. "Oh ! when the heart Is full, whetj bitter thought Cunm. crowdinag thickly up for uttermne,' how hard It i to wear a patient face which does not betray the atruggles within; and common words seetfi such a very mockery. CHIAPT'ER IV. " Your lot is far above me, I dare not be your bride; To know that you bad loved ma Would wound yoer father's pride. Ge woo some high born lady, And be will bless your choice; Alas ! too long already i've listened to your voice." OrLD Soyc. The Opera season was drawing to a close. The 'engagement' of La Belle Florence in the Southern city which we have left name less was near its termination. How full .of momentous event had that short season 'bcen -how it had changed the whole current of her life ! Truly our destinies sesen to hang on trifles. The Prima Donna was taking an ifternoca drive, when the horses attaehed -to her car riage became suddenly frightened, and ran violently down the street. In their headlong career they rushed over a small child who was playing near one of the crossings. They were soon stopped without doing any other serious injury ; and Florence whose heart was full of kindly emotions insisted on being driven back to the spot where the accident had happened. The child's arm was broken I and Florence, her eyes raining tears of pity, lifted It In her own arms, and conveyed it to the carriage. Lee ,1n5 the little oe'spa o zQi Manet