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' -;- ' , ' -""' ' "- urn in . '(? i-winr ? ? ? ? ?? ? ^ -? An Independent Journal: For the Promotion of the Political, Social, Agricultural and Commercial Interests of the South. {uiboiwdmwmi: i ?? ' I. ' . 1 ' . ' i i i ? i ?? - I VOL. 6. YOEKVILLE, 8. O., THURSDAY, MARCH 8, I860. 3STO. lO. "'. ? - .. ,-,, y WRITTEN TOR THE TORKVILLE ENQUIRER. STAN DHU; ORJHE FOUNDLING. BY MRS. M. RITCHIE. CHAFTER I. The anion of Scotland and England ander one crown, instead of cementing a feeling of sympathy between the two nations, was looked upon by both sa a compulsory tie which they had straggled against for the space of two thousand years; and in Scotland especially, was the crievanoe expressed, as by the settlement of the Kingdom on the House of Hanover, that people saw the honorable idea of maintaining their independence entirely blighted. Although George I. probably, wished to be wise and politic, his authority as a foreign prince was like a transplanted tree; and in an age when fends m ran high, and eaoh highland chieftain was " almosta pretty monarch, by his haughty, disparaging manner to a class of intractable men as bold and unbending as orowned potentates, he plnnged the island into the horrors of civil war. Nor were there other causes wanting to render the Elector's throne insecure. The exile family of Stewarts, naturally, exerted every effort by stirring up discontent, to regain its birthright, aided by these high-spirited and zoalous chiefs, who considered the imported ruler as an usurping intruder, and boldly offered their lives and property in the cause of their lawful prince. On the 6th of September, 1715, the royal standard was displayed at Aboyne, by the Earl of Mar and such followers as could be assembled, and the Chevelier St. George, proclaimed King of Scotland, England and Ireland, with the solemnity, the time and place would admit. The fiery cross was then sent through the Highlands, and as the clans joined, the armament moved slowly southward, to give its friends leisure to assemble. Bat as asaal with civil war from ^ the earliest period, it readers the hearts of r people calloas to the claims of friends, and party feuds read asunder those ties created by the God of nature. Nor was the epoch in whioh this tale is founded, less baneful in its effects on kindred. , On the East coast of Scotland, are still to be seen the stern commanding ruins of Norland Castle, situated on a towering rock, over looking the sea, as an eagle may look from his eyrie, and washed at the base by foaming surf, which roars and breaks in feathery seed when driven on the gusty wings of the tempest. Two hundred years ago, this was a feudal fortress of great strength and stern beauty, almost inaccessible to an enemy, with the wide sea tumbling darkly in front, and limited by a faint line in the horizon?isolated landward, by raised drawbridge and lowered portoullis. Beyond, the country extended, at first, into inoonsiderable hills and muirs, interwoven with trees of all kinds; but as it receeded from the ocean, rising gradually higher, until the wilderness assumed those inaccessible steeps and crag | gy precipices which constitute the chief romantio beauty of the island. The Laird of Norland, one of the most untractable and prejudiced chiefs of an iron age, was amongst the first who joined the standard of his sovereign with his vassals, fierce looking fellows of indomitable courage, ready at aDy moment to support with flashing claymores, the renown of their chieftain and the cause he espoused. But the Prince, for whom ten thousand men were willing to die, was far from displaying the spiritof hispartisians, and ignominiously retired to France, leaving them to temporize as best they could with the government. With many other gentlemen, the Laird of Norland threw down his arms in grief and indignation, and returned to bis castle, sullen, brooding and wrathful. He knew that the spiritof Jacobitism continued to ferment, 3 13 i?11_ 1 a. r._iL ana wouia, eveuiuany, uurst iurm ugaiu, when the the king would want men and subsidies. This opportunity he determined to await and turn to his own advantage. Before this era, there had been two brothers ; but the eldest, Walter, having taken an active part in the opposition to the union, found it expedient to withdraw to Flanders, where be fell on the battle field, although his body could not afterwards be found; and his only child, an infant son, was left an orphan, his mother, a lady of winning manners, having died from the shock of the calamity. The boy, as was usual, was sent from the castle to nurse, and a fatal distemper breaking out, he was numbered amongst the sacrifices, so that his uncle, Robert, took possession as sole heir. He, too, had accompanied his brother to the Low Countries, but from the hour of the fight in which Lord Walter was slain, he became harsh and cruel, and though his wife had long since died, leaving him an only daughter, he vainly sought another alliance amongst the noble females of the land; for despite the grace of his person, and dignity of manners, no heart would beat responsive to his own. His daughter, Beatrice, had been much neglected during the eventful period of intestine warfare, yet nature had been Dountuui co inose sorter ieenugs which throw a halo around personal fascination, and filled her mind with a romantic enthusiasm, dangerous to the possessor, unless held under strong control. The Laird of Norland was a warrior of undaunted spirit, and had distinguished himself in many times of peril j and at the battle of SherifF-Muir, setting prudence at defiance, he rushed into the hottest of the fight, where he saw most of his clan fall around him. Still he continued the combat, till a heavy phalanx closed