Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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. Z V IBP*' 'T * ? ? *?. * \ -4TJ. . " * ? "* .' .^- .. ' .. i I ijfcfr til I:'. rfc-.jT ,.ar - fc . SSki ... & - . . _ __ ! ? | * ! | ; j ~~~" ~ i lswis a. 9RI8T, proprietor. j- An Independent Journal: For the Promotion of the Political, Social, Agricnltural and Commercial Interests of the South. J 32 pee annum in abvascb. V QL. 6. YOBKYILLE, S. P., THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 6, I860. 1STO. 36. Original Tories. Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. ELLEN CAMPBELL j OR, KING'S MOUNTAIN. BY MRS. M. A. EWART. CHAPTER XXIII. If hearty sorrow Be a sufficient reason for offence, I tender it here; I do as truly suffer As e'er I did commit. Shakspeakk. Herbert found his mother in such a state of convalescence, that he was almost tempted to doubt the imminency of the danger that had recalled him. He had been home many days, and yet no word of the far-away Leonora had passed his lips. His father's sternness, as well as his moth er's love, kept him silent. They never spoke of the remote hints of his letters, and a strange timidity forbade him to speak of what so deeply concerned him. As day succeded day, his difficulties iocreased, and each one proved more conclusively Leonora's unfitness for the domestic life that made his happiness. He recalled her haughty pride, the arrogance he had called independence, and her bold defiance of what she called conventional prejudice?what he now saw was principle. The very fierceness of ber love startled him, and he shrauk from bringing ber in contact with his firm, but gentle mother. But this wr.s ungenerous, unkind; he would now meot the fate whioh he now felt had been thrust upon him. Love, honor and duty commanded, and such calls his parents would not bid him slight, nor would they reject when offered. He sought his mother?boylike, he would make her his friend first. 'Mother,' said he, 'I have a secret I want to tell you.' 'And so have I one for you, Herbert,' she smilingly answered ; 'and to-day you will see my secret, and own mine is the sweetest and best. Hush,' said she, as he would have spoken, 'not a word ; wait til! you see Ellen Campbell.' <A day does not matter,' he thought. Ellen Campbell can be nothing to me, and where is there a beauty like my Leonora?' He had written to Mr. Monckton, but * ^ T ?:n m DOC tO ijuuuura; wiuuu^ mi uu wuuiu p,i ber the joyful news of a daughter's welcome. It was evening when Ellen Campbell came Herbert had roamed listlessly all day, dissatisfied and dispirited, he wished tbestrao-j ger was not. coming. 'Had it not been for her, my mind would now be unburden-! ed,'he said fretfully. He heard her an-1 swer to his mother's greeting, frank, cordial,! earnest; not in musical musing nor yet high toned or sharp, but clear, decided, tuneful, with a vibration of melody peculiarly sweet. A faint color flushed to her fair cheek, as modestly raising her eyes, she acknowledged his welcome. Such modesty was very sweet, and he could not forbear longing again to rouse that fleeting color, again to look into the untroubled azure of her eyes. The golden flow of her hair, the sweet arch expression of the lip, the little graceful figure, were all beautiful, but not so beautiful - as the soul looking from that lovely face? womanly, pure, strong and true. Oh ! how he rested in the cool, calm, grateful atmosphere of her presence. It was like breathing a strong wind after being enervated by a warm and unwholesome air. And now, painting and poetry, gave place to freedom and morals; passion and frivolity, to dignity and virtue. In this school he learnt the highest destiny of woman is the fulfillment of domestic duties, and the peace which accrues from the faithful discharge of them, the basis of public welfare. How the honest, fearless spirit roused him ; how the good, true, cheerful heart encouraged him ! It was no enthusiasm, no passion he felt for her, but an intense reality which grasped and struggled with his inmost heart. He never thought of love, he could not; would not so insult her?but the bitter, bitter fate, that had so separated them ! Her quiet unobtrusive habits, her womanly tastes, her winning affections, her maidenly modesty, her dignity, her gentleness, were as so many stars in the crown of her woman's worth. And how tender she was with the pale, drpfiminc student; how fentlv would she ? ?? 7 O J correct the mystical theories; how patiently lead the restless soul iu holy faith to the rock that never fails the tried and tossed ; how sweet such woman counsel, even when man's stern reason smiles on it, and even as he smiles, listens and sighs for such perfect trust! Herbert's nature so vacillating, so impulsive, rested in her cool judgment, her inflexible will. She won without awing him; she guided without restraining. She was as the full fountain to the river of his nature, answering all demands?equal to {ill emergencies. She was as the dew to the flower, dropping so kindly, so gently, resting so sweetly, so softly, and extracting as silently and surely the perfumes of his .mind and heart. How that heartand hand Sprung tp the great duties of life under her earnest purpose; how his mind, now active for good, nobly strove under such impulse, and how his whole Dature rested and reposed in such companionship ! Sometimes the questiou would startle him, does she love me ? And he would tremblingly hush the quietly thing, while a spasm of intense agony would wring his heart. She had ? taught him to battle with reality, to struggle against temptation ; and bravely did he answer her teachings. He set a seal on his lips, a band upon his heart, and the one should be silent in death, the other