Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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p * ?* flC? " v ' "* I 0 ^ \ # ^ , * * # " "t . \fif% ffl 1# t # 1 I 1 IF HP* l\ i '/^^ fi o r? n jAwofrrmr-. jj f\^ Jf jptj ^r I LL L ' Ti S 1?J ^?P ^fcpP S[ v^'Ihi1 pn^?;'*' LEWI?.5l^R1S'r'[ S" Infyptad Jkrnilg ftttospip:: Jfbr % ^rmnttfion if % political, ??ial, ^grittttetal an^ Ciaatmsl fnttrats of % 3W|. ? VOL. 13. YOBKYILLg, S. P., THTJB9PAY, OCTOBEB 17, X'8e^y^~~^-^ ^ ' 2STQ./,-25,,: M ?rigiual pouwktte." . ' ? Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. a TBI fflALTS OP BOMB.: '' , ? A STOSI OF DOMESTIC LIFE. J a BY BBS. X. A. SWART, ? AUTHORESS OF "BLLXN CAMPBELL, OB KING'S MOUNTAIN," AND OTHER STORIES. 1 , t chapter h?continued. e The chandaiiers of great water-lillies, shed & brilliant light over the parlors of Mr. Carter. The ^ windows of the firet parlor, opening on eyrie-like ^ balconies, were aunj[ with crimson hangings, of ^ satin, softened fe^n inner drapery of exquisitely ^ embroidered^fee; the furniture was of the same g rich color, much of it of an antique form, richly inlaid. . The soft velvet carpet gave bade no echo ^ to the footfal^ Ohjects of virtu were scattered in \ rU?yKng profusion; a few exquisite statues by &- t( moos sculptors, placed in the most artistic manner; pictures hung from the walls, of ripe and fervid beauty; psyches, chaste and pure in conception, perfect in execution, faces of infant or virgin love- d lioess, filling the whole soul with their beauty, touching the gaser with some mournful memory, thrilling and vitwatuig cm we weep auu uun uui why. Immense vases of Sevres China, of poroe- ^ lain and lapis lazuli, were plaoed in nooks and recesses, each bearing a fragrant burden of hot-house 0 flowers, large mirrors gave back the gorgeous ~ picture and opened a new scene of enchantment. ^ Heavy folding doors gave ingress to the inner drawing room, hung with green satin; the furniture of green and gold. Soft breezy landscapes, by Claude Lorraine, Pcrassin and other celebrated painters ; 71 loYely engravings of Lawrence's "Mother and Child," andMurillo'a "Conception"; the sleeping , "Venus and Cupid," a "Saint Cecilia," with ber calm seraphic free, and drapery of delicate grace, a adorned die walk In all the combinations, beautiful and gorgeous as they were, there-was an ele- ? gance, an adaptstiveness, which clearly indicated, by their perfect tone and keeping, the inspiration 0 of feminine taste. A curtain of green satin, looped Q back with cords like cables, twisting and falling in greoeftil tassels, divided the room from another. r Blue and silver hero predominateda few choice engravings; statues that Phidias or Praxiteles might have envied; books, rich in gorgeous bind- a ing, with different musical instruments, completed T the furniture of the room. ' Margaret was sitting near her harp, with her t hand yet on the strings. Her head was turned Q and slightly raised in a listening attitude. The tj faultless free was colorless as marble, and as odd. Q Her rich chesuut hair, catching the light on its a sunny waves, till they deepened to an almost gold- t en hoe, was wound in simple braids around the small and exquisitely formed head, exposing the delicately shaped ear, tinted like a sea-shell Her * ' " * * Jl? 2X? t oeok, pare as Alpine snow, arcnea prouuiy ao u conscious of its lovely burden. She was above the medium height, with a form of full, almost voluptuous proportions. As she sat, the sleeve of her ^ dress fell back from the arm that rested on the . r harp, andhadabe possessed no other beauty, that ? if would have been fascination. Fair, round and j dimpled, it tapered down to a delicate wrist, a . hand soft and smooth as velvet, the' fingers tinted s at the nails, as if dipped in a rose's heart, and the _ palms revealing a soft peachy pink, contrasting beautifully with their snowy surface. The impe- j. riousgrace of the beautiful head, the hps slightly t parted, with the shadow of a scorn habitual to them, the queenly carriage of the swan-like neck, t the quiet dignity, the classic repose of the whole