Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, August 30, 1860, Image 1
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lewis m. 8RisT, Proprietor, j An Independent Journal: For the Promotion of the Political, Social, Agricultural and Commercial Interests of the South. |t2 pee ashum ry abvahcb.
VOL.6. YORKVILLE, S. O., THURSDAY, AUGUST 30, I860. NO. 3d.
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rHE YORKVILLE ENQUIRER. jj(
LMPHELL; :
ae
FOUNTAIN. 1:
,Y A. EWART. gc
Ellen from these trials. How each was >1
disappointed we have seen. The inanu- t0
script concluded in words of most hopeless in
misery, praying forgiveness for all the sorrow
he had caused them, and imploring the wi
death that would rest and release his bur- be
dened heart. To avoid much of repetition, 0f
we will give the MSS in our own words: au
Herbert "Willoughby was scarcely twenty |ef
1 _ f ? _v __ i__ i-cl a :,
% C|riIIntg $&rmani
WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR '
iLLii ei
0
KING'S M
BY MRS. MAR
CHAPTER XXII.
"Come, gentle night; come, loving, black-brow'd night,
Give me my Romeo."
Srakspcare.
'Glorious Dews, Miss Ellen ! Oar arms
have been again victorious,' said Mr. Adams,
as be entered the Mansion House.
'That is indeed joyful tidings,' replied
Elleuj with sparklingeyes. 'Have vou had
direct news from our friends ?'
'No j nothing definite,' he replied, 'but
the country is full of it. Tarleton's draeoons
are flvine, for dear life, to the main
army.'
'We shall hear to day. God grant our
friends are safe,' said Ellen.
'Yes, I think so. I shall not go home
till I hear the particulars.'
But the day passed, and yet another,
without tidings. Ellen was growing intensely
anxious, when at the close of th6
second day, a couple of horsemen were seen
advancing, and Ellen could scarcely recognize
in the pale and haggard face of the
elder, her uncle, Mr. Willoughby. Davie,
too, was fearfully pale, and the broad black
patch on his brow, betrayed the cause of
his feeble and faltering gait.
'Mr. Adams !?the one of all others, I
wished to see. This is kind,' said Mr. Willoughby,
feebly dismounting from his horse.
?mJaJ awia/1 "PIlnrt
'ntJUry, yuu arc nguuucu, vrigu uitvu,
as ghastly pale he sank upon a seat.
Not seriously,' said he, striving to reassure
her by a smile. 'Only a sabre stroke,
and a long ride has weakened me.'
An expression of intense anguish crossed
Mr. Willonghby's face, as be watched her
performing those offices for Davie, she had
so recently performed for the noble Graham
; a few whispered words from Davie
told her the startling circumstances of his
death, and Davie forgave the tears that
dropped so gently over the memory of the
high-souled chivalric Englishman. Mr.
Willoughby never held up his head again.
His heart was indeed broken, and the remorse
of years, took a speedy revenge on
his fedbfe frame. A few mornings after
his return, he entered the room where Davie
and Ellen were sitting. Giving them an
?j _ l.?
open packet HUU tl UJiuiatuiC) no oaiu iu
touchingly tender tones?
Read this my children, and if yon can,
forgive one whose sins have been only
equalled by his sufferings. As evidence of
your pardon, I ask you to grant me but one
request ere death closes my life of misery,
and the grave hides forever this burning
memory.' He turned and left them.
And Davie opening the miniature, disclosed
the counterpart of the picture Graham
wore in his bosom. A secret spring
had been opened, and another face in youthful
manhood looked out upon them. It was
the fac-simile of the portrait of Mr. Willoughby,
which hung on the wall?taken
years ago in England. A tress of wavy
hair, black as night, slowly unwound like
a long dark memory, surprising them with
its falulous length.
'This is not the picture Graham bad,'
said Ellen. 'The hair there was brown and
curling.'
'No/ replied Davie, 'that was buried
with him. Mr. Willoughby said he .was
unworthy to remove it. He opened it,
however, and showed me a separate case
like this, with his own likeness, and Herbert,
engraved in golden letters beneath.?
It was very cunningly contrived No one
would have ever suspected there was a
second likeness; and poor Graham carried
that next his heart, perhaps for years, and
never knew how slight an accident divided
him from the knowledge of his father.'
The manuscript was broken by much that
was irrelevant to the single history, and
had evidently been prepared since the discovery
of Graham as his child. There
were prayers of thankfulness, passionate
bursts of grief, solemn vows to permit neither
memory or affection, life or death, to
stand between him and the love of his
neglected child; and Ellen read that she
was to be sacrificed to this darling scheme.
Here then was the secret of all his madness,
and Davie told her of the stormy interview
they had on the day of his capture. The
old man had met him with a dogged stubbornness,
which Davie, in vain, tried to
overcome. Finding his persuasions only
seemed to exasperate Mr. Willoughby, Davie
told him firmly and plainly his determination.
Mr. Willoughby flew into a
stormy passion and swore Ellen should be
out off from all expectation from him.?