burst ere he would forget himself. Yet day af ter day, his mind revolted more from speaking of Leonora. Would he could bury the memory ! His dream of passion?how he loathed it! What are memories of imagination, to a man encircled by all the realties of social life, founded in pure and holy affection ? He would rest a while gain a little more courage, and then h< would calmly tell them all, and forever leav< 1 the home of his boyhood, the spot deare: than ever now, and bury his wretchedness and his grief in the land that had so beguiled him. One evening he had been exercising with a wild and unmanageable horse, the art in I which he delighted, and in which we have said ho excelled. He had just subdned j him, as he thought, and was pacing him around the house to Drove his docility, when a careless servant sprung a ratan he held in his hand. It struck the fiery animal, and j Herbert, off his guard at the moment, was j thrown with such violence, as to lie sensej less and bleeding?to all appearances dead, j His first consciousness was a sound of hurried and conflicting orders, a mother's tears upon his face, and his father's voice, sterner than usual, trembled in strange tremor. He slowly opened his eyes, a vision of a face unearthly pale bending over him with unutterable agony of expression passed bej fore him, and even as he strove to smile, j he relapsed into unconsciousness. For days .after that he lay in dreamy languor, with 1.1 _ . _ x (inai oue vision ever present, i One day being more than usually alone, j excited by the memory of the past, and the 1 hopelessness of the future, he determined to make the attempt and seek the family. In j considerable weakness, he managed to reach jthe parlor. Ellen was there and alone.? ! She turned as he entered. Oh ! he could | not mistake the joy of that look?his own j heart trembling in sweet echoings, was the | too faithful interpreter. The warm blood j dyed her cheek to crimson, and the soft hu' mid eyes seemed melting in their liquid j depths. The happy knowledge was too much for him, his soul was flooded in the jfond ecstacy, and pale and trembling, he | would have fallen had she not assisted him. i He leant his head on her shoulder for one j sweet moment, then feebly walking to a !seat, still supported by her fair arm, he drew her to him. This is as it should be, Ellen,' he said, no n?nin V? i o rooto/1 An Vint* ollAllMoP a a a^aui 1110 utau icoitu kju UVI OUUUIMUI. 'Your support, jour encouragement, God knows I need it, Ellen?life of my life, health of al\ that is holy in my nature, tell me you love me.' His head fell upon her bosom, his arm was around her, as trembling in his nature's 'impassioned impulse, he awaited the reply that he felt was to give him not Only hap| pines buc life. Gently raising him from ! his position, silently unclasping the arms I that were around her, Ellen tenderly laid I his head on the pillows of the lounge, and ; taking her seat by his side, she said : Now, we will talk Herbert; what do you waDt of me ?' She called him Herbert, and ah! she could not raise those earnest truthful eyes to his face. 'I want you to be my guide, my stay, my hope of heaven, my soul's salvation, Ellen,' : he said vehemently. <Hush, Herbert, don't talk so wildly; i that, I can never be, sinful and erring as I jam ; but your soluce, your comfort, your ' sympathizing friend, your loving counseller, your help-meet Herbert, I will be?so help God.' Her calmness, her solemnity awed him ; he shuddered and covered his face with his hands. j 'Do not think I do not love you Herbert? |you are very, very dear to me; your gentle 'affection, your truth, your nobleness, all 1 commend it, but this is not all. I love you ;for an inner self that I do not as yet understand; a fastidiousness of feeling, a reserve, shy and proud, a hidden mystery of character that has fascinated and enthralled me Do I speak too boldly? Believe I would : practice more reserve did I not think you needed protestation to assure you.' 'Boldly, Ellen; yort'^bold? oh! if you knew?if you could see my heart!' 'I wili yet see it and understand it all, I shall I not?' she asked sweetly | 'God forbid' he cried, in strong emotion. 'Ellen,' said he, grasping her hand and j drawing her with irresistible force towards j hitn, 'let me tell you bow madly, how pastsionately I love you. How I would dare j defy earth and hell to win you ; how I would : risk my hope of heaven for your sweet sake Oh ! Ellen, to claim you, pure angel, as my | wife, is a joy 1 never dared to hope, and MUVY, au^viit auu u^v uo uu tuctt rvvjirstj j kj U are mine, and as mine T will hold you. There was a fire in his eyes, a flush on his cheek, a burning fever in his bounding pulse, that startled and pained her. 'Herbert,' she said reproachfully, withdrawing herself from his detaining arm, I'This is unseemly and, forgive me?cruel.' Tears trembled in her soft blue eyes and her lip quivered. 'Forgive me, Ellen, dearest, best, I am beside myself. I know not what I say. I but know I love, heaven knows how wildly !?and am beloved. Kiss me my own, my peerless Ellen, and with that kiss, grant (forgiveness.' She drew coldly, proudly from ' him. 'Bethrotbal is too pure and holy to be j contaminated by baser passions. Your kiss lis for a wife, not a maiden. I will not tell I you how much you have wounded me, but II beg you not to repeat it.' | 'Good heavens, Ellen, how have I offended ? What do you mean? Oh! do not | withdraw the sweet boon of your love from I cue; deprived of that, I am indeed wretch, ed.' He buried his face in the cushions; ' I 1 . t 1 1 1 !