rapidly round him, and death seemed inevitable. Wounded and fainting, his life hung trembling on the verge of eternity j already a heavy sword was raised for his destruction, when a youth of manly stature flung himself before the blow, and warding off its fatal intent, brought his antagonist to the ground. He exhorted the chieftain to renewed exertion, and fighting side by side, they resolved to die like men. Buftheir efforts seemed in vain, and only for the noble daring of the youth, the Laird must have yielded; when just at the moment hope was bidding them farewell, unlooked for succor arrived and they were rescued from their foes. Robert Anstruther was conveyed to a place of seourity, and after his wounds had ? J J t. 1. ii oeen uroKtsu ue seuuxin tuc puiu nuu u?u rendered him such timely aid, but the messengers had some difficulty in finding him, for he had laid aside the celtio garb, and was presented before his superior, dressed in the simple attire of a lowland peasant. Eis age appeared to be under twenty. Yet, he was finely formed and his figure was tall and stately, whilst the faultless regularity of his features was redeemed from the charge of effeminacy, by the clear brown hue that mantled over them. A feeling of scorn, mingled with humiliation, orept upon the soldier's heart as he viewed the lad; though the conviction, that, but for him, his lifeless body must have been lying .on the field of carnage, checked the ill-timed jest that arose to his tongue. 'You acted bravely!' he exclaimed, 'and the chief of Anstruther knows how to reward merit. Here is gold ; 'twill recruit your apparel, and you may . But how in Xliio dnvnn reieofc mr trift ?' ID UUJO J VkVJVW ?VJ vv? ? j Q? The youth, who had hitherto stood silent in an humble attitude, now raised himself erect, and his eye and look bespoke his utter contempt for the glittering boon, as he replied: 'I do not covet gold; to one whose wants are few, 'tis useless. Nature is bountiful, and from her stores I draw a supply. Yet, I am not ungrateful for your offer; it is generously meant.' The chieftain eyed him with a scrutinizing gaze, for an undesoribable emotion agitated his heart, when he beheld the dignity with which the lad treated his reward. 'Your name?' he hastily asked. 'Evan is my name, usually called Evan Dhu, from the color of my complexion.' 'And your parents, who are they ?' The youth was silent, and the Laird continued : 'Do you hear me boy ?' 'Alas! the fate of my parents is unknown to me. My early years were passed in obscurity, in a hut of sod on the hill side, and I have no other patrimony than what I may glean with my sword.' 'You are heroic, child 1' said Anstruther, with a sarcastic smile; but instantly recollect ing (he manly bravery he had witnessed, he added <and are a hero. Here is the hand of the Laird of Norland; yon have won his best regard. Say, will you follow in my train ? Nay, look not with such pride; I mean not as a menial, but to join my band of fighting men?they are worthy of yonr companionship, and yon shall be my daughter's page.' The high spirited youth slowly replied. <Yes, I will be your page, and I swear by your hand as my chief, that fidelity shall fill my heart, as I trust courage will nerve my arm.' From this moment Evan became an attendant on Anstrutber, and though often subjeeted to the impetiosity of his ungoverened pride, still his conduct fully redeemed the pledge he had given, and there was one whose smile amply repaid him for every indignity he endured. The young Beatrice looked upon him with manifest partiality, and her sweet voice made him forget his sorrows. The restless mind of the chief kept him constantly in motion, and a zealous watch was set upon his actions; for although George had outwardly received him into favor, his well known predilection for the house of Stuart rendered him suspected at Court; especially, as information had been received that he held communication with St. Germains. Evan attended him through many secret expeditions, yet, being oftentimes sent back to the castle, he had repeated opportunities of seeing its fair mistress; tnerememnrance or wnicn promptea nun on to many feats of prowess and daring. His courageous endurance of danger and toil, and his strength of mind in cases of difficulty, had been often repeated to her, and it was with pleasure that she heard that even James had complimented him, proffering him royal service; nor was she insensible that he preferred her father's suit to royal favor, that he might enjoy occasional interviews with herself. Scotland could not boast of a form or countenance more beautiful, or heart more innocent, than that of Beatrice Anstruther; but she bad no female monitor to regulate her conduct and restrain her passions; no mother to correct her errors and kindly admonish her of the approach of danger. Can it then be matter of wonder, that in those chivalrous times, she indulged in waking dreams of which she know not the injurious tendency, and that her woman's heart was fnnoVifld hr t.hp macic enchantment. r?f lrvue for one whom she regarded as a superior being ? At first they were unconscious of what the feeling meant, for Beatrice had no one to whom she could impart the sensations which struggled in her bosom, and Evan was too lowly born to dare to entertain one ambitious thought of aspiring to his ford's child. To her, it was a sweet and endearing theme, when musing in lonely contemplation?a light that dawned upon her soul andmingled with every thought; whilst he nursed his passion, though unknowing what he cherished?with the deep adoration a pilgrim may feel when bending before a hallowed shrine. Still they loved on, and their attachment for each other grew with their existence; rrrtfV? ifa nrnrrrooQ no inn ^ocnair of flia UUl> VT1 nu iUJ ^/.v^4wu VMUV uu vuv conviction, that the pr<\ud and haughty Laird of Norland would never give his daughter to one of humble origin; until only one sentiment actuated both hearts, and that was by a secret union, they might live and die in strong mutual regard. 