attitude, betokened, better than words, the proud ? character of the woman. The face that bent to hers was of singular, man- t y ly beauty. The features were large and liberally ^ formed. Sdft, lustrous brown eyes; nose finely c cut, and slightly aquiline; mouth full, with short ^ arched upper-lip, covered with a heavy, hut close- ( ly clipped moustache.? The chin and jaw were <; hokUy proportioned, and the head rested on a fine v muscular neck. Tall, broad shouldered and finely c developed, Stephen Hunter was a perfect picture < of vigorous manhood. He was a wealthy planter on the Mississippi. Visiting the city in the early r part of the winter, he had seen Margaret at a con- , cert, and had been deeply impressed with her beauty. He at once took measures to be introduced to ] her i and her cultivation, refinement and acoom- j plishments, cemented the charm. Traveling, as ] he had done, over the old and new worlds, his t dream of beauty had never been fully realized till , he saw her.. She embodied to him every grace , and attraction of manner; but so passionless, so cold, he often wondered .if the beautiful casket ( lacked the soul which was the gem that alone could , give it value. He was enthusiastic, ardent and impetuous; and gifted, as he was, with talent and intellect, he had also the courage and energy to , overcome and accomplish. . Near a table of books, stood Janie Carter, with a a beauty, cunning enough to need the pencil of W Iris to tint it, so changeable was its hues. The , cunning sorceress, the wilful child, the captivating ] woman, the laughing coquette; blinding, coaxing, enthralling, seducing, she was an epitome of contraries. Warm, eager, impatient, versatile, of al- , most uncontrollable animal spirits, she was also , soft, yielding, tender and timid. She melted in mist but to break into warmer and sunnier gleams. ; Her face was a mirror for every emotion of her capricious spirit Her sparkling dark eyes would, one instant, tempt to sympathetic laughter; and the next, by the depth of their soft and holy shadow, subdue to the utmost tenderness. Her features were far from regular; had they been, they would have lacked the piquancy, the spirit, which was their greatest beauty. Her short black hair, hung in thiok curls around her neck, and formed, with its waving wealth, no inconsiderable charm. Janie's very nature taught her ooquettish affectation, and she would shake her curls around her face, lift a quick shy glance through the mist of them, or steal a look of tenderness, withdrawn ere the quick blood could answer the revealing. Or with them thrown back from the speaking face, she would raise an earnest glance of eager enquiry, with eyes sparkling and dilating. As her questioning mind would open new avenues of thought, she would suddenly change?her curls would be shook with a merry toss, as her. mirthful spirit would on/1 no Jin plippt and . UtWU iWllIC UCH 1UIVMIVU] uuu W U|>, eye, answered the emotion, her laugh, thrilling in musical cadence, made a bird-like accompaniment to the sparkling face. She was a little below the medium height, with a figure of perfect symmetry and singularly light, active and graceful. She was now engaged in lively conversation with a young man of graceful, elegant manner. Edward Wilcox had studied law, and might have been a star at the bar, had he not been cursed by hereditary wealth. He had powers, but no object on which to direct them; and no necessity for their exertion. He was fond of comfort, fond of gentility, fond of doing what the world expected h?m to do, and as the world had pointed him to Janie Carter as the woman to make him an admirable wife, he was not to disappoint it. Janie had wealth, social position and respectability; so he was at perfect liberty to follow the dictates of his heart, which had for some time been doing host ge to her beauty and esprit He was disposed to feel, already, rather proud of Jauie's brilliancy and aacination. and anticipated with considerable pleaure, the caging of the capricious little beauty. He had a well-outlined faoe, and over his upper ip curled a soft brown moustache, whioh added to he charm