_ xL A. | nis tone was nopeiessanasaa id me extreme. . I Strange mystery he was, so cold, so shy, so I passionate, so tender. What should she do ? , If she eucouraged him, he was all wildness ; ; if she frowned, he was all hopelessness, j 'You are yet ill; you are feverish, Herbert?you must be calm; when you are ; better, we will talk of this.' j Her composure, her dignity, awed him; j he was as a docile child before her. She II would not listen to his passionate vows, nor | suffer his lover-like caresses, and when she | found be sought occasion for these, she would Dot meet him alone, but contrived a I i third person should be aways a party to , I their meetings. If he was passionate and ; tender, she was cold and shy; if he was i warm and eager, she was proud and reservr ed. If he was reokless and pleading, she was calm and firm ; till he was fain to believe her cold as the Diana, his angry impatience named her. One day, after in vain striving to warm her into something like sympathy for his passionate feelings, he said: 'I do not believe you know wbat love is, Ellen.' 'You do not!' she replied, with that arch smile, that he so loved. 'No,' said he, angrily, 'else you could not be so firm, so cold.' She watched him a moment as he stood looking moodily from her. The mountain glacier, Herbert, that you so often tell me of, is cold, firm, impassive, I while held by its icy bands, but bursting its i chains an avalanche thunders down, the streams become torrents, and nature itself is startled by the mighty fall.' 'And your love is like this! tell me, El- I len,' said he suddenly, turning and grasping her hand. 'Hush, Herbert; a maiden's love will i not be questioned, she replied, the rosy ' color deepening on neck and brow as she withdrew her hands from him. 'Suffice it, you have the exchange of my < love's faithful vow.' 'Yes, but I would hear it again and yet again, and never weary of the hearing, that this bud of love, by constant breath, might 1 prove a beauteous flower,' he said. 'You would roar and destroy it by constant handling,' she replied, 'even as flowers will not brook a warm, rough pressure.' 'You are right, Ellen,' said he. 'In : spite of ray impatience, I feel you are right, and in the very coldness that I so censure, my better nature finds sweet repose and rest. But Ellen, tell me?for you have taught me that I do not know it ?what love is? I call it a passion?you 1 would make it but an affection ; tell me and teach me how to purify and elevate it.' ' 'Love is a passion, it-is true, Herbert, but a holy one; it is an affection too?but a noble one. It is, I think,' said she, though blushing deeply as she always did when speaking on the forbidden theme, 'a perfect delight and repose in the object of i our affections, with the knowledge that he has the same delight and respose in us, and i though time or change might discover many or grievous faults, yet we know no knowledge will ever make us falter or doubt in our calm trust ?' 'No knowledge, Ellen?' said he eagerly. 'What, not if honor, if principles were concerned?' ! Her clear eyes met his wonderiogly. i 'Honor and principle! That were impossible.' ; 'But if it were so, Ellen ; if you had been I deoeived ?' I 'Then would I wipe him from the page i of my heart. I could not love one destifnfn nf oif TDnnlrl ofill Kn I there, but he would do longer give it life.' I 'And you would love again V he almost . whispered. s 'Yes, when the marble of my petrified ideal decayed.' 'And that would be?Ellen ?'? 'In the grave,' she answered in her clear, 1 firm tones. And from that moment every thought of ' righting Leonora, died in his heart, crushed back by the more terrible grief of Ellen's widowed sorrow. He did not again 1 vex her by his impatience, or startle her 1 with his passion, but firmly, calmly, he in sisted on a speedy union. Every objection was overruled, and though Ellen was sometimes provoked with the urgency, she could Dot but respect the cool determination that would not suffer her to gainsay him. Mr. and Mrs. Willougbby too, urged it, and were his warm advocate, so that scarcely three months after his return, Ellen Camp- : bell became his wife. If delirium was happiness, he was for awhile happy, but only to be racked by the fiercest torture when calm reason again regained her seat. His ! only hope now was in Mr. Monckton, and the preservation of the secret which made him to Leonora still, as only 'Howard, the Englishman.' He wrote to Mr. Monckton immediately, detailing the violent opposition | of his parents, and charging hiin to cherish jthe secret, and not to attempt a passage until hp wnrnprl him For n whilp fhpop lpttprs I satisfied Mr. Monckton, but Herbert was j at length almost maddeoed by receiving one from him informing him of the birth of | an infant son, and Leonora's determination at once to seek him ; of his acknowledgement of Herbert's being in America, though still preserving the secret of his name and of his home. Frantic with terror though he was, he could yet calmly deliberate on the means for preventing the dreadful and shameful discovery. While yet arranging these plans, news of Mr. Monckton's death reached him, and he gave way to the wildest emotion. He upbraided himself with perfidy, with cruelty, nay even with mur|der, and Ellen, shocked and pained at the 1 wild grief, found it necessary to rebuke him with a harshness she had never before ventured. Stung to the heart by her scorn of Ian unraanliness she could not understand, # j he strove to check his passionate self-reproach. But his secret and bitter repen jtancehe could not so easily subdue, nor j the intense longing to see his only child.? His life had been indeed one of misery, not the least of which was his knowledge that Ellen had suspected a secret and hidden I cause of misery, and though too generous, i too trusting ever to seek to divine the cause, j yet he knew his want of confidence had embittered her life. * * * * * Respect