'The saints forgive me,' muttered Beatrice, when she found herself again alone, after yielding her consent to the 'arrangement,' ?if there is any sin in the deed. Is not Evan a paragon of merely goodness, and / though my father is fierce and terrible, he c will listen to reason; with him at my side, i I can fear nothing, even an angry parent.' C A priest, to whom Evan had rendered a some especial service, was prevailed upon to p perform the ceremony at a small chapel, i built on a projecting rock, that overhung the sea, aud had been before, the Reformation, c dedicated to the titular saint of mariners; f but as the family of Anstruther remained r true to the anoient faith, they still worship- t ped in the dilapidated pile. The flickering g rays of the setting sun faintly illumined the t ivy clad walls, although they neither die- d polled the gloomy solemnity, nor broke the o death-like stillness of the interior; and when I the hour came that made them one, no voice i answered with a blessing, to the nuptial t benediction of the holy man. The raven i whioh built its solitary nest beneath the de- ? oayed roof the belfry, croaked when the c vows were pronounced, and the only witness ? to the marriage declared, as the bridegroom e turned to salute the bride, she saw a stream \ of blood running from his side. Nor were e these the only sinister omens that attended 3 thiain auspicious union; as Beatrice returned e to the strand, a shadow darkened her path, s which she recognized as the form of a myste- i rious being who wandered among the glens s and mountain heights, prognosticating \ dreadful anathemas on those who did not ad- r miniatAK 4-r\ Vl nrnnfo AWi O uiiuioigi tu uu nauuo. x wuuvu uu wuw summit of a rock, the old hag lifted her f sinewy arm yelled forth in wild accents: 1 'Ere the earth has rolled its annual 1 course, daughter of Norland, the star ofthy S house shall set in blood.' Then gliding s from the knoll, she was lost amid the crags j CHAPTER II. t Within a week from that day, Evan, at a moment's warning, was commanded by Sir 1 Robert to proceed on a mission to London, t but it was secretly surmised, the message c was for the disaffected chiefs. Neither time nor opportunity was afforded him to bid a farewell to the beloved of his heart, and 1 with a sickening pain he departed. The Laird alone, accompanied him a portion of 1 the way, but returned in a few hours, whilst t days and weeks passed on and Evan came e not to nis bnde. In the meantime the rebellion in the highlands increased, and preparations were made to invade England. The Laird of Norland had played a double part; for finding his secret negotiations with the enemy had been discovered, he tried to conciliate King George; but the latter was so enraged at his treason, that, except for some powerful influence near the throne, be would have been attainted, and paid the forfeit with his life. Sir Robert was a man of war ?bold of heart and ready of hand?so resolving that if 'The King was not pleased with him, he would not please the King,' he prepared his Castle for a siege ; and if it should hap to the taking np arms, he feared not the forces that could be brought agaiast him. Amongst the Scotch nobles in favor, at the English Court, was Lord Cranstown. He had once seen Beatrice Anstruther, and J 1.1 1__ 1 5 f 1! J 1 aazziea dj ner surpassing loveliness auu > grace, had offered his hand; bat be was ,! nearly fifty years old, and knowing him to be depraved in bis habits and dissolute in his manners, she had rejected him with firmness and dignity. Still he persevered, and the better to secure his purpose, had secretly involved her father in a labyrinth of difficulties at Court. At the same time, he openly restrained his sovereign from executing vengeance, and for this, the daughter's hand was to be the pledge of the parent's safety. Beatrice was now the bride of another, though no token of his existence had reached her, and sometimes she feared treachery had deprived her of his love, or death had widowed all her hopes. Sir Robert had used remonstrances and threats to induce the sweet girl's acceptance of Lord Cranstown's hand; but if repugnance had markher former refusal, how much stronger was the feeling grown when she knew her heart was not at her own disposal, and that her life was indissolubly connected with Evan's as her husband. The Laird seemed to mourn lor .bvan s absenee, and not untre- i quently threw out hints mysteriously, that c he would never return. Once or twice, in s the bitterness of his heart, he taunted his v daughter with her partiality for a menial; 8 and, but that she deemed it impossible, she * would have entertained a doubt from the s language of her father, that their secret union had been betrayed. 