Daviq'coolly replied he had enough for
both, and was quite willing to assume the
responsibility, then and there, of her future
fortunes. Mr. Willoughby then tried to
frighten him with his curse, which not
intimidating the fearless soldier as it had
Ellen's gentler nature, he implored him by
every solemn prayer to desist from his suit,
and in a moment of earnest entreaty, and
agODized terror, confessed the relation in
which Graham stood towards him. Davie
was kind, respectful and sympathising, but
as firm and determined as ever, and plainly
told him that to expect Ellen to make the
atonement for his sin, was as cruel as it
wa9 unjust, and he would forbid it were it i
at the very altar. The old man wept and i
stormed and supplicated in vain, entreating i
Davie not to mention his suit to Ellen. To i
which Davie replied he had and would, 1
and he lacked but her consent to put forever
and immediately out of his power, this
cruel and continued persecution. And so
they parted ; the one bent on his cherished
scheme of restitution; the other, if possible,
more firmly resolved at once to relieve his
years or age wneu ne ieib Auicnua w |S|
elude his Btudies on tha Continent. He wj
travelled under the care of his tutor, Mr. rei
Monckton, a man in every way worthy as
to mental and moral training, but so com- th
pletely wedded to intellectual pursuits, as ro
to be utterly inoompetent, so far as discip- ac
line and companionship were concerned, to th
restrain the wilful, impressible and volatile ?jc
Herbert W. The restlessness of travel in- su
creased this natural disposition of fickleness th
and versatility, and declaring it was impossi- r;(
ble for him to study until he had visited clas- p],
sic Italy and caught some inspiration from er,
| the poet land, he persuaded Mr. Monckton pr
to accompany him thither. Some whimsi!cal
caprice led him to take the name of gr
Howard, declaring it was not only more e(]
poetical, but more chivalric and noble than roi
Willoughby, and by this name he insisted 0p
upon being addressed. tic
Arriving in Italy, his life there was like aj]
a dream of fairy land. Now he would |ia
study 'clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks, be
onrl omornM *11 rf ' henpnth the shadow of ik
"*"* ~ ?' I
the Alps; listen to the crash and roar of J or
the thundering music of the avalanche ; or | COl
in the heart of Switzerland's grandeur, | f0,
?aze on the snowy monarch of the moun- faI
tains, its huge glaciers, its granite peaks, j0,
its beautiful vales, still and shining like
a picture. Here with air, earth, ice, rocks U8
and mist, he would study the glorious im- ra,
ages of Dante, whose burning pen had c8,
traced what bis imagination had painted of ?0
Paradise; for surely here was where the jn
angels of God, brighter than the sun, as- |jg
cend and descend; how blind old Milton so
would claim his worship, as the fleecy tre
clouds, like a cohort of angels brushed the jrj,
summit with their wings, the sunlight re- eD
fleeting from the snow to the clouds, from t0
the clouds to the snow, making a glowing \y
and dazzling splendor. And then what an UD
Eden below! Forests of the richest, deep- fas
est green; vast masses of umbrageous foli- hj,
age; the opening of the rich valleys, lead- ge
ing off the eye in a perspective wilderness! jjv
ofidlenessand beauty; the broad imprisoned |j0(
lakes, the rivers springing from their crystal j
sleeping sources, gliding swift and graceful: sct
as an arrow; or bursting from the guarding j uU
glaciers thundering sullenly on. The min-! (r|(
iature cascades falling like veils of silvery pa
lace; the vines trellised among the rocks? cjj
the flowers worthy of Paradise; the luxuriance
and sublimity, the desolation and the fa(
beauty struck his poetic seose with such ex- fu]
quisite pleasure, as to forbid all graver or eaj
more practical pursuits. These wanderings j
and reveries by solitary streams and moun-^jj,
tain passes, this .study of the poetry of the,a9
middle ages, its lofty strains according well coj
with the 'surrounding aisles of the dim wj,
woods )' their checkered light, their Gothic ijD
grandeur ; this listening spirit, that heard 8^,
the wild song of the glaciers and the thril- tjn
ling tales murmured by rivers from raoun- ^e,
tain solitude; this music of brook and wa- j?|(
terfall; the sighing of the wind among goI
the leaves, the carroling of the birds in the <ja
air, the tinkling sound of the distant vil faj
Iages was to him as the evening song of the fur
angels. His vivid imagination, his southern ea,
' 1 1 - / - -* i-L .
inaoieoce, id iacc toe a titer jar intuit ui rjC
his nature, was led completely captive, and rac
his wilfulness would minister to that and tog
to that alone. Now he would away to the mo
land ofTasso, of Dante, of Ariosto,and by the wa
memory-haunted Mediterranean, he would 0Q
dwell on the glories of the past, while en- jjU)
joying the charms of the present. He would wj,
study diplomacy from their great states- me
men ; their brave heroes should teach him er>
courage and daring; and then noble poets, i jjc
ah! their poets, should teaoh it is impos- aty?
sible, 'Not to love all things in a world soli^
filled where the breeze warbles and the j
mute still air is slumbering on her instru- Ljf
raent.' He would study Titian's radiant |
pictures of sensuous beauty, glowing with |aj^
their gorgeous tints, or tne dreamy iana- ^
scapes of Claude Lorraine?soft, breezy,
dewy; or wonder at the gloomy grandeur a t(
and terrible magnificence of Salvator Rosa,
8DI
Praxiteles and Phidia9;the sculptors of a jj
Grecian fame, should give his dreaming
7 " i aga
mind fresh models of beauty and grace, and gn,
from every temple and arch and breathing I
statue, would he gather a luxuriousand fascinating
memory. Ht would visit Athens; ,
muse on the banks of the Ilyssus with Soc-!Qf j
rates, or sit in the academy of Plato. Now'
he would ascend Parnassus, and sitting by!