of a beautiful month and daxzlingly rhiie teeth. His hair was of a rich chesnut, and urlod in heavy masses over his white brow. He rare on his well-made and womanly white hand, n elegant diamond ring of unique workmanship, nd as he threw back the heavy masses of hair rom his brow, or allowed the hand to linger in heir thick curls, the graoefhl gesture, the pictureque manner, and the beautiful band, were all rorthy of admiration. But his eyes were his chief harm. There was a poetical dreaminess in their lark hazel depths, which, when he chose, as he lid sometimes, to fasten in a steady gaze upon his stener, seemed to question the dearest secrets of be heart He was not tall, but of jost height; nely proportioned, and exceedingly graceful and ohshed. He bad alow rippling kind of voice, nd an empressment of manner very fascinating, le talked well, but if the subject was.disagreeable > him, or in any way tiresome, he had a nonchalnt manner of dismissing it, which was always entlemanly, but sometimes provoking. In the midst of a spirited argument, Janie sudenlv caused to listen to Margaret's "Tacea la otteplacida As the clear soprano voice reached itfecfull volme in the Aria from Verdis' "ID Trovatore," Jaie bent forward with parted lips to catch every ote of the sweet ypice. "Miss Janie, Miss Janie," said Edward Wilcox, npatiently, just as Margaret's voice was almost reathing, "Un none, ill nomc mlo," "Yon have heard that twenty times; are yon sally fascinated, or are yon studying attitudes?" Janie, waiting till the song ceasing, she said, "Yes; to exhibi^to a Goth who does not know bat the tones of music speak a language to the Did, richer in meaning than any words." "Well," said he, "I confess there is no music to ae like the music of the human voice, exercised a speech; and give me conversation before all the peras in the world. The one addresses itself to ay heart?the other to my senses." "And you would make music merely sensual ?" eplied Janie, with kindling eye. "Of course; is it not addressed to my ear alone?" "No; to feelings also, and nothing is merely senual which makes a lasting, spiritual impression on nnnl Tf r.h? mind and heart is not cultivated, doubt the power to appreciate it fully; yet it auat in some degree be felt by all, hence its characer of universality. Witness the fine compositions f Mozart and Haydn, repeated on all occasions, lie "Hunter's Chorus" needs no interpreter to ommend it, but is listened to throughout Europe nd America, which proves that music addresses he feelings, and feeling is alike all over the world." "The mind and heart must be cultivated to ap>reciate it I condemn yon. by the experience of he past Miss Janie. Why did the national manlers of Greece degenerate through its influence?" "Because they forgot its patriotic and religious haracter; applied music to the expression of the ender feelings, and at length made it the mistress, n stead of the handmaid of poetry." "Well! let us leave it to itinerant German and talian professors. It is, you must acknowledge, carcely worthy the pursuit of manhood." "I will acknowledge no such thing," replied Jalie with spirit "Would you consign such names s Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven ai d Weber to obivion ? Would you tell me their beautiful oraorios, rising to a pathos of sublimity, calculated in he highest degree to inspire devotion, are unworhy of the pursuit of their genius ? Have you for;otten Bach's 'Ascension' and 'Israelites,'Hanlel's immortal 'Messiah,'and Haydn's'Creation?' " "Mr. Wiloox has forgotten," said Margaret, in ler clear passionless voioe, "that Pericles, himself, lid not consider it beneath his attention. On the bntrary, not to play on an instrument was a disgrace, and music was considered, as it is now in the rerman schools, a necessary part of education.? >uch minds as Plato and Aristotle, considered it iseful, and Plato asserted his music could not be hanged without changing the Constitution of the Jtate." * "Against too such advocates, who could argue T' eplied Mr. Wilcox,"bowing gallantly. "I confess nyself conquered." "Strange," said Stephen Hunter, addressing