8 A drawbridge spanned the ravine, reaching from the entrance to the Castle-yard, ( to the far moorlands of the mainland, and here summer reigned in rich luxuriance, the silvery waters of the Forth adding a * coolness to the scene. There was a wild- 1 ness in the stern scenery around, for in * those days laborious industry was little prac ticed, when the chief part of a chieftain's revenue was obtained by forays on the bor der, and the few patient tillers gained noth- 1 ing but the goading thorns of arbitrary rule, from the strong arm of power, which stretch- 1 ed forth to exact the supplies. Scarcely a breeze ruffled the silver sea, nature was s hushed, save where the distant murmurings of the restless waves struck on the ear, and 1 afforded a pleasant relief to the placid scene. * The sun sinking majestically behind the ^ hills, threw around his cheering beams, coloring with tints of gold and crimson the c rugged promontories and towering rocks, which concealed the entrance to a secret 1 way that led to a cave below the Castle, t and thence by a narrow staircase to its interior apartments. This subterraneous pas- a sage was known to few, and Sir Robert Anstruther had caused it to be blocked up with huge masses of stone, to prevent all ? ingress ; but Evan had contrived to remove t part of the obstruction, and thus afford ? himself opportunity of enjoying the society, unsuspected, of her he loved. c In a romantic glen, fragrant -with the ? perfume of the blooming heather, dog rose, and gay gorse, and overhung with the sweet g biroh, where Evan and Beatrice had spent f aany happy hoars, he now stood, dressed a the same garb ia which he had left the lastle; bat his countenance was pale, and . large, loose, thread-bare cloak was wrap>ed around his personj whilst a broad, flat, owland bonnet was slouched over his head. 'What a peculiar fate is mine V he exlaimed. 'Where can the innocent find a reage, when marderoas guilt stalks forth arayed in ermine, and the brow that cruelty las stamped her owd, is glittering with the ;ilded toy of power 1 What are my crimes, hat here, an outcast and a wanderer, I am loomed to waste my spirit in the sickening f hope deferred ? Who am I ? What am ? Some days past in the rugged windDgs of the hills, I met a poor bewildered leing?one that ouoel called by the tender tame of mother; but she did not know me. Jhe spoke of Evan?her Evan Dhu?the alf of her heart! and vehemently cried, My child is nobly born ! I am not his mothir.' then in a lower lone, she muttered, vith her hands convulsi vely clasped togethir and held up to heaven, 'Stranger, should 'ou meet my Evan, tei.l him that his fathir was?but stop; no, no, the secret is still afe?yet, this, give him this.' And draw g a naked dirk from her withered bosom, he plaoed in my hand. ''Tis encrusted vith Sir Walter's blood, and my Evan is lobly born.' 'I would have cherished the poor maniao, or I longed to have the mystery revealed, >ut her incoherent ravings were too wild to >e connected, too horrible to be believed. She fled from my protection, and I fear the lecret has perished with her. Who are my jarents, then V He paused several tainutes, absorbed in bought; then suddenly starting, continued, Hark ! I hear voices and footsteps.? rhey approach this way and danger may be learj yet, come what will, I have this same lirk for defence.' He drew it from the folds of his cloak, md looking cautiously around, concealed limself behind a huge, irregular crag. Hardly had he taken his station, when Beatrice, attended by her own bower wonan, appeared on the moss covered path to mjoy the beauteous tranquility of the balmy |uiet hour, which responded in unison with ler feelings. Her auburn locks sported in graceful negligence over her shoulders, vhich, with an exquisite fairness and beauy, added to a stately air, rendered her a natchless creature, more like a seraph of he azure sky above, than an inhabitant of his lower sphere,. 'Annie, my girl, you are kind, and I bank you for seeking to please me,' she laid ; 'but I am weary?weary of all. Peace las fled my bosom forever.' Nay, dear lady, say not so. We know lot what we can bear till we try, and a dark lay will be followed by a bright dawning.' ?'Tis vain to bid me hope, Annie,' answerid the lady; 'the slave must bear her burlen, and were my hands bound together in i dnntrp.nn. hnnninpss ^nnld nnh hp mnra ;horoughly dashed from my lips. Months lave passed sinoe Evan left the Castle? without one parting word, or token of affec;ion. Could my husband leave me thus and love me V Tears rolled down her palid cheeks, and a pangof unutterable anguish darted through tier heart, as doubts of his regard obtruded in her mind. Annie endeavored to soothe tier mistress, and held out expectations that Evan would return; thoughts which lighted tier marble. face with a glorious animation ind caused her eyes to shine like -lamps.? But soon relapsing again, into the usual mournfulness which marred the vibrating music of her voice, she exclaimed, 'Why has Evan deserted me ? Surely, I 1m punished for deceiving my father !' Evan, from his concealment, hung on her 1 _ -1 1. A. * J voras in aimost rapturous joy, ior ne iovea lis wife with a perfect adoration, and it ieemed to concentrate his affections more ihan ever, when listening to her spontane)us effusions of tenderness. 'Evan can never desert the treasure of lis.soul!' he uttered in a suppressed voice. Beatrice did not shiiek; she uttered no tound, but she gazed around with trembling 'ear, mingled with an expression of indeinable pleasure on he* white, marble-like tountenance. As no human being met her tight, an indescribable feeling of awe crept lpon her senses, for she was imbued with i portion of the superstition of the age in vhich she lived, and with quivering lips ihe cried, 'bptaH?Uh ! spent, again weird spirit, ind tell me of my husband.' Nature was overpowered. As Evan rushid forth from his hiding place, he received ler fainting form in his arms. 'My Beatrice, my love!' he exclaimed 'rantioally, 'Answer me. Fool that I am, ny impetuosity has destroyed her. Beaxice, my wife, awake to happiness and your Evan.' Annie chafed her temples and Evan pressid her to his heart, impressing on her lips he chaste kiss of fond affection, and as her leavy eyelids slowly unclosed, she faintly lttered? 'It is indeed my husband, and do you itill love me V 'I love you, dear lady, with a passion that s like the waters of the Forth?forever all for ever filling !?for you are all that Evan has on earth !' 'Why then so long absent V she enquirid. 