the Castalian fount, worship Apollo and the i t
muses, and with the sunlight of festivals 11
and the moonlight of ruins, he would forget I
that a career of mind is action that has an i
aim, and indulge in blissful reverie?that es
heritage of women. If Mr. Moncktnn dared
to expostulate as to this waste of time, e
Herbert would indignantly declare he was
accomplishing the most earnest labors, pur- inb
suing the most arduous study. For was roe
not eloquence, with mute persuasive strain bor
stirring his soul to deeds of daring and of; hid
blood ? Was not philosophy, rich in intel- roe
lect, acute in metaphysics, and sparkling jane
with admirable morality, breathing in every ind
record of the past? Was not poetry, the gai
enchanting Priestess?with allegory, fable the
and fiction, daily opening rioh mines of I'P1
precious ore? No, in Dante, he would study hos
ie history, theology and politics of the mide
ages. Shakspeare would unravel the
eat mysteries of the human heart; Cerintes
should teach him to shun the fol;s
his satirical pen describes; Spenser
lould elevate him to sublime pathos, and
ilton to a holy fervour. Ariosto, fresh
lirited and rich, would be his model for
ition Boccaccio with his Decumeron
linting, extravagant and comic?touching
id tragic, would be to him imagery and
elody; and Tasso, equisite Tasso, would
s the string of feeling and love. Too
tod natured to contend, and too absorbed
do more than occasionally expostulate,
r. Monckton allowed the young Herbert
wander as his mood called him. Now
Verona, where he would 'stop with Juliet
the Masque;' now in Venice, 'rising
th her train of proud towers;' now at 'sor,
learned Padua'?now Genoa, 'the city
palaces.' He would 'see Naples and die,'
d Rome, 'the Niobe of nations?child5S
and crownless,' and Florence 'with its
jghing climate, none so fair?without;
thin, enchantment.' Here he would
st and study the dust which is in itself an
imortality.' But first he would dream in
e valley of Arno?its garden depths, its
ck grottoes, dim and cool?its hedges of
acias and laurels, its shaded avenues,
eir leafy labyrinths, fitting reatreat for the
iving and beloved,' or mounted upon a
perb steed?for he was accomplished in
eaoble art of horsemanship?he would
le through the green aisled forests, peoed
with the grace and the chivalry of flows,
his gay charger keeping time in proud
arcing, to the music of the Cascine.
His air and handsome face, with his
aceful figure and rich dress, soon attractthe
attention of many a soft dimpled and
3y beauty, as they rode along in their
en carriages, and in many a mute flirtatn
^ 1 rl fViA CMOrtontikln nrtitfk r-? r? n r? t~\ A n
iu uiu HitnuoLtpuuic juucu cuj;a^c. au
ry kiss tossed from the tips of lovely
Dds, answered by a boquet of marvelous
auty and fragrance, cleverly thrown in
e lap of the owner of that loving gesture,
a graceful bow returned by a smile of
queUjsh sweetness, was quite food enough
many a twilight dream, till capricious
icy would invent a new inamorata, with
re's fabulous charms.
One evening he had lingered longer than
ual, viewing the brilliant and gay panoma.
The sun had sunk behind the snowpped
mountains, but the twilight was
rgeously light. Clouds of gold were piled
a firmament of glory, and the soft clear
ht of that exquisite^half-tone which he
loved in Claud Lorraine, was shed over
ie and flower. The beauty of the loyely
orentines, by this heavenly light, was
riched to a soft voluptuousness, subdued
a dreamy grace, perfectly bewildering.?
hile his heart was bounding and glowiDg
der this scene of enchantment, a sudden
icination, a mysterious influence, caused
d to turn. Heavens, what a picture !?
ated in a pheaton, whose elegance, and
eries of scarlet and gold of the servants,
iicated wealth and nobility, was a lovely
1. A girl?indeed a child in years?being
ircely sixteen ; but in all else, a wonders
specimen of glowing womanhood. Her
)riouseyes, dark as the night, tender and
ssionatc, were fixed full upon him. Her
eek, smooth and glowing, was warm with
2 rich blood mantling its brunette sur;e.
Her mouth was proudly, sweetly
1 ; lips richly tinted and parted in
?cr scrutiny. The wavy fold of her black
ir was wound in immense coils around
2 small and beautiful shaped head, till,
if weary of still braiding, it fell in glosssy
Is around the lovely neck ; and Physche,
lat a figure ! Full, voluptuous?the falg
shoulders, the swelling bust, the round
^metrical limbs, the dimpled hands, the
v feet, from everv erace. from everv
auty, the warm Promethean fire, burning,
>wiDg in eloquent spells. A robe of crim
i contrasted gorgeously with the warm
rk skin, and the rich black lace of the
ling mantilla, formed a lovely net frame
this glowing picture. She was bending
;erly forward as his gaze met hers. The
h blood mantled her cheeks to a yet
ire sunny hue, as in graceful gesture, she
sed the usual kiss, and whispered <toirrow/
as the pheaton slowly passed on- 1
rd. lie was tempted to play the spy up- 1
the movements of this lovely stranger,
t his nice sense of honor forbade it, and |
:h every pulse quickened to warm excite- 1
nt, he hastened home to weave, with lov- <
s maduess, many a dream of airy bliss.?
tw impatiently he waited for the morrow ! ,
tin to meet the Hebe of his fancy. The
tering twilight would never come?the (
ir sacred to romance?luxurious, beaull
and fascinating! It cauie at last ,
;ain the elegant phaeton rolled leisurely
ng, aud scarcely awaiting the signal from ^
iCO mpltinnr nuou ftn cnnppo^ hia Vmrao rn
side. Placing her finger on her lip in ^
error almost fierce, she signified her dis^
\
jroval. Her head was quickly turned? ^
ittle note fluttered to the ground and j
iin the mysterious beauty left hitn.?
itching the tiny epistle he hastily read .
to-morrow.'
Pshaw!' ho cried, 'I am but the victim
some practical iest?I will think no more
it.' ' 1
liut that little note would not rest so
etly. Again and again he drew it forth, j1
study the fair Italian hand that had
ced 'to morrow,' so tantalizingly.