Margaret, "that a music now so barbarous as th? jlreeks possess, should have ever drawn down the plaudits of thousands; and vet, before their subju Ration, how full of harmony it must have been ldinitting of every variety of modulation, which sdone can give pleasure to cultivated minds." "Of a harmony which must at times have pro iuoed inspiration; for was not Alexander anima ted to arms by the tones of a flute player?" saic Margaret "Yes, and to the renowned Lauria, for her per formance on the flute, the Athenians rendered di vine honors under the name of Venus Lauria." "Italy has be^n to modern Europe, what Greeci was to Rome," said Margaret, "though now a sen sible decay is visible, and the art seems disposed t< leave its ancient seat and abode in Germany." "Yes," said Hunter, "though I think they d< not equal their masters in vocal melody, they cer tainly have greatly surpassed them in instruments music." "By 'instrumental,' you mean scratching, claw ing, beating, and otherwise committing assault anc battery on an unoffending instrument, I suppose,' said Wilcox. "If there has ever been rhyme o: reason in the 'instrumental,' as you call it, I hav< failed hitherto to perceive it. It is as if there wa a chase for the tune which constantly eluded tbei grasp."' "You have caught the idea exactly," replie* Stephen; "that is the charm. The ear is con stantly on the qui vive to connect a melody whicl is plainly indicated throughout the piece. It is, a you say, as constantly eluding. This heightens th excitement, while the mind is delighted by th search, the pleasurable curiosity, the perfect exe cution, the occasional streams of unbroken mel ody.". "Mr. Wilcox," said Janie, with a merry twinkl in her eye, "you remind me of the boy sent out t count sheep, and who returned to his mother i perfect despair at a little frisky lambkin, wh would not stand still to be counted." The laugh was against him, but he good-huinoi edly replied, "Little rebellious thing! I have no doubt : never bleated but to make discord.'' "Indeed, no," said Janie, "it was the gem ( the flock. Its wanton frolics led it to the sunnie: snots, the loveliest bank, the clearest streams, an if. for a moment, it would lie quiet, you longed t see it at play again, to follow its mad gambols." "Conquered again, Miss Janie," said he, shruj ging his shoulders. "I do not value the barren ground, if gallanti is again the victor," replied she. "You insist not only upon the person, but tb arms of the vanquished," said he. "No, I ask neither," she replied, drawing bac shily from the look of the speaker. "I only ask recognition of right." "But the rules of war compel you to accept tb arms laid down," said he, following her. 4 4No, it is optional with the victor. I have bee > taught it is generous to return them," said she, at she moved toward the piano. "Is it always generous, Jaoie ?" said he, dropping hisjvoioe and turning over- some loose music, as if in careless conversation. She bliuhed deeply, but did not reply. "Sing this, will you ?" said he, arranging for hei Donizetti's "0 Luce di Quest Anima." Her voice had not the power of Margaret's, though surpassing it in sweetness and feeling. It trembled, in spite of her, as she sang: "Tbou'rt Mb and light to me, On earth, In heaven above ; Entwined our heart* abaU bo." He came to her side to turn the leaf, and stooping, whispered "Our deitiny uniting, Thl* world a heaven ah all be." She shook back her curls half-defiantly, halfpouting, as firm and clear her voice amended in: "Hera thycare* concealing Thl* world a heavenehafl be." Tossing the music from her as she arose, she said, "To what absurdities these operas make us give utterance. They are bad enough in solo. Margaret, how can you endure to sing them as duetts?" "I do not sing them for the words, Janie, hut for the music," she answered. "It would be as ivY?tr?nfnt?Jul a mn if tYlATT VAWt ?F1 TtMlflA f\f A lflHv'fi 1 luuuiv^iuu w luv u vuv/ nvtv au ^th*w v? w H eyt brow or lover's lute." "Maggie! You don't mean to say you can sing that "Ah so joyful!" in La Somnambula, and trill all those delicious passages of a