'It is a fearful tale, my Beatrice. I lave been weighed down^to the precincts of he grave by sickness and oppression.' 'Sickness ! Ah! now I see you are pale, md your looks are altered. Oh ! tell me ?tell me all.' 'Do not seek to penetrate the mystery, ny love; for though my features may have indergoDe some alteration, my heart renains unchanged.' 'Am I then unworthy of my husband's :oniidence ? Oh ! Evan, do not think so ntanly of me !' 'Nay, nay, Beatrice, do not wound me by ucli expressions j you are worthy of my ullest confidence?yet I would spare yo from knowledge which would only wring your heart when divulged.' 'Still you keep me in suspense. I am already on the rack. Say, why did you leave Norland?' '' 'It was by the orders of my chief that I went?duty to him prompted my obedience.' 'But w|iy have I not heard from you during your absence; you gave no parting word> nor left one farewell. My husband had forgotton me.' A fresh burst of agony, proceeding from torturing doubts of his fidelity, again shook her frame, which Evan regarded with some amazement and impatience, mingled witn IP**?'Why this unnecessary display of anguish, Beatrice ?' he asked in a reproaohfdl Wne. Bat the imploring look she cast upon bim, softened his fiercer mood and he added : 'Well, you shall hear. I had not traveled faron my journey, when the dagger of an asaasisan was aimed at my heart.' | A half suppressed soream burst from the terrified Beatrice, as she gazed wildly in her husband's face, and clung still closer to?him. 'Wounded and ill,' she said, 'and I not with jou in the time of your affliction ? But who ^ould have aimed the blow, and why did y>u not send ns information ? My father, Eian has sorrowed much for you.' A iifled look of indignation lighted his eyes with resentful fire, as he replied with a wild laugh? , 'Your father, Beatrioe, no, not your father 1' iBeatrioe looked earnestly at her has bandJas if she would read bis thoughts with the eyes of her soul, and after a short pause!she wildly said: [ 'Evan, do not speak irreverently of the laird. Remember, he is my parent. ' 'Sweet treasure of my soul, this tongue shall never utter, without cause, one word derogatory of your father's honor,' he rejoined. 'Yori will return with me to the castle,' she said; then, as if some sudden idea had rushed tumultuously upon her mind, she added in a tone, which gradually assumed a softer pitch, 'Yet, how? Ah, no it must not be !? Oh! Evan, let us not part again after this long absence, but fly to some remote spot, where, if poor in earthly treasure, we shall still be rich iu eaoh other's love/ Evan felt a cold sick shuddering creep ove&Jus frame, and his countenance gtew alternately red, black and livid, as mustering fortitude he replied, with foroed calmness : 'Btatrice, repress these bursts of agitation." What is it you dread ? Tell me all your fears?whisper?for I am of an impatient temperament, and would wipe out obloquy, insult or wrong, in blood. Almosl daily, I have watched for you on this spot, in hopes some fond tracery on memorj might bring you here. But you came not.1 'Ah| no/ she tremblingly replied,* <thej told me many tales of horror, and spoke ol danger from wild highlanders and disbanded solders.' Evan shrank back, with an expression ol painful embarrassment on bis gallant features, as he reiterated, 'Caterans and rivers! Did they dare mention?>but no, they could not tell you that. Yet, even with a robber, purity like thine, is safe.' 'What db you mean Evan ; why are you thus disordered ? Do you fear these lawless ravagere?' she asked with surprise, whilst she watched the changing expression of his countenance. 'Fear! Beatrice, fear! No, no, 'twas but a passing thought. Take courage, love, you will soon be safe from a relentless father/ 'Oh ! let us hasten to escape, for he knows not of our union, and bids me receive anothwlinn nnno on. vi uo uijr iuiui a ouigijrj n*'vu vuw ?*v quainted with the sacred tie, he will not reject us, for he loves you, Evan.' Evan stood hesitatingly for a few moments, with an unwonted stir of consternation and a dubious smile of inward emotion, as if some secret he feared, to speak were struggling for utterance; then slowly baring his chest and, printed to a fresh healed wound, be exclaimed, throwing his cap on the ground? i x> oee uere, i^aince } it wua yuur iatuci a hand left this impress; 'twas he dealt the accursed blow. What, though it be hard to have rogue written on one's skin, whilst true man is stamped upon the heart, jet, manhood and honeslylie too deep for iron.' Annie, who had hitherto stood a silent spectator, now rushed forward aud calling to remembrance the vision which appeared when she attended as witness to their marriage, grasped his vest, and shrieked out with dismay? 'Look, look!?there's blood upon it still!' Who can paint the emotions which crowded on the brain of the fair Beatrice, and the struggle for the firmness she knew it was necessary to assuoe, that passed over her frame. Unwilling lo believe her father a murderer, she sank upon a bank of moss fragrant with wild thyme, saying with melancholy impatience? <My father, deal the blow ? What! Murder my husband ? It is impossible. You must be mistaken, Evan.' ,, 'Would to heaven, I were,' he replied; t . . .1 i i i . I <Dut truta Das coo aeepiy stamped its image on my tale. Sir Robert accompanied me to where tbo muir rises into rough, uneven declivities that terminate iu abruptly precipices, and under pretence of commuicating some secret mission to the Coutr, drew me aside into a tangled copse. There he charged me with my love for you, and like a wiley tempter, drew the seoret from me, called me a base born menial, and planted his dagger here.' Nature so long repressed, began imperiously to resume ber sway, as with the keenest agony, like one ia a horrid dream, Beatrice threw herself into the arms of Annie for support, and white as statuary marble, whilst tears streamed from her eyes, she cried? 