Well,' said he, at length, 'love and ^
mty beckon. If a jest, it is a sweet one, n
1 I a willing victim; so once more my ,
nus!' s
Another day, another twilight; again the 1
oxicating circe, and again disappoint- r
nt with the consolation of an exquisite g
|uet with the mystical word 'to-morrow,' s
amid, its fragrant leaves. The excite- v
nt, the curiosity was almost maddening, e
I determined to be no longer foiled, he f
ited a warm and passionate protest a- 1
nst farther cruelty. 'To-morrow,' was c
i only answer, sighed from those warm a
3, as kissing it, she hid the letter in her 1
iom. And now opened upon Herbert 1
new life, a life invested with all the charms !
of the most bewildering romance. I
Kpistles were daily, or rather nightly i
(for it required the twilight's dim light) I
exchanged. The lovely, incognito, cunning
as a sorceress, imperious as a queen, uniting
a warm and passionate nature?one
too, perfectly reckless of consequences? ,
with a courage that we would call boldness; |
with a wildness, we would call freedom; j
hesitated not ri moment to commit the er
ror we consider so formidable In America |
?in Italy so pardonable. Her education ,
had taught he:r of nothing but love. The ]
very air breathed it?it was an atmosphere \
of seduction and dangerous example. Her (
faults, and they were many, had never ,
taught her deceit heretofore, and when she ]
1 J _ _ X J _ 1 x?__
iovcu, naiure ana education gave expres |
sion to it. Adventures in this glowing <
land are rapid and open, and* the strict '
surveillance under which she had been ]
placed, but tempted her more strongly to j
evade its vigilance. i
She had seen Herbert?had loved him; ,
she could not, she would not analyze why
?sufficient that love possessed her being. |
She was the child of a noble house, a branch ,
of the D'Este, that Tasso had so madly (
worshipped, and whose burning words for |
the Leonora of his love, found a ready response
to her passionate heart. A broken i
and decayed b ranch 'tis true, but still haughty,
proud and arrogant. Her beauty was to
redeem their fallen fortunes, and Bbe had i
been closely iinmured till her fifteenth year <
released her from captivity. A wealthy re- lative
now took charge of her, and a noble ,
?rich, old and jealous?was to be her fu- j
ture lord. How her nature loathed the
union, may well be imagined. She had no
u?\c c *1. i
uupc ui eAiiiuauug uer&uu liuui tue ijulc- |
ful fetters, bat while she was free, she 1
would indulge in one wild, passionate and |
seductive dream. She saw do danger, and ]
if Herbert loved her, where would be the <
shame? Toe intoxicated to see his own
danger, or too warm a nature that had i
never knowo rebuke, a character that was
a stranger to restraint, Herbert gave him- |
self entirely up to the witching fascination i
His days were now all merged in those short i
twilight hours, when a whispered word, or (
more rarely, a tender pressure of the hand, |
was but fresh fuel for dangerous reverie.? i
The previous moDths of listless inactivity, j
the subduing, seduciDg listlessness, well pre- (
pared him for the tender romantic finale.?
He waf*?o longer master of his own actions,
but churned by a fever his nature would
not struggle against, he was restless, impatient,
and irritable. He had in vain petitioned
for an interview. Leonora either
could not, or would not grant it. Perhaps
dreading a discovery that would forever
mar this stolen sweet, or perhaps dreading
a weakness that would have defied all conventional
rules.
In vain Mr. Monckton (who, Bhut up
with his books was a perfect stranger to the
.r *L:, i i* *\ i t.
cause in una reauess irruauon(/j exposiuia- i
ted; in vain he argued, till finally threaten- i
ing to return to America, Herbert, in a pas- ;
sionate letter of reproachful tenderness, up- i
braiding Leonora with cruelty and perfidity, i
bade her adieu forever. Giving this in
charge of a crusty messenger, he awaited !
the result, perfectly satisfied it would be as i
he wished. A long restless day sped; 1
another and yet another?still no mes- i
sage. Worked almost to frenzy, again he
sought the evening drive. The pheaton I
with its lovely freight was already there,
but another figure was by the side of Leo- (
nora, an older and a graver face, one less |
lovely, but more proud. It was a sister? ,
one wrapped in the fortunes of her house, ,
and whose patrician pride was butseconda- ,
ry to the worship of her lovely and loving ,
Leonora. She watched Herbert's bold ?
look with jealous wrath, and as reckless of ,
appearances, he stooped to whisper a bitter ,
farewell as the phaeton slowly passed, her .
aDgry glance seemed ready to strike him (
with its proud scorn as punishment for his j
temerity. A low cry reached his ear?was (
it Leonora? He turned and again passiog (
the phaeton, saw her pale and tearless in j
her sister's arms. No longer hesitating, he j
followed the carriage that was now rapidly j
conveying her home. It stopped in front ?
of a high massive portal, for Florence's j
palaces are built like fortresses. As it c
waited an instant for the opening of the g
^ate, Herbert sprang from his horse and j
throwing the reins over his arm, advanced g
to her side. c
'Leonora,' he cried, impetuously, 'one c
ivord before we part, perhaps forever.' a
Her eye's sparkled?she laughed a low ?