for her memory had sternly forbid him seeking bis child after her death, as the knowledge of the discovery of it, involving her in shame, had forbidden it during her life. So the years had passed, till Graham had been brought, pale and wounded to his house. The dread of retribution had haunted him like a fearful ghost during all these years, and when Graham appeared so > suddenly before him, he at once recognized the wronged Leonora's child, and bowed to ' a judgment he had long considered inevit able. lie was not long in discovering the young Englishman's love for Ellen, and im- ii mediately his heart greeted this as atonement for his sin, and he vowed to accom- g plish the union. Graham's impetuosity? his ardent love?carried him back in fearful reality, to his own passionate youth.? I He sympathised with every emotion, and Ellen's coldness maddened him as much as * it did Graham. Every taste, every fancy e of the boy, was his own ; how he loved the t' proud, passionate, impulsive youth; how he yearned to claim him as his child. Alas! I it was part of his punishmenthe should not. b Every thoughtless word of the high souled fi boy forbade it?every emotion, every tone, n taught him how be should be despised. It ti was a bitter punishment, day after day to p watch the youth, who never gave a thought ^ aU mam nAMA nf Tt! 11 Pn TT lu tuc u?u uiau, nave ao bug uugiv w? y ? to know that his yearning love, his almost ci worship, was accepted in careless courtesy, tl which courtesy grew sometimes impatient v at a scrutiny he could not understand, a w tenderness often deemed officious. And t< more bitter than all, to have his deep sym- li pathy, his eager interest, his paternal love, g construed by his boy, into an incipient mad- a ness where caprice chose him as its subject c And now he was dead?and the old man a was desolate and heart-broken. No other e one could fill the void that had ached for so d many weary years to grasp the child who b perished in the possession. His days he knew were numbered, and he but asked to see the child he had so long loved?whom v a merciful Gdd had prevented his making y her also miserable?happy and blessed, and v he would welcome the death he had so long ii waited for. Thus ended the unhappy record; and Ellen no longer wondered at the fierce passion that would have sacrified her, nor at the inute despair, the shuddering terror, h bVinr* horl onmofimoo no 1 lor??.ma^nPQQ I c CHAPTER XXIV. "Stand n Firm for jour country and become a man Honor'd and lov'd." Johnson. 'There, Elleo, you have diessed that for the last time, as Ellen Campbell,' said Davie, a few days after reading the above record. a 'Are you tired of my surgery?' she re- e plied, smiling as she drew the unseemly ^ bandage away, and laid the clustering hair tenderly over the wound. 'No, only tired of my maiden nurse.? v Do you know, Ellen, I fancy a wife's hands ' are much softer and sweeter,' said the bold a trooper, throwing his arm around her. 'Do you ?' she archly replied ; 'how can you tell but experience will prove the a fancy as deceitful as other airy castles; then F how will you redeem the independence so 1 slighted ?' F i 'I will not attempt it, dear girl, but pay jthe forfeit of my rash desire, by the devo-j^ Lion of my life. But you beg the question. Answer?what says my Ellen? Must I suffer for my surgeon ?' 'You are not in earnest, Henry?' said 11 Ellen, deeply blushing. J ,t?.. i,;qq t pmann > c ~xjj HIIO ixtaaf jl anottij ouiu iiu^ ouubvuiug* a kiss from her cheek ere her startled and a proud 'why, Davie!' could prevent. He t laughed at the pouting chagrin of the face. 'Come, dearest, must I swear again.? ^ Remember you are responsible for these ^ oaths ; of course, I am not now a free agent, v or will I conclude that my Ellen not only a believes what I have said, but will per- c form it?' c 'You- are mystical, Henry,' she replied, J turning her blushing face from him. 'I do not understand you.' f 'HeaveD defend me from the un-American c character! Now if my speech should be 1 Anglo-Saxon Dot only in brevity but in simplicity, remember you urged toe to it and tempted a plainness of utterance I of- ^ tener admire than dare.' k 'No, Davie, I will not listen,' she laughed, as she arose to leave him, but he would not allow it. 'I know something of the Anglo-SaxoD you so admire,' said she, 'which you profess your modesty does not allow you to dare, but which I never knew to delay its utterance. I will hear more of its bold pleadiugs.' a 'Then it shall not speak a word?but ( three, Ellen. Be my wife !' said hp. c ?1._J 1 J - ! 'J.UU UStitSU UJK Uiilt luuy a^u) ucai i I Henry, and I paid 'yes,'' she replied, her I e pure, clear eyes meeting his js 'But to-day, Ellen?now.' r 'Now ? Do you wish it?' She had no c need to ask again : she almost regretted s she had so questioned. Davij was not of- s ten demonstrate, but when he loosed the r strong curb of his will, he was as ardently 1 impetuous as most Carolinians. r The. truth is, Ellen, I cannot accept e <no;' it is a coin that never would pass with r me. Now an honest yes, I appreciate and t love, and my Ellen's yes?shy trembler, c that it is, that so fears its best friend?I v will welcome to my warm heart, and nurse I it to a life that will never plead for recall ' e Yes?but yet,' said Ellen, hesitatingly. I 'I'll accept the 'yes,' without the 'but r yet' 'But yet,' is as a jailor to let out r some monstrous malefactor. And serious- c ly, Ellen, if you distinctly understand that 1 I wish it?I think you do, do you not?' he c questioned mischievously. c 'Quite sutisfiea,' said she, drawing shily t away from him. He laughed 'I do not ob- ^ ject to repeat the protestation.' i 'But I do, and seriously, Davie,' said she t gravely. ~ s 'Well, Ellen, don't tempt me with that \ innocent look of wonder in your blue eyes < or I'll forget myself and swear again. But i seriously, your uncle urges this, and I think ^ we should gratify him.' < 'But now, Henry?so sudden?' 