'The brave! the noble laird of Norland, ] change his nature to a vile assassin's? I 1 am sick at son!; bat how then did yon es- t cape V 'I was found by a party of those, whose ] habits are of the old highland stamp, re- i turning from a creagh, who bore me to a i place of safety, healed my wounds, and? and?I am here, my Beatrice.'' ] 'Guide me, Almighty Baler, in the path i of duty,' she replied, abstractedly. 'Well indeed, might you avoid the castle; and 1 even now, your presence there would be i nnoflffl "Rnf ivlian) tc unnr nlflAA nf Sfinil ^ u W ?? MW* V *W w 'Fear not for me. Supposed to be numbered with the dead, superstition will avert any evil; but there are those I do not wish to meet within the pfeoinots of the castle. Though, come what may, Evan will never shrink.' j At this moment, the shrill notes of the bag-pipes were wafted on their ears, and Evan, starting, cried? 'They come, and we must part, Beatrice.' J 'Oh 1 no, not yet; 'tis but some distant hunter's horn.' 'Yet, we must not be seen together, for I know them, my love; and our future hapiness depends on present secrecy. Dare you meet me, to-night, on the margin of the little lake, in the mouldering ruins of the small chapel,> where lie for ages, the ashes of your race r he asKed. <At that spot which has been burdened with a curse, since the sacred walls were polluted with human blood! Still, why should I fear, when it is my husband's wish ? For with him I live, and with him I will die. At ten, I will be there.' Evan passed his arm around her waist, and clasping her to his heart, he pressed his lips to hers; then hastily disengaged himself, as the horn sounded agaiD, at no great distance from where they stood.' 'One kiss, dear girl," he said; perhaps 't will be the last. They are close upon us. Hasten, Beatrice?hasten through the private passage?and do not hate my memory.' Then, as she disappeared, he grasped a stake from the ground, and placed himself, with a cool determination, before the entrance, adding? ?Thnncrh thev were a host. I would de fend the way.' * Bnt the crashing of surrounding underi growth, warned him of approaohing dan ger atid that there was not a moment to . lose, to save himself from a felon's fate. . Hardly had he withdrawn from sight, to a secret nook, ere an armed party command ed by the laird in person, approached the I piace where he had stood. [to be continued.] | #ripal Ja^rs. r For the Yorkvllle Enquirer. r PROFESSIONAL PRIDE. BY WILLIE LIGHTHEART. "For human bodies are sic fools For all their colleges and schools." Snooks is an editor. He owns a few i cases of type and a second-banded Washi ington Press. The mere possession of these i articles, together with a keg of ink and a few reams of paper, so impresses his mind, i that he is led to the conclusion that he is - the most profound scholar, the most emi> nent critic and the best writer that the world ever produced. Snooks is an editor. There is a sanctum to his office; he has the right to throw contributions under the table; light his cigar with a poem, which his shallow brain could never produce ; erase a line or parai graph, because he lacks cultivated taste; alter punctuation, because he is an Editor, though be knows as much of Parker as his ; <devil' does; exclaim <Bah !' to an article whioh is beyond his comprehension, and act the fool, generally, because be knows no better. Snooks has a free ticket to all public entertainments ; Snooks supposes, as he walks alnncr the streets, that nrettv pirls are neen. 1 """"O " ~ i " I j o r r ing at him throagh every closed blind, that everybody is on the tip-toe of suspense and expectancy to read his next paper; Snooks i bows, patronizingly to the passers-by, and imagines himself the observed of all observers. Fubbs is a lawyer. Has a couple of dozen volumes in his office; sits by the door and reads novels so as to leave an impression upon the passers-by that he is absorbed in the study of 'Blackstone's Commentaries.' Fubbs is a lawyer. Leaves the door of his office open when he writes letters to his rich uncle for a loan of five dollars, so as the public may be led to believe that Fubbs is busily engaged in writing Deeds, Writs, Subpoenas, Titles, &c. Fubbs don't speak to mechanics and laborers; imagines himself of much importance .in the community. Fubbs is mistaken. Jenkins is an artist. Paints, most beautifully in his own estimation, Venus, Cupid, landscapes, portraits and all that kind of thing. Jenkins spouts ahout Italian masters; has been to Florence; spent a whole day at the Vatican at Rome; visited all the galleries in Europe and America, and feels perfectly persuaded that his fame has gone abroad over all the world. He turns up his nose at sign and carriage painters; crosses the street when a white-washer is in sight, and smites his forehead at the sight of Parisian prints. Eblentassio is a professor of music; can play anything in the world, from 'Moses in ? .1 If TT Egypt,' to 'pop goes tne weazie." nis 1 method of instruction is, beyond all doubt, far ahead of any musical instructor in the world. He can teach in three easy lessons, any intelligent young lady to equal Thai berg, and to shame the German masters ! into blushes. He has taught the crowned , heads of Europe; can produce certificates s from court ladies and foreign ministers, and is the inventor of an important im jrovement upon David's harp. Private essons on the penny trampet and jews-harp it half price. * Muggins is a newspaper contributor.?Fancies his artioles the <boce' of the jouraal for which he writes. The impression apon his mind?he has an immense mind ?in that avfi.rv eve mns hnrriedlv over the J ?