;riuinphant laugh. 1
'It is my fate, sister. To night,' she u
vhispered to Herbert, 'and here.' h
'Leonora, are you mad? What would c
fou do ?' said her sister. d
Hush ! Franceses, be prudent.' She ^
smiled bitterly, as she pointed to the ser- f
rants. 'It must be so; when did you ever 11
enow me to give UP after that ? Farewell, c
Elerbert, you have well nigh maddened me c
?but to-night.' She smiled a warm beam- D
ng smile, and resting her head on her sis- h
er's bosom, as if yet trembling from sudden o
sorrow, she passed through the gates that u
vere now opened to receive them. He saw a
hem enter a spacious court, heard the gur- 8i
ding of falling fountains, and the heavy 8]
eaves were closed. Night, calm, placid, u
ilvery, found him waiting on this enchantid
ground. Minutes, like hours, rolled on, Cl
)ut at length a small postern was opened, e
.nd a dark figure cautiously peered out.? 0
Howard !' was whispered, and Herbert d
prang forward. 'Hist,' said the voice; al
no words, follow me.' The wild feeling of b
omantic delight, to which Herbert now tl
;ave himself up to, amounted almost to a "
ense of pain, and though he would not for h
rorlds have gone back, yet he almost long- D
d for a sober momeDt to cool his chaotic <1
eelings. Following a winding path that C
ed amidst statues and tropical foliage, he a|
lescried a stately portico, its pure Corinthi- 8t
,n columns shining like silver in the moon 8?
ight. Then the majestic proportions of a 1c
arge and noble mansion were clearly de- v<
Sned, as he followed his dark and silent
guide through the'gardens, arbored avenues,
and caught the glim pees of the sparkling
fountains as they fell in murmuring musio.
They stood before a low and trellised arbor.
'In there/ she whispered, 'wait.'
And Herbert was alone with that wondrous
moonlight; with the wild music of
the murmuring water and the rapid beatings
of his own heart. He did not have to
wait long. A fawn-like step struck his ear,
an eager whisper of 'Howard/ and Leonora,
the proud, the passionate, was folded to
bis heart. She knew no coyness, she had
no 'cunning to be Btrange.' This fair Sax)Q
youth had dazzled her, and now he was
anconseiously adding yet another charm.?
He possessed the irresistible grace of youth,
-he youth of heart and soul, joined to the
pouth of beauty, and as the sparkling poetry
with which his nature was so deeply imbued,
broke forth from his heart and shown
in his features, Leonora gave herself up to
the intoxication of the hour, and drank
draughts of passion that intertwined itself
with every fibre of her heart. Is it wonder
that midnight still found them lingering
sver the sweet 'sorrow of parting, or that
again and again Francesea Warned them of
the fleeting hours ?
'To-morrow, Leonora, I may come?' he
whispered.
'To-morrow! will it ever come? I'm
jealous of your liberty till then,' she said.
'Bat hark, my sister, again; Howard, one
word. Look at me.' -8he drew him to the
warm moonlight, and those glorious eyes
discoursed a language lovers are no strangers
to.
'Now once more fell me you love me.'
TT at* a .
ner warm arms were arouoa nis necir, tne
heaving breast pressed close to his, her soft
breath, sweet as the perfume of violets, fanned
his cheek, and those wondrous eyes still
looked, and longed, and listened. Is it
wonder his sense was led captive, and words
warm, tender and glowing, were breathed
and pledged in those parted lips ? Is it
wonder the boy and girl lovers should whisper
of graver ties, and vow that the next
meeting should forever unite them? And
so it was. It was easy for Leonora to steal
nut in the early morning hour, easy for Herbert
to meet her, and easy to find a worthy
father, who, for the Englishman's broad
gold, made the lovers one, and kept his
own counsel.
As quietly as she had ventured out, Lennora
returned, for the plan of the lovers
was to keep their union secret for a time,
till fate would open a favorable opportunity
for revealing it. Too late to remedy the
fault, Franceses discovered it, and her
pride and cunning alike, aided in keeping
it quiet. The old noble to whom Leonora
was betrothed was ill, perhaps dying. This
was what had prevented Leonora from see
ing or sending to Herbert. She had been
suddenly summoned to bis palace, and her
wild grief at the prospect of Herbert's forever
leaving her, was ascribed by the maneuvering
Franceses, to the love of Leonora
for her intended lord. So convinced was
the doting noble of this, so infatuated with
the magnificent girl, that he willed her all
his broad lands and proud estates. It was
Francesca's terror lest the young people
should be premature in the confession of
their love, and by all the artifice and cunning
of her nature, she dnped the impatient
Herbert to believe she was urging his case
before her parents.
At this time too; Herbert, who had been
cautiously feeling his way as to how his
nride would be received by his parents,
whom he honored and loved most deeply,
eceived answers to his letters. His father,
taking alarm at the prospect of bis son
vedding an Italian and a Catholic, was
item ana unyielding id nis displeasure, and
wrote to Mr. Monckton to return immediitely.
His mother, who was to Herbert as
in aneel lent to earth, by every affectionate
mdearment entreated him to return, drawng
such a picture of their distress at the
sontemplation of a foreign union, and plaUDg
foreign habits in such odious comparson
to the pure home life to which he had
ieen accustomed, as startled and grieved
lim. He for the first time, now seriously
>ontemplated his position. How could he
ntroduce to his gentle womanly mother, as
laughter, this warm, impulsive, and alas, to
ome degree, unprincipled Italian girl ??
low recommend her to the stately oourtey,
the just and discriminating judgment
if his father? How teach her the duties
if an English home; how bid her apprecite
its quiet comfort, its peaceful joy. Alas!
rhy bad be not thought of all this before ?
Ie now determined to see Leonora and
irge her to flight. Once with his parents,
ier wondrous beauty would be his best exuse?her
devoted love, her best recomraenlation.
His visits to the arbored garden
iad been almost uninterrupted, and not unrequently
midnight lengthened to mornQg,
ere he could tear himself away. Franesca's
prudence had saved them from disovery?her
watchful love guarding Leoora's
fond secret to jealousy, as if it were
er own. Torn by the contending emotions
f duty and love, Herbert sought her to
rge a speedy flight. Francesco was not
t the postern?the usual sign it was not
ife for him to enter. But his impatient
pirit would not brook delay. He had made
p his mind to see Leonora that night; nay,
) claim her if necessary, and he rather
r?nrforl TUaiw A.