'Do you not know me well enough V said \ he gravely. I 'Davie !' she cried, reproachfully. ?Nor trust me, Ellen V Her hand sought | his in earnest entreaty. 'Then, why hesi- i tate? Come love, be generous.' I 'How V she whispered; and Davie knew ( he had conquered. i Say Heory?I love yon,' said he, draw og the dear form to his heart. . But you know it,' she whispered, hei lowing cheek resting against his. Then say?Henry I will he your wife. Ah, Henry, you know that, too,' (iaic Men, hiding her head on his shouldej1. God bless you, Ellen. Now for weal 01 roe!' he cried triumphantly, as he hast ned to Mr. Willoughby with the joyfu [dings. Mr. Willoughby had not allowed Mr Ldams to leave them, so there was nothing o hinder the ceremony. There wore n( ishionable friends to call, no bride cake t< mke, none of the thousand and one con rivances to tantalize and disturb the sacrec eace of a newly wedded pair. In after years, Davie often saw his wifc lore richly attired, as glittering in jewels ourted and caressed, she moved in gaj Liiuu^s, uiu uyuusure ui an eyes, uut uevui 'as she so lovely to him, as on that quie 'inter night, with her dark bine dress but Dned close to the fair white throat, and re eved by its delicate lace collar, her rich olden hair shining in glossy waves, bonne s a proud coronal around her head, a sweet oy smile trembling around the parted lips nd love's liquid light melting her b!u< yes to violet lustre, she answered his ten er and eager vows with a whispered, <m; iusband,my dear husband 1' One word more and we have done. In process of time, four marble slab rere erected in the quiet country grave ard of that mountain church, where firs re heard the voice of liberty ! One wa ascribed to Herbert Willoughby? . T 1 - X t_ _ . .4 J . 3 ? linage not, inai ye De not juaeea. Another to Francis Edward Graham ? 'My Son !' Poor Mr Willoughby, he could notclain iim in life?he would in death. Another to Alexander Bowen and Bessi 'raig? They loved in life?in death they weri iot divided.' Another to Andrew Craig? 'An honest man?God's noblest work.' Mr. Adams lived to see the liberty hi iad so prayed for bless the land he loved nd his children's children yet live to rev rence the integrity of his character, am lis noble struggle for truth and justice. The impetuous, but warm-hearted am ;enerous Sevier, found one 'that would b rooed and not unsought be won,' till h a rlanil cnnlrn 01 1UO Ittlli IV UtClUt L bliuv buv UVT II opuab u ccidental truth when he said 'there was error in love and beauty.' Nevertheless lis 'pleaded reason' wa9 at length approved nd he wrote to Davie that he was at lengt irivileged to guard her, or with her, endur he worst. His descendants yet live to b iroud of their patriot name, and Nort Carolina fondly cherishes the memory c ler Cleveland, her Shelby and her faithfu Sevier. And Davie and Ellen?fearless patrio ?pure woman; they were, indeed, help neets for each other. His work was no et done; he bad yet battles to fight for hi ountry, and nobly did he perform his dutj nd so well did he and his compatriots fight hat in less than one year from that well ought field of the Cowpens, the King c Jreat Britain acknowledged the States t ie 'free, sovereign and independent.' I ras a glorious heritage to leave his children nd the proud father in after years fough nany a blood-stained field o'er again, as h harged his boys to guard well the hoi egacy, bought with the blood of a Wil iams, of a Campbell, of a 'Bowen ; or whis >ered to his daughters of the bitter wrong if Bessie Craig, and in prouder accents c he noble heroism of Ellen Campbell. the end. N Written for the Yorkvllle Enquirer. IT. PIERRE, THE MOUNTEBANK or, THE PREDICTION. A Romance of the Empire, under Catharine, II, BV R. B. RUSSELL, CHAPTER I. the mountebank. Our story opens in February, year 1795 t Rome, Italy. It was the last day of tb Carnival, and the streets were filled witl :arriages and pedestrians, crowding, tear ng, jostling and struggling against and witl :ach other; the horses kicking, prancing topping suddenly and dashing forward nnrl hrauinc ; fheir half rlrunkei ,u,hu,uf? j?n > Irivers yelling, screeching, screaming am homing?the pedestrians laughing or cur ing, as was their humor; dogs running be leath the wheels, and yelping and howlin; ike mad; everybody in everybody's way 10 room for anybody; guns going off ii very direction?every thing, whether quad uped or biped, trying to make more noisi han the other; and all because it was th< lose of holy week. Good Lord help us!? ?hen riot runs wild in the streets of th< Sternal City; where religion is forgotten ven by the staid churchman, and naugh s thought of but mirth, joy, and ungodl; evelry. Knights, harlequins, marquises uonks, sailors, soldiers, devils, kings, drag ms?men attired as cats, bears, buffaloes ions, dominos, peasants?ladies as pages |ueens, nuns, shepherdesses, sultannas, Cir ia9sian beauties, Greek slaves?huge cab lages, beets, pumpkins, boots?every dis ;uise or fancy dress the costumer's ingenu ty can invent?rush by in all directions? lorth, south, east and west?'across th itreet, down the street, up the street, on vard'?throwing handfulls of confetti a >ach other, striving to tear off each other' nask and defend their own; playing th rery deuce, and all because it was the las lay of the Carnival, Men from almost every nation under th sun?the lively Frenchman, the sedat Grerroan, the quiet Englishman, the Swed( Prussian, Austrian, Russian, Americar Spaniard?all are here to see what is to b seen, eat what is to be