^ -? paper for hit name, and readers throw it aside when there is nothing from his pen. Be struts and swells when he appears npon the streets; is led to believe that everybody is flocking to the windows to catch a sight of 'the great author,' and really ldoet not fed proud' of his productions. Snobberhosser is & farmer. Editors, lawyers and writers do very well in their places; and, sometimes, he don't mind returning their bows. 'It takes all kinds of people to make a world,' he says; and, 'it really is uncharitable not to make allowances for the stupidity of editors, and professional men generally/ TClrakka is a manlianin flnfnli llim Innf. X/lUUyo to a *MWWUHU*WI VH?VM ^I>*H ing aboat offices and pretending to know more than other people. These lazy, egotistical fellows that call themselves literarg men, 'never done a hand's stroke for their living.' He works for what he eats; he don't pretend to be a soholar. Blabbs is a meohaoio. Looks pitifully upon yonng ladies and young men as they pass his shop on the way to college; smiles scornfully upon professors and teaobers; and wants to know what all their book kuowledge is going to do for their poor, misguided pupils; wants to know if one half of the 'lazy scoundrels'that write editorials, study law, and contribute to papers, would not better earn their living by learning a good trade. ?t-;- 11 l_ l now, in is is an wrong. . juhou ui us uavu a position assigned ns in life?each of ns a part to perform in the great life-drama.? It matters not what may be oar occupation, calling or profession. If we well and truly discbarge the daties incumbent upon us; if we strive to do the very best we can in our respective spheres, We are aU equally entitled to respect. Let us lay aside our professional pride, and strive to entertain feelings of kindness, one toward the the other, ever bearing in mind that Worth makes the man; the want of It, the fellow.' For the YorkviHe Enquirer. "BUBTH ON GLOVES. [concluded.] We have considered in the two foregoing chapters, gloves with the g out off, in their relation to love; and gloves with the fingers cut off, jn their relation to courtship, and this is as far as we can; for when nnma fn morrinon no Kovn ^nnn wifrVi TV W WU4V (V UlUilMi^V WW MM* V ViVMV n?HM gloves. Then a man has the hand, and, of course, is done with the glove. Then all the sentiment whioh belonged to the hand when covered in its glove, is lost in the possession of the naked reality. Yes, marriage disperses the rotaance of love, bat as I have not yet arrived at that settled, real condition, it most be pardoned me if I indulge largely in the romance, and I'll tell you about some gloves that lie here before me, taken from my desk this cold Saturday | evening, when my week's work being finished, I am at liberty to retire within myself and visit the realms of memory borne in the car of revery. Here are*a pair which were once as white as the snow on Zembla's shore, but now they are growing dingy and yellow, for I have kept them long. Faintly to be seen, is traced upon them '6? Alexandre.' How well do I remember the evening, when, by a balf-given, half-refused consent, they became my prize. The gay and lovely of the elite of 0., were there collected, but among them all, she who gave them, was the peerless queen. And in them there is a talismanic influence, for when I look upon them I think of her whose soul is purity itself, and from whose lustrous eyes beam forth the rays of Truth's lamp, which burns brightly in her heart of hearts; and while her image is before me, all wrong thoughts and evil actions and deceiving tempters are driven away. But let us place them away carefully, as we would relics in a shrine, for to me they are sacred; and take up others. Ah! here is one, 6}, with a delicate fringe around the wrist, made of rich lace. This carries me back to a crowded hall, and shining lights and perfumed air, and flashing diamonds and swelling music, and vo1 a. W Al f Zi. luptuous waitzea- uu i it was a gay uuece. There were Lords and Ladies there in the rioh garb of other days. There were Fairies there, and fair sultans, and fast flew the hours on hastening wings. But fairies were not more fair, sultanas were not more lovely, than was the white-robed maiden, who gave me this remembrancer. But, alas! she is another's now; and so into the fire it goes, for I have no right to keep it now. For the hand is another's; why should I cherish the glove ? See! here is one, a 6}, a little torn, and thus it happened. There had been a large party, and at its close, 'Ruby' had the great privilege of escorting one of the Belles of the evening to her home. As they proceeded, the cunning youth commenced speaking of the 'Autocrat of the Breakfast Table,' and his walk with the Schoolmistress, where the the 'Autocrat' asks her to take the long path with him. Just as he got to this part of the story, they came to a corner, by turning which the path would be shortened; then, 'Ruby' bending low, whispered 'will you take the long path with me?' The maiden softly answered, 'ask my pa.'? Whether he did or not, doponent saith not. The glove is supposed to have been torn in her excessive agitation. But here is a yellow glove?the smallest of them all?so small that the manufacturer would not mark it, fearing lest his veracity might be doubted. And this the little beauty from the SoutV-once threw at me, when I asked for it. I threw it back at her, but when she wasn't looking, picked it up again. And if she were to throw herself at me I would?well never mind what I would do. But last of all, is this one, beautifully white, for it is not yet old, and here is well delineated all that network lines of the hand, of which I have befbfwspoken.' - k ' ' * *?: Now listenjo <Ruby/ the (xipsey, telling fortunes. This line betokens that she will have pleasure for a short season, bat sorrow end disappointment will soon follow.