heaven of love, of love, of love, and not feel that?that heaven is love?" said she,.laughing-and blushing. Margaret's lip curled slightly. "That would be substituting the shadow for the substance, and the music is the charm, not the ditty." Janie looked at her curiously. "Mag, you are trenched in ice." "No, Janie, only I never allow my heart to run away with my head," said Margaret Stephen half whispered, "Untouched by love, the maiden's breast is like the snow onBora's crest, so pure, so free from all alloy. It seems part of heaven to which 'tis nigh." The marble face gave no indication of feeling, as she said, "You are an admirer of Scott?" "To some extent?yes?as a prolific and gifted genius?certainly," said he. "In what character do you most admire him? As poet, historian or novelist ?" she asked. "As a historian, taking no rank whatever?displaying neither research nor profundity, each oi which is so necessary in that character; a* a romancer, of unquestioned merit, and yet I can scarcely forgive that aristocratic haughtiness which grants only to the rich and noble, manly virtue. His pictures of middle or humble life is faitbfnl, it is true; he grants them virtue also, but only the virtue of servility and obedience. This offends my republican prejudices, this inoulcation of conventional ideas of the immaculate courage and manliness of the high born and wealthy, ignoring , as he does, not the honest virtues of the laboring classes, but their capacity to rise not only as equah ? /? a j 1 j, but somet' nes as tue superiors 01 ganereu iurue and chivalnc heroes. But as poet, do you .not admire him ?" said he, cleverly turning the question. She hesitated a moment "In graphic descriptions, in lively measureyea. * And yet, I arise from his perusal neither animated nor awakened. Janie can read it with almost childish delight, rising often to perfect enthusiasm ; but I confess it does not stir my soul, or awaken my sympathy." "Would anything do it ?" he thought, as he watched the faultless face and listened to the soft sweet voice, so unvarying in its low utterance. "What! Miss Margaret?you are not stirred bj the force and fire of the description ; you do not sympathize with the soldier's thirst for battle, with the headlong fury of the field of carnage!" "I can scarcely call it poetry which excites the most hateful passions. 'It is beauty maketh poesy,' not the mad frenzy which delights in scenes oi slaughter. I have no joy in the encounter of hostile clans, which I call civil war; nor in that spirit 1 of chivalry, which is often another name for legalized murder." "You are right, Miss Margaret; even the genirn ! of Scott cannot interest true humanity in such of fensive scenes of blood, and lacking, as it certainlj does, a moral tone, it is ultimately destined to die. His life exhibits a truer picture of the morally sub 1 lime than all his writings. By his intellectual la bor he undertook, at a late period of life, to liqui date an enormous debt brought on him by the fail ure of different houses. He would not consent U 5 be dealt with as an ordinary bankrupt, but pledgee himself that the labor of his future life should dis ? charge the debt Honor and integrity were hii 1 incentives, and nobly did he fulfil his self-imposec promise. The public liberally rewarded him, bui " his life was spent in the struggle. His honor, ge nius and integrity still live, and will ever live t< i commemorate such noble moral heroism, such se vere rectitude." Stephen spoke with all the warmth of his manb nature, advocating as he did the honor and glor; ff such an act Margaret's deep and spiritual gre; j.j j j.j? ? i l? *:n ' eyes grew uur*. uuu uai*cr, no lie opukc, viu uk, " phen thought he could see the whole face kindl 5 into vitality. It must have been adelusion though for as he ceased, Margaret said in her quietes ) tones, "His life has always had a peculiar charm fo 1 me, parallel as it is in my mind to the noble Mil ton. Poor, blind and old, he entered upon th< composition of his great epic. For six years hi 1 wrote for fame and for the glory of his country ' In that time his task was done, 'a work