UlOUUVClJf HIau UUb. JLUCU ^IVUV
d retreat was vacant; how desolate withut
her beaming presence! He entered it's
ark recess. Leonora's guitar was resting
gainst their usual seat?a roll of verses
ad dropped upon the ground. He opened
iem, and by the bright moonlight read a
jply to some he had set to a simple air for
er. They breathed the deepest tenderess,
the fondest love; every line was elouent
with a passion that knew no restraint,
ompletely beside himself with grief, love
ad madness, Herbert took the guitar and j
.riking the strings with a bold band, he
ing in his rich tenor voioe, the words her
tve had composed. He finished the ikst ;
arse and waited a reply?none oame; and j
in yet fuller and clearer tones he. sang again.
Ere the last note died on his ear, a
figure came bounding down the pathway.
'My love, my life, my treasured bride,
I knew I would bring you.' He laughed
triumphantly as be clasped her in his arms.
Hush! Herbert, hush ! What have you
done? Fly ! fly, you are lost,' she cried in
wild terror. Her face was ashy pale, and
her eyes wild and staring, seemed starting
in their sockets.
'What 1! it, Leonora, my darling ? my
own; tell me what terror is this V
Fly Howard, fly; my brother, my jealous,
vengeful brother; you do not know
his fierce nature; he has suspected us?
even now he charged me with my crime, as
he calls it, and while denying it your song
burst on his ears. I told him it was a wandering
serenader, but he left me with wrath
and passion in his fierce glance. Oh ! Howard,
must we part!' she threw herself weeping
into hia arms.
'Never,' said he impetuously. 'Never
Leuora, till death divides us.'
<Th( n die now!' said a voice'behind him,
'and part forever, for I swear, traitor that
you are, you shall never leave this place
alive.'
With a piercing shriek,. Leonora threw
herself between her lover and her fierce
saturnine brother. It was the work of a
moment for Herbert to place her on a seat,
and drawing his sword to prepare to defend
himself.
'Hold,' he cried, if indeed bonds of blood
unite you and Leonora. 1 cannot imbue my
bands in her brother's blood. Let us go
no deeper in this quarrel; I have done
wrong, but forgive me and let the splendor
of her beauty and my passionate love, plead
my pardon.'
Traitorous coward,' shouted the infuriated
Juau, 'talk not to me of love and beau
ty. Die, cursed thief!'
He would have plunged his sword in
Herbert's body, but his vigilance eluded it.
I will not draw a brother's blood,' Herbert
replied. As the kinsman of my wife,
I will respect your life.'
What do I hear?' cried the fierce and
startled youth. Kinsman?wife ! Nay
then, know I would murder you now, baseborn
Saxon that you are, if I had to drive
the stilletto at midnight in your back. Pre
suming dog?how dare you lift your eyes
to the noble house of D' Este.'
He spraDg on him with such fury, that
it required all Herbert's adroitness to elude
the blows, and finally discovering nothing
but his life would satisfy the infuriated
youth, he attempted to cripple his sword
arm, io order that he might be unable to
pursue longer the sanguinary combat.?
Aiming for this, a sudden movement of Juan's
foiled him, and the young Florentine
received the weapon in bis body. He fell
faintly orying? *
I'm murdered.'
'Leonora?wbo had watched this scene in
the mildest terror, now distracted between
grief at the loss of her brother, and fear for
the safety of her lover, was almost beside
herself. The calmer Francesca, who had
been absent at the time of Herbert's enteance
into the garden, now appearing,
Herbert was hurried away, and the wounded
Juan removed to the house. Herbert
hastened to his hotel, but he had been there
but a short time, ere Mr> Monckton came
io, full of the news of the attempted murder
of a youth of the city, high in influence
and position. The attempt had been made
by a young Englishman, who had audaciously
attempted to carry off by force, the
Florentine's youthful sister, the pride and
boast of the city, and who was even then
betrothed to one of their noble lords. Mr.
Monckton represented the people as infuriated
at this bold deed, declaring their determination
to make a speedy example of
the perpetrator of the insult. Hie grief and
surprise may be better imagined than described,
*hen Herbert confessed himself
as the author of the crime, and revealed all
the transactions of the last few months.?
So incredulous, so shocked was the old man,
that Herbert bad to produce his bloody
sword as witness of the truthfulness of the
statement. Too grieved to rebuke the mad
imprudence of Herbert, and too anxious to
advise other than hasty flight, Mr. Monckton
at once made preparations for departure.
Iq a few hours they were on the road, and
ere many days were safe from a)] pursuit,
in Germany. Here Herbert received peremptory
letters to return home, and his
mother's failing health being urged as a
necessary reason, he determined to return
to America, and throwing himself on the
generosity of his parents, confess all his folly
and madness. Entreating Mr. Monckton
to remain, and as soon as practicable
to follow with his young wife, Herbert departed.
He left with high hopes, for immediately
previous to his embarking, he had
beard of the convalesence of Juan, of the
death of the old noble, leaving to Leonora
all his wealth, and better than all a long
and affectionate letter from his bride, vowing
anew a devotion that would know no
change in time or eternity. A prudent
letter from the wary Francesoa forbade his
returning at present to Florence. Her revengeful
brother had vowed to take his life,
and wrote Francesoa, <a D'Este keeps his
word.' She wrote also that Leonora, too,
prayed him not to return, but to see his parents
as he contemplated, and Franceses herselT
would see his bride placed under the
charge of the friend he appointed, and would,
if necessary, bear her company to his land
and bis parents. These circumstances quieted
Herbert's anxiety, and it was with considerable
calmness that be took leave of the
scenes that were burdened with such a
dream of romance for him; and with a
thrill of pleasure, once more he landed on
bis own, his native shore.
[CONCLUSION NEXT WEEK.]
[We oan supply the back Dumbers of the paper
from the commencement of this story.]