-1This line showB that she Is fickle and >r changeable as the wind. This line shows that she is vain and too eager for admiration. All these lines joining show that she is a coquette and a flirt, and that her pleasornr will be short lived, end be suoceededbya cheerless old age, rendered sorrowful and .gloomy by reason of disappointment Bat there is a jewel which some one will give I i..? !* -i-_ :n -1l? " fi j iUl. oer, 11 sue wui only receive it, buu wm I with its ruby-light, will dispel *11 the cloud* which now darken her destiny. There, the fortune is told, the oraole ceases. You may ask if I have mittent preserved 7 I make it a role never to answer impertinent questions, and what I have or have apt, ?is nothin to nobody/ And now are will close this dissertation by. repeating and singing (if yoa please) the following lame liaee about? THE UTTLE WHITE GLOVE. There's a little white glove, Which I wear next my heart; And diamonds coold. never > * !> - 'M * Induce me to part, With this little White glove, Which belongs to my Love. Tis<the little white glove "Of the qneen of my soul; And of a hard race, With her Jove as the goal, Tells this little white glove, Which belongs to my Love. Now this little white glove Bears the form of-a hand, - ? Tis the hand of the fairest And best, in the land; Tea this little white glove, Which belongs to my Love. And coold I but cell * t ' \Thst little hand mine, Death only coold make me Prepare to resign WajL. That hand, and this glove, ' Which belongs to my Love. nr?ln wnnro "RTTTtV U-IVflugy, j www, ~, From the South Carolinian. . A VAIL F0B~THB GIFTSD. BT IT*. M. MABTI9. Mr Editor .-?Under the first a tunning weight of grief consequent upon hearing of the death of Howard Hayne Caldwell, one of my earliest and dearest friends, I cannot write such an obituary of him as I would, or as is doe his memory. At present, accept these outgoshinga of a heart surcharged with sorrow:. And art thou cold and lowly laid ?. And has thy funeral prayer been (fctrc'w And has the requiem Sad been sung " For thee who died so lored, so yoong? ' ^ " And shall the smiling bads of spring No longer laugh in flowers for thee f i1# And shall the birds still sweetly sing, ? Bat not for thee, their minstrelsy ? Yes, flowers shall with sepbyrs ware, > Bat only blend to bless thy grave, And birds shall sing from green-wood tree, Only to chaunt a dirge for thee; <jWhile gently falling sammer rain Shall shed Its tears of sorrow whsto * v T Sad masis manners o'er the plain, While nature mourns her worohipper... Friend of my soul, thy heart is stilled, That erst with "ecstaoy" was thrilled, And silent now the courts hare grown, . Where fancy held her tadiant throne; ~ And eyes where free of genias gleamed,^ Ah! death b&squench'd their glorious glow: From lips whence tanefol measuresstreimed, Sweet harmonies no more s"hall flow. * I'd lay thy loved harp-by tby side, If chance some lingering strain abide, That, murmuring with angel-breath, Might wake the doll, eold ear of death; Bat by the Master's great white thwroe, Where golden bells are ringing now? ' Where love perfected dweDs alone, Beloved friend, sore there art tfaou. ? Thou didst not know, and none can know, My love for thee, my depth of woe, . j That thine allotted task is done, While mine is scarcely yet began; And still in dreams thy form I ? When night o'erspreads her jewelled veil; And still thou slngest onto me In some wild, weirdaome, witching wail. f * ?* : v..,-. Taking Cold.?A 'cold' is -not neeet J- M ; sarily the result of low or high temperature. A person may go directly from a hot bath into a cold one, or into snow even, and not take cpld. Ho may remain oat in thecoldest atmosphere until chiHed through and not take cold. On the cod trarj he may take obldi)y pouring a couple of table spoonfuls of water upon some part of his dress, or By standing in a door, or. before a store, or sitting near a window or other opening where one part of the body is colder than another. Let it be kept in mind that uniformity of temperature over the whole body is the first thing to be looked after. It is the unequal heat upon difierent parts of the body that produces colds, by disturbing the * ? ? .1 . ii* L!.l uniform circulation or tne Diooa, which iu tarn induces congestion of Borne part If you mast keep a partially wet garment on, it . would perhaps be as well to wet the whole aniformly. The feet are a great source of colds on account of the variable temperature they are subjected to. Keep these always dry * and warm, and avoid draught of air, hot orcold, wet spots on the garments, and othgr direot causes of unequal temperature, and' keep the system braoed up by plenty i)fv sleep, and the esohewing of debititating food and drinks, and youwill be proof a* gainst a cold and its results. The Battle op Lipe.?The battle of life, in by far the greater number of cases; must neaessarily be fought up hillj and to win it without a struggle were perhaps to win it without honor. If there were no difficulties, there would be no success; f ??? ?? MikAktnM ofwnnrvla ^Iiawa II tuurc wore uutuiu^ w awu65lu *V4j ?uug would be nothing to be aobieved. Difficulties may intimidate the weak, but tbey act only as a stimulus to men of pluok and resolution. All experience of lifer indeed, serves to prove that the impediments thrown in the way of human advancement may for the most part be overcome by steady, good condnct, honest zeal, activity, perse- * verence, and, above all, by a determined resolution to snrmonnt difficulties, and stand np manfully against misfortune. Love, while it frequently oorrupts pure hearts, often purifies corrupt hearts. \