eaten, hear what : to be heard?each to enjoy himself after h own manner. Bright-eyed, dark-haire daughters of Italy stand on the balconi* - or at the windows, which are gaily decora ted with flags and ribbons, showering dowt r flowers and confetti upon the passers-by, and laughing merrily as some, more gallanl ' than the rest, take up the former and thrusl 1 them into their button-holes. All weai masks, all are dressed in fantastic costumes, r all enter into the fun of the thing; no tears, - all smiles; sorrows forgotten, joy predomi 1 nant; the past unrecalled, the future unan ticipated; forgetting that life itself is oot , long carnival, beginning at the birth, anc i ending at the grave. ) Noon at last! the sun high in the hea ) vens; the day hot?too hot, indeed, to re - main out of doors. The revellers disap I pear within the houses, to while away th< afternoon at cards or other amusement; tc > lounge, to talk, to sing, to admire their owr , costumes and criticise their friends'; resol j ved not to venture out again until the coo! rtf fV?o oron i nrr Mnf oil rrnno Iiatvovoi* ? | Ui ?uc bivuiugt iivu ait iivn?v^i . t for in front of the Palace de Rosenborg it . collected a large crowd, composed mostly of the poorer class, real peasants and vine i dressers, who, being unable to procun 1 masks, are content to look on and see theii , lords and ladies enjoy themselves. Yes , thank heaven! the poor have some plea ? sure which the great ones of earth canno . deprive them of, if they would; and noth p ing so sweet as that which is procured fo nothing. If they cannot buy fine dresses they can see them ; if they cannot enter i s beautiful garden, they can peep througl > the palings and observe its manifold beau t tics; if they cannot snatch a flower fron s yonder rosebush, the breath of heaven wil waft its sweet perfume to their senses ; am if the interior of that splendid mansion i - forbidden their view, they can see the out side, which is something. So this crowd .. tVion TU9d orfororrori in viominnr ttio foata n J VIJVUJ U MU vu^u^vs* tu f ivniu^ vuv IVUtW V a tall, thin, hollow-eyed, cadaverous lookinj e man, whose attire, half-theatrical, half-cleri cal, but rent with holes and covered her B and there with patches, proclaimed him 1 travelling juggler and mountebank, a clas now nearly extinct. At the moment we introduce the Mown e tebank to the reader, he was standing on: t wagon?to which was tied a donkey as fa . as his master was lean?tossing severa ] balls in the air, and catching them in small wooden cup, which was fastened t & his forehead by a strap; a feat which, i e theatrical parlance, was greeted with round e of applause, and judging from the numbe Q of coins flung into the wagon, was highl a appreciated by the lookers-on. A larg i( placard in red letters, with a border of blu< [? informed them that he was 'Jean Sair h Pierre, from London, Paris and Vienna e that he was 'possessed of several wonderfi e curatives;' was 'able and willing, for a cot h sideration, to reveal past, present and futur if to those who may wish to know them,' an [1 was also 'a juggler of extraordinary merit Beside hira stood a boy of fourteen, sma! it for his age, whose attire and head-covering ). coarse and ragged though they were, coul ,t not conceal the symmetry of his limbs, no g the almost girlish beauty ot his teatures.? r( His winning smile, graceful movement and handsome face, did not escape the nc |. tice of the crowd, more especially the fe if male portion; and the juggler'9 receipt 0 were greatly enhanced by his presence.? It Although Saint Pierre proclaimed him a i, his son, he bore not the slightest resem t blance to his reputed father; but as Dam e Nature, like Cupid, delights in playioj y strange tricks and fantasies, it would no |. be right for us to question the mounte 1. bank's assertion. After several feats, eacl g more and more difficult, Saint Pierre, view if ing with apparent satisfaction the pieces c money he had already received, drew wooden plate from his breast, and turnin to the boy, who was gazing with eviden anxietj toward the grand entrance of th 5 palace, handed it to him and bade him col lect the bajocchi, which he wa9 sure?t use his own words?'the generous publi who always appreciates and rewards tru talent,' was getting ready for him. Th boy hesitated a moment, still keeping hi eye fixed on the door; but starting sudden ly, he uttered an ejaculation, and whispei ed a few words to the other; then with '' smile he took the plate, and walked to th ? edge of the wagon. 'Don't go away yet,' said the mouote h bank, observiog with disgust that severs , persons were preparing to retire?probabl for the reason that having seen one part o 3 the show for nothing, they did not care a j bout paying to witness the rest. lPc ,m Bacco! he is here,' he muttered, as a nev comer approached. 'The net is spread an< y the bird is caught. Buon Giovno! m; very good friends,' he said aloud, <yoi a should remain. What is worth looking a is worth staying out to see. You have no B heard Henri sing the Marseillaise, nor seei e the last feat, which is the most wonderfu _ or all : a leap over twelve bayonets, al in a linn nooh nnn fnr?f, nn?Tt. ; ftn< 3 ? ? , > ~~ which will be performed by my son here ii t less than ten minutes. Do wait, my mas P ters; it is worth going without your dinne to see.' ? At the mention of the Marseillaise , many who had been witnessing the show a , a distance, drew nearer to the wagon, a - mong them the new comer, a young man - who despite the warmth of the weather, wa i- closely enveloped in a black riding cloak - The donkey, (unfortunate beast!) hearinj - dinner mentioned, pricked up his ears a e though it was high time he had his; am turned his head in every direction to see i ,t it was approaching. As the crowd dret 8 nearer, pressing against him on every side e he waxed indignant; and began to kick ou it right and left, possibly to clear a path fo the expected meal, which wa3 no sooner ofc e served by bis master, than he proceeded t e belabor him with a stout stick, i, 'Dog of a donkey?ass V he exclaimec i, 'will you not learn to be patient V Don; ie be afraid of him, ray master ; he is gentl is as a? is What more he would have added w d know not; for highly wroth at such cru< i& treatment, (who would not be ?) the donl . ey bolted forward; and the mountebank, n i losing his balance, pitched head-first out of , the wagon against the stomach of a short, a t stout, and very obese gentleman, who stagt gered under the unexpected blow and fell o r back. As a ball in a bowling alley knocks , down one pin, and as that pin in the fall c , knocks down another, so did the fat gentle- c man knock down the man who stood behind f - him, he another, and so on to the end. The * > bystanders laughed, the boys cheered; and I 1 the mountebank, with his everlasting smile, t rose to his feet and bowed, as though it - was all a part of the show. Pardon me, your excellency,' he said, - ?it was but an accident. Diavolo, you ; wretched beast! but you shall have no sup- t ) per to-night;' and he sprang into the wag- s i on. 'What were I saying? 0?wait till i . you hear Henri sing the Marseillaise : it is I worth hearing.' f ; ?Is he your son ?' enquired the new com i er, as ne nearea toe wagon; ana pointing < j with his finger to the lad. Saint Pierre i closely ecratinized him for a moment ere ) he replied? i r 'Certainly, my son, and no other.' i , 'Strange, very strange !' said the young . man, gazing at the boy with interest. ?I t have seen him before, or some one resem. bling him, but where?' He paused and i r fixed his keen eye on the mountebank's face , as he asked, 'Art thou sure he is thy son ?' a 'Why yes,' was the reply. 'I have his ; a mother's word for it, and she was an hon- < . est woman.' 0 The bystanders laughed. The stranger < 1 turned fiercely toward them and raised his i j hand in a threatening manner, but recover8 ing, be drew his cloak yet more closely a- i round him, and said calmly, ! , 'So he is really your son ?' f 'He is,' replied Saint Pierre. 'Ahandg 3ome lad, is he not ?' 1 i- 'Very,' was the reply. 'What do you e call him ?' a 'Henri Saint Pierre.' s 'Saint Pierre !' muttered the other mu- | oinrrlo <nr> T nosor liaar/t fhnf noma ho. i ?'"bV , ~w, * .w. W.V.V - WW . fore. It is French. a 'So are its bearers,' said the mountebank. ,t 'I doubt it.' J 'You are complimentary. May I ask why?' a 'Because you speak Italian with a Pruso sian accent' n 'That is nothing. I resided in St. Pes tersburg several years; and. speak all lanir guages equally well. That of France, howy ever, is my own.' e 'We'll see,' said the other smiling. 'Is 5, your wife living?' he asked iD French, it No, my master; she died about two years j' after the birth of Henri,' replied the moonil tebank, in the same language. 'Poor woi. man !' and raising his eyes to heaven the e worthy man sighed deeply, endeavoring in d the meanwhile to force a tear, but the effort was a vain one. II rrmnnfphnnl/ hiio Jiiof Vtio roifo ' ooi^ ,, -" r, one of the bystanders, with a grin, d 'Why don't he get another?' enquired a r second. 'Come, recount to us her many virtues?' 5 said a third. i- 'Poor follow !' and expressions of mock !- sympathy ran the round of the crowd, s 'Peace, fools!' exclaimed the stranger, - imperiously. 'Still the same account. But 3 this boy?this Henri?do you wish to part i. with him ?' e The mountebank started on hearing the g question; and a look of joy passed over his t features. But instantly assuming a look of s- surprise, he replied, h 'Part with him! Not I, indeed! He | r is worth eight hundred francs a year to me, ! if which I do not care to lose. 'Besides,' he a added, with a smile, 'I mean to bring him g up to my own profession ' it 'Ynnr nrnfessinn !' exclaimed the other. e 'Why, man, it will be the ruio of him, body |. and soul. Id ten years be will be such a 0 skeleton as yourself, the purity of his miod c destroyed, if it has Dot been already, and e bis beauty gone the way of all things pere ishable!' $ ?Perhap9,' said the mountebank, carei lessly, and yet oever taking his eyes off the r- straDger. 'Perhaps.' a 'It were better for you to let him go with e me. I am rich, and while life remains, he shall Dover come to want.' ' Cor-po di Bacco!' exclaimed odo ; 'the ,| gentleman wants to adopt him.' y 'And the mountebank refuses.' ^ 'Here's a pair, if he waDts them ;' and two little ragged urchins were thrust ber fore the stranger, who gazed furiously a- ; y round him and bit his lips. i 1 'Silence, my master,' said the mounte- 1 y bank. 'May I beg to know your name ?' i 'It would Dot benefit you in the least to t know,' was the haughty reply. 'You ought ' t to know,' he added, 'seeing that you call 3 yourself a fortune-teller.' 1 'And I can tell you, by looking at your 1 hand,' said the mountebank, 'which I will 1 i do in a few minutes, providing you will 1 3 permit me.' f 'Well, let us see the end of the mummer ry. and get rid of the fools! Go on with your feats, tricks, or whatever you choose to call them.' I t 'With pleasure,' was the reply ; 'but first - for a few sales of my invaluable remedies.' , 'Gentlemen, is there any one present who 1 s is so unfortunate as to be afflicted with pain . or ache of any kind?toothache, ear-ache, y head-ache, face-ache, stomach-ache, pain in ! s the head, arms, legs or body?here is a sov1 ereign remedy, which will cure as soon as ' f applied. Highly recommended by the v medical faculty of England and France; !, and made under my own supervision.? ] t Price five francs per bottle, being but little r more than the cost of preparing it. Here 1 ?. is another remedy, an excellent one, by the o way, prepared by Doctor Allbower, of Lon- ' don, whose contributions to medical soience I, are of world wide renown. The recipe was ' 't purchased of a native of the East Iudies; 1 e and the price given for it was so large that 1 I am afraid to mention it. Are you reste less and uneasy; take three drops of this, >1 and you will fall into a deep and refresh- < t- ing sleep, and not open your eyes again tntil?until?' J The day of Judgment,' muttered one, eeing that he hesitated. 