for a) r time, a possession for eternity.' Glory, pure an< e unsullied was his aim; immortality was his re s ward." r "Yes, the cases are striking; but Scott's 'I God grant me health and strength I will redeen 1 it all,' is the noblest epic to me." Stephen's hea; - was unconsciously erected as he threw from hi h temples his rich dark hair, with a gesture habitua s to him, and he so looked the man, brave, stronj e and self-reliant, that Margaret involuntarily bowe< e her proud head. It was but for an instant He - eyes again took the deep look, which had befor I* startled him. It was like the shadow of a sou passing through their depths ; he could not agaii e be mistaken, but even while he questioned, it wa o gone. n "With epics, with ljTics, as the lives of sucl o noble men can furnish; glorious names, gloriou deeds and honorable feeling can never be destroj r- ed in our land. In reading them I am affected a by deep and solemn music ; and, indeed, I neve it hear the symphonies of Beethoven, the 'Messial of Handel, but I associate with them grand ol >f Milton with his masses of harmony, hymns lik st billows, his solemn pathos, his excellent anthem, d said Margaret. o "Handel, truly, is the 'Milton of music,' " sai Stephen. "As some one beautifully says of h j- 'Messiah': 'His airs are of sweetest and gentlei melody, but they have a majesty in their sweetnei y and gentleness, not only simply plaintive, but my teriously awful. They do not cause us to pit; le but to tremble. They do not move us to wee] 'because they arouse' thoughts which are too dee k for tears.' " a "I sympathize more with the genius of Haydi than of Handel," said Janie. "I like his chee Le fulness, his exultation. I love to follow hii through his 'Creation,' from the soft stealir :n strains which indicate the first ray of light, to ti i foil chorus of transport filled with the beauty and goodness of the Creator's it Was food!'" "Lot me qnote from my author again, Hiss Ja nie. 'In Haydn, we have tamictareequeoess ant the buoyancy of the Catholic worship; in1 Handel the sombre, the inquiring, the meditative thought ' fulness of the Protestant faith. By Haydn's 'Cre ation' we are charmed and elated; by Handel'i 'Messiah,' we are moved with an overcoming : sense of power." > % "Yon have given us a 'Milton of music,' let mi give yon a Baphel of melody?Mosart ; who, ii richness, parity and depth, has attained the highest degree of perfection," said Jgnie. "And who, like most other 'professors,' " saic Wiloox, "was perfect in nothing else." "I will not believe it," said Janie. "The com poser, of those beautiful masses, operas, and thai divine requiem, combining, as he did, all the sweetness of Italy, with the depth of Germany could not be other than a goodjind holy man. 1 will not have my faith disturbed by your skeptics rfnnb** Tjpuvfi bin faults to envious critics. I dc not wish to know them." * "The heathen Greeks would often pnt our chns tian charity to shame," said Hunter, smiling at Janie's enthnsiasm, for although they hac their Diroe, which inflicted the misery of violent passions and a guilty conscienoe, they had also th* Eumenides, who taught that the guilty suffer e nough in the pain consequent upon sin, and it if . our duty to comfort and induce rather than to re prove." "Bewitching Astrea!" said Wilcox, in a half whispered tone to Janie, "may you sing my requiem when I die, for you will judge that thougl men, oil "Gnny a kennle wranf, To atep ulde la basuD," and if it please you, let professors sing their love, talk tlieir fhadness, their despair, in refined anc doubly refined operas; let them be married in sharps and die in flats, according to the major 01 minor mode, but do not expect a poor fellow, wh( confesses to a want of appreciation, to feign sue! an enthusiasm "That I for joy bae barklt wi them." 1 "It is well you are merely expressing your opin ions, not pronouncing a judgment, Mr. Wilcox,' 1 said Hunter. "You would destroy all the Iitera tare of the past, when song was history, romfuxx and eloquence. We would no longer have th< Levite anthem, nor the whispered melody of lov( \ to Jefus; we woold