If you fall into misfortune, disengage
yourself as well at you can. Creep through
^he bushes that have the fewest briars. i
Jifledeb fjjisallaitg. ?*
1 - W(
TOO MUCH MONEY. sti
Said a friend to me on a recent occasion, ej
<1 never saw bot one man in my life who fa
acknowledged be had quite as much mon* tr
ey as be knew how to dispose of.- I bad ec
called at his honse one day, when a gentle- isi
man present urged him to a scheme from in
wbioh he might realise a large profit. 'You sc
are right,' said be, as regards the probable cc
suocess of the speculation, but I sball not in
embark in it; I have too much money now.' in
This very nncommon remark struck me very w
forcibly; and after the gentleman had re ci
tired, I asked Mr. P. toezplaio. 'Yes,' said bi
he in reply, ?I would not cross the street to in
gain thousands; I should be a happier ct
mon if mu innnmn were* Ipso T am nH />r
and in a year or two, whatever I possess se
will avail me nought. My daughters are te
dead, and I have three sons upon whom I S<
look with a father's pride. My own edu- tl
cation had been neglected; my fortune was li
gained by honest labor and careful economy;
I had no time for study, but I resolved c<
that my sods should have every advantage. 01
Each had the opportunity of gaining a w
fioe classical education, and then I gave h
them the choice of a profession. The eld- m
est would be a physioian; the second chose p
the law; the third resolved to follow my fc
footsteps as a merchant. . tl
This was very well. I was proud of my is
sons, and hoped that one day I might see ii
them distinguished, or at least useful to o
their fellow-men. I bad spared no expense c<
in their training; they bad never wanted &
money, for I gave each a libera] allowance, k
NTa*ia? mnn faitiAM nwAAMAAta knitntML,
ncvci uuu iucu taiici jsiubjscwui Ui uccuiuiu^; u
honored and respected; but look at the re- I
suit. The physician has no patients; the a
lawyer has not a single client, and the mer- a
chant is above visiting his counting house c
In vain I urge them to be more indus- o
trious. What is the reply ! 'There is ne c
use in it, father; we never shall want n
for mouey; we know you have enough for o
us all.' So look at my disappointment.? a
Instead of being active, energetic members ri
of society; my sons are but idlers,?men 1<
of fashion and display. True, they have ji
few vices?perhaps Dot so many as their it
! associates;?they have neverdone anything a
to bring disgrace upon my rame; but I u
had expected thorn to add to the little reputation
I may have gained. It is not the
, money I care for; as my sons say, I have
| enough for us all. But let the physician e
atteDd the poor, and the lawyer see that ?
, justice is done to those who hare been pay- v
iog the enormous fees now required by the
members of the bar. The merchant may not a
Deed the reward of bis labors, but there are P
a thousand'benevolent institutions to the *
support of which it would be a pleasure e
for me to see him contribute. They would a
at least be useful, each in his vocation, to s'
those around them ; now selfish -amusement ^
is their only aim. This is the burden up* c
on my heart, and this is the reason of the b
remark you listened to. Had they-been *
obliged to struggle against difficulties to n
gain there professions, and were they now 0
dependent on their own exertions for sup- ^
port, my sons would have gained honor for ?
tnemseives ana me. a;
This is the experience nf many a weal P
thy parent, though all do not grieve at the h
result. It has almost passed into a proverb K
that 'Nothing can be expected of rich men's tc
sons;' and in looking about us at the dis a
tinguished men of our own day, how few ^
do we find who have been nursed into great- ^
oess! ' . e<
The farmer's son studies in intervals T
snatched from active labor, he gains the ru- ^
dimeots of a thorough education from well- E
thumbed books, which he cons over by the 01
floating flame of a winter's fire, or the misty G
light of the gray dawn. His task is rendered ^
doubly hard, inasmuch as he is witlflout fo
an instructor, and must solve the most dif- 'a
ficult problems and unravel the most intricate
truths, simply by his own peseverring ar
efforts. At length his task is in a measure
accomplished ; the first step is gained; but m
& new difficulty arises. He is without means, 90
and must serve a long and tiresome appren- gi
ticesbip as a teacher, a clerk, or often the ?1
a. L! 1 L L A..
iwo comuiueu, ere ub uuu save eaougu iu u"
enter college. Three or four years of close
study, with the most rigid economy, brings d?
him to the threshold of active life, and 111
should he choose a profession, the same
scene must be in part enacted ere his ob- ca
jeot is accomplished. ro
Mark well the contrast. Whioh man, M
think you, is best fitted to succeed ? Surely
not he who has been cradled in luxury, ^
and bribed along the path of knowledge!
No, rather would we trust the self-made j
man, who has already o'er mastered difficul- .
ties under which one less resolved would j
have fallen; and though the one may be
favored by position, connections, and ample ar'
means, it is more probable that the other ?v
will look back upon him whom he has far 18
outstripped in the race of life.? Merchant's a.n
Magazine. ^
A PEETTY LITTLE TALE. . mi
The N. Y. Courier and Enquirer gives ou
the following account?vouching for its en- tfai
tire accuracy: nu
'At one of our hotels very recently, a oh
Southern gentleman?one of the largest on
slaveholders of the South?was quietly les
wending his way to bed, when some hali be
dozen of his acquaintances from the same
State demanded his presence while they gii
counselled upon the necessity of taking im- pai
mediate measures for organizing a Southern he:
Confederacy upon the election of Lincoln, enj
He combatted their folly, and insisted that of
Lincoln's election would be the most fortu- wh
nate event for the South that could possibly the
occur, except always, the election of Sewaid cot
to the Presidency; because, in bis judgment, fro
the success of any Republican candidate fee
would, within six months after his inaugu- dre
ration, forever put an end to slavery agita- ry,
tion. The rights of the South, be insisted, ant
would be far safef^tarthe bands of such men age
as Seward or Lincoln, than they ever had but
!en under Democratic rule j because, while
,ey would necessarily prevent the ezten.