'Until you wake up, he means,' said anther. 'Thank you,' said Saint Pierre, no ways lauoted at the laughter which the two reoarks elicited. 'Than- you. Are you aflicted with a scolding wife, and do you rish to silence her tongue for awhile; give ter this, and in a moment she will be in he land of dreams/ > ^ 'Meaning heaven.' Tjfafr, ', 'No; the other place/ . The people laughed. 'Are you afflicted in any way,' continued he mountebank; 'take this, and you will loon forget your pains. Warranted to act nstantly, and sold at five francs a bottle/ 'I'll take one,' said the obese gentlemen, sztending a piece of gold. 'Thank you,' replied Jean, pocketing the noaey and forgetting the change. 'Who wants another?' <Here you, Giacomo,' said one of the sen, addressiog another, 'hadn't you better ,ake one ?' 'What for ?' 'To give your wife.' . ' > ; <Diavolo! she died last night, and I buried her this morning.' 'Indeed ! pretty quick work.' 'Come, come, signor,' said Saint Pierre, pou had better buy it while you have the opportunity. It can be used in all liquors; wine, beer, tea, coffee, or water. Warranted, as I said before, to act instantly, and the patient not to wake np for twelve hours. No more wanted ? Now for another branch;' and bis keen eyes fell full upon the stranger's face. 'Who wishes to have his fortune told ? Only ten fraos a fortune1-? Come, my masters, it is very cheap; and! only intend to tell one to-day. Toufpast, present and future life revealed for only ten francs.' 'Suppose you tell mine,' said the stranger. 'But how am I to know that you sneak trulv ?' r " <By giving me a trial.' 'Humph ! 'tis the only way to prove atyr thing, but one has to pay for it all the same.. What, must I unglove V .& 'Certainly; otherwise I cannot trace the line of destiny.' 'You bear yours on your face?the gallows,' said the stranger; and drawing off his glove, he extended his hand toward the mountebank. The latter examined it for a moment, and then started back with a cry of dismay. ^ 'Well, what do you See V "js&t 'Blood !' replied Saint Pierre, solemnly, and speaking in a voice so low that it wasip<> audible to all save the stranger. 'Bldoor 'Blood !' repeated the other. 'Pshaw IF" thought you were but a cheat, at best L~ Praise be to God !' he added devoutly)>fno man'8 blood stains my hands.' * J?**" <1 speak not of iae past, bat of the future,' said Saint Pierre. 'Yes, blood,' be added, 'naught but blood.' The stranger gazed, inquiringly, into his face. * *" 'Whose?an enemy's ?' 'No, a father's.' 'Damnation !' roared the stranger, catching at the handle of his dagger. <Wb*t do you mean V ' Ay, a father's blood,' repeated the moon-: tebank. 'Sleepless nights, the heart torn with remorse, and failure of your plans All these can be avoided? Peace, fool 1 another word, and I will give you in charge of the oftfcers of tbe'^ law.' v /t ,v ?And for what?' inquired -Saint Pierre. Speaking the truth? Why then I'H tell you more.' ?Nay, nay !' cried the stranger, eagerly. 'Pardon me my abruptness, but I would know the rest. Prove to me that you speaks truly, by telliog me who I am.' 'Your hand/ said the mounrtebank again. 'Yes, the.lines tell me that your station is ^ high; that you are rich, noble?ay,, of a princely bouse.' 'True. What more ?' -v ' - / 'You are ambitious, but not daring; relying chiefly upon others than on yourself' You are bold and yet irresolute; brave'to rashness, and yet averse to shedding blood; but if there is no other way you will venture it, but mark me, it will only be to fail.'. 'What more ?' . . J/, ?I see that there is one whom you have not met for years, whom it is necessary for RAI. *r\ AAHAlllAtA AnJ kw mk... ACJ ??? will juu iw vuubumic, auu uj nuuac aiu juu *Vf>< succeed. Be his friend, follow his acftrice in everything, and you will win thepri^e/r' 'His name?' fy&SML. I 'My art goes not so far as that. He tnBp'f be the first to visit you to-morrow.' .7^ 'And you say the crime can be averted by my following his advice V 'I do. Another thing?decline the match which your father has already proposed, and wed the ward of the man who shall first enter your presence tc-morrow. He will propose it himself.' 'But the prize?you have not named it?' 'Why should I, when you know it?? Ah, I see you doubt me still. It is a crown.' 'A crown !' vV-v 'Ah, a crown ! a prixe worth winning, ind which will be yours within the'year. Follow his advice and you will be?' 'What ?' inquired the other, his eyes sparkling, and seizing Saint Pierre's hand. 'Emperor?imperial master over sixty million of people 1' \ The stranger started, drew himself up to his fall height, and a look of exultation passed over his face. Emperor!' he repeated, slowly, 'Pray God, you speak truly.' Then recollecting himself, he drew a purse from his pocket, and thrusting it into Saint Pierre's hand, whispered, 'meet me at the Palace de Rosenburg this evening, and tell the servant to show you into my private apartment at ance. No words; we may be overheard. Remember this eveniog at eleveo, and bring Henri with you.' Saying this, he sank back into the crowd and disappeared, [xo be continued next week.]