lose the antidote which calm: the turbulent spirit of Saul, and the stimulus whicl ' incited the persecuted Sootch Covenanters to resia 1 tance and gave to our Puritan fathers 'their hymnt 1 of lofty cheer.' " Margaret looked up; Janie's soft eyo grew darl in emotion, bat at this instant, Mrs. Carter anc 1 Annie entered the room, and the party engaged ii ' general conversation. I : CHAPTER III How late it grew?nine, ten, eleven; still Mr ( Cartet' did not come. The clock was trembling 01 the verge of twelve, when the front door quietly opened and he sofUy entered. Bat not so quietly nor so softly that the listening wife did not hear She .o pened the parlor door. ; "How late you are, William. I have been a anxious. What has detained you ?" "Nothing particular, my dear; but you shoul< not be up." He stooped and kissed her forehead "Come, goto bed." She looked at his face. Very, very pale it was ! but firm and determined. "WiHiam, something is distressing you; tell m< , what it is." She drew him gently towards th< . parlor. "It is nothing, Margaret," said he turning hi,1 head away, although he put his arms around her , "You must go to bed." i "And you will not trust me. Well, William, ] ^ do not know why I have deserved it," said she noticing his evasion. "What is it you fear' , Weakness ? I am only weak when I am not you ' other heart, my husband.'' Tears gathered in he eyes. A spasm of pain crossed Mr. Carter's faa } and his brow knitted. . "It has to come; perhr^R it is as well now. Si f down and let me tell you." His voice was harsl and husky, as there, in that gorgeous parlor, sur ] rounded by the Lares and Penates of their hom< of luxury?there, where so lately their children'i peaceful hearts had luxuriated in rest, ease an( social pleasure, Mr. Carter told .their mother o; } their utter desolation. That night was the las j night of hope?his ships were wrecked. "And Oh! Margaret," said he, and the strong ^ man towed his head. "I felt as if I never wishe< 1 to come home again." ^ "And is that all, William?" said she. He looked up at her. There were tears in he: } eyes, but her lips were smiling. "All I" said he, "is itnot enough? Fortune, posi tion, honor, all gone 1" "No, William," said she, placing her hand ii his. "All is not gone?fortune is gone, it is true and let it go. I have never coveted it What i it to gain ? Any grasping, soulless man may gath 2 er it, and any selfish miser may keep it, but posi " tion, honor! In the eyes of the good and true ^ you are establishing your position. Will paticno in suffering give you no position? Will manl; courage and heroic fortitude give you none ? An* honor ! William Carter may lose his life, in thi ii i . n B struggle witn tne wona, Dut never xus uuuuu B "Margaret, my dear wife, my good angel, if voi " can thus look upon it, I can stand anything; bu the children, how will they bear it?" said Mr 1 Carter. ' A tear fell on his hand. 1 "We will hope all things. They love us, and . trust much to the example they have in you Margaret will reooil for a little while, but she wil * prove true ; she has powers of endurance. It i impossible to say how Janie will stand it; she i 1 so variable. Annie will be quiet, and the littl 1 ones will not feel it, but John '?and the mother* 9 voice trembled. j "John will do very well," said Mr. Carter: h , has youth and health and manhood. Let hin I work." 1 "Yes, my dear, let him work," said the wife r soothingly:" but remember that there isagrea e deal of forloearance to be exercised towards John j He has never been taught habits of industry, am a for a little while, he will find work odious." 