an of slavery into free territory, tbey
ould scrupulously standby all the coitf
itutional rights of the slave States, and
:ereise a moral influence at the North,
vorable to a faithfal execution of the fbgi?e
slave law, and adverse to the interferice
of a handful of troublesome abolitionts,
whose incendiary conduct was disgustg
Republicans at the same time that
homing Democratic leaders privately eninraged
their interference with the South
i order to foster slavery excitement. *4le
isisted, therefore, that Lincoln's electfpn
ould be a great national blesriog, and pelliarly
beneficial to the South as the baringer
of the return of peace and harmony
i its relations with the North, and a. calllated
to terminate forevever all sectional
jDtroversies, by getting rid of corrupt and
dfish political leaders, who find their fairest
in fostering sectional feelings at the
...>k k. J ?k. i- X iv
uuiu ujr ucueiviug me people 10 regaru w
le intentions-and purposes of the Repnbcan
party.
The conversation waxed warm, and was
untinued late into the night; when, finally,
se of the disnnionists remarked?'Lincoln
ill, no donbt, be elected; bat, thank God,
e will not be able to organize his governlent,
because no Southern man will be
ermitted to take office nnder him. Who,
>r instance, would dare to be collector of
le port of ?' This roused the patriot*
m of the friend of the Union. <1 am cot
1 the habit of boasting of my intentions or
f my wealth,' was his reply, <but yon will
Docede that I have more at stake jji'the
ountry then all of yoa combined,-and you
now how little it weald suit my Ihaliit to
ike office; but mark my words, ae/Soon as
lincoln is inaugurated, I will addi^J&m
letter apprising him of this conversation,
nd of my willingness, if Tiecettary, to acept
of, and faitbfnlly discharge, the duties
f collector of until such time as his
(institutional administration of the governlent
shall forever put an end to this inatne
ry of disunion, because of imaginary grievnces
which exist only in the brains of
sckless, selfish, and unprincipled political
:aders. And permit me to add, thalm'S^P
ldgment, within six months after Lineola'a
lauguration, each and all of you will be
tost willing, if not anxious, to hold office
nder him. Good, night/
? <? ! '
If ever the invasion of England beattemptr
d, the point to be aimed at by the invader
rill be the capture of London ) and for tW
ery simple reason that it alone $fln|!jSwy-^.
be costs and risks of an attack, ffPortalouth
dockyard were destroyed, Devenort
would remain; if both were lo^j&We
rould be Gatham; give all three Toaoenmy,
and we have Pembroke; lettbeaSwe
11 fonr, and England might sttfijplP#
hips in the Clyde and the Sever# anotne
lereey by private enterprise; better, j>er
nance, than in royal dockyards, the gunoat
failures notwithstanding. A if enemy
rould not be likely to place himself peng*ently
on Portland Hill,' or any Other par*
f England, to capitulate and fflHMfopa. jLx
7hat might happen if a conqueror t
et possession of the Bank of Englaqp^thd
ppoint a General of Division Governor
ro tem, who would make the bank parlor
is headquarters, and"bid bis soldiers diono'.
uard over the bullion vaults, it jsdiisjjfalt ?'
> say. With London in a state ofmjege,
Provost Marshal installed at the Mansion
louse, a park of Artillery o?- Tower Sillj
le Royal Exchange and GpildhalL convert
i into military posts, and foreign -soldiers .
uartered upon the inhabitahtlpft ere would. j
no -Quotations' of Consols on ih$ Stoc*. f
xchange, nor any of the usual telegrams
leading articles in the newspapers. The
overnmeat would be powerless for ^y*
ting but 'making terms' with" the invading
e; Parliament would be nowheWfiHK^^
w alone would prevail; our glorfo^'con^^y^
itutiou would be abrogated, and the inon- y
cby itself might be in jeopardy. The *
iy of England's disgrace and homiltatiep
igtft inaugurate a saturnalia, of brutal
ldiery ; crime and misery, suoh as the 1mnation
recoils from conceivihg, might desate
our hearth and homes; and destruc}
of property to the value of untold milms
would involve-paralyuis of commerce,
tath of credit, stoppage of m&nufactures,
in of trade and dissolution of every, bond,.law
and society; nay, even ibis frightful
lamity might be heighthen^Kj?|hfl"Ao&
rs of the sack of London>^tOTiAitfty
agazine:
The way the English being tip.
ten.?The English^ bring uptheir chifiv
en very different from the manner in *
lioh we briog up ourS: vThey hsve an
undance of fresh, out-door air every day,
lenever it is possible. The nureury maids
3 ezpeoted to take all the children oat
ery day, even to the infant. This custom
beotmng more prevalent in this couUtry,
d should be pursued wherever it is pracable.
Infanta shoold be early accustomto
the open air. We confine them too
ich and heat them too much for a vigors
growth. One of the finest features of
8 London Park iH.said to be the crowd .of
reery maids, with their groups of healthy
ildren. It. is so with the promenades of
r large cities to a great extent, but jt is
a common in our country than it should
h . x
In consequence of their training, English
is acquire a habit of walking that ?coom ies
them through life, and gives them a
althier middle life than our own women
joy. They are not fatigued with a walk
five miles, and are not ashamed to wear,
en walking, thick-soled shoes, fitted for
i dampness they encounter. Half of the
isumptive feebleness of our girls results
m the thiu shoes they wear and the cold
t they necessarily have. English chil10,
especially girls, are kept in the nurseand
excluded from fash onable society
1 all the frivolities of the season, at an
i when our girls are thinking of nothing
; fashionable life.