0 "If the girls can get along, he can," repliedth father, sternly. "John is extravagant, wild an thoughtless. There is no doubt poverty is th h best t hing that could happen him.' a "But tne girls will be guarded from much tha r_ John must unavoidably leeL He must expecl not only to give up all the fashionable luxuries t which he has been aocustomed, but he must, also !? become reconciled to meeting summer friends, wh 1 will not recognize him in the winter of adversitj d This, to a young man; proud, high spirited and r< e sentful, will be galliDg in the extreme, and don >' has not patience to endure much. Do you nc see, father," said the mother, as she tenderlv lai , her hand around his shoulder, "that if we do nc y watch him with the utmost kindness; if we d is not tear with him in the greatest gentleness; at we do not give him, not only our love and trus js but our sympathy, he will be ruined ? How muc a_ of the children's headlong, wilful disposition i due 10 me, I cannot say, for I know I have nc been faithful in restraining them," and her voic ?> trembled, "but I now feel that if we do not bet p and forbear, they are ruined." "Yom Margaret! fond wife, patient mothe: 1 unfaithful ? Never I It is I that have been sten ' unsympathizing; throwing off their affection I my coldness, tul I now' feel that I hold my chi 10 dren s love but through you. But we will woi together. God bless you, Margaret I" said hi ce drawing her arm more closely around his necl a * I "God bless von, we will work together. I wonder s I did not tell von this before ; lmt I so dreaded to i< . trouble you?but, woman as you are, you have a > proved the stronger of the two. My strength, my 8 courage, and my hope, are all in von, and I feel o > now as if clad in a new armour for the fakttlo of I - life." She bent her head and-Icisigd the brow s - that rested on her shoulder, and then rose toleave 3 the room. He went out. One moment the wife a . hesitated?she looked around the huSS&utf rootn ; 5 in that moment her mental eye saw'her home complete in all its details?luxurious, chaste and ele9 gant; in that moment all her wedded life was lived ' ? over: its joys and its sorrows; she was a young p - and nappy Ibridte; a mother, watching the gam- v bols of ner children, following them to maturity; her heart swelled with pride aud sank interior, p "How loonld they stand it?" She had hoped for the husband's sake ; bat the reality, cold and on- a - compromising, was now before her. A spasm of b intense anguish crossed her face, she pressed her e j hand to her heart, "bitter, bitter poverty^' she Baid. Her husband's voice called. Sib started, p f The faoe was placid again. , "Coming/' she answered cheerfully, as she fol- 8 1 lowed himT ' < > The next morning the news was abroad. Wm. Carter was ruined. ' s The children were sent for to their mother's sit- n , ting room. They were all tnere DutJOtjn. Alter e I awhile he came in, flashed and excited. Mr. Car- y ter stood before them with folded arms and con- 4 tracted brow. . e s "Children, I have sent for you to tell you?" a r . choking sensation prevented him, for a moment. , from continuing? to tell you that I am a ruined man." ? s There was utter silence. John's face flashed crimson. c "In other words," said he, after a pause, "that - I am broken, and you"?his voice grew hafrsh and s i husky?"you are penniless." Still not a word, not a sign of sympathy. At length, John asked almost fiercely: "Did mother know of this?" 1; "Not till last night," replied the father, in a t j broken voice, stung to the very heart by his chil- n 1 dren's coldness. John brought down his chcnch1 ed hand violently on the table as he broke out: a r "Then I say it was a cursed cruel thing to keep t i it from her. You had, perhaps, a right to keep { us duped and ignorant, but she deserved better from you." ' s The frither leant his head on his hand without t reply. ... 7 "John," said Mrs. Carter rising, and standing ' by her husband's side, ""your kindness is as mista- s . ken as it is cruel Your father had a perfect right g , to shield me from suffering so long as he saw fit ij ' I did not question Ins right, nor wul I permit you: 5 He has lost much, it is true, but not yet all. He s ' is not ruined, for ne has not lost his rectitude, his p j good conscience, nor his determination to do while c t fife lasts. Last night I proudly told him he had a his children's love. Little did I think this morn- f ing would disprove it From you, Margaret. I o 3 expected at leak fortitude, not an unfeeling pride, p or stoical apathy, but a hope in adversity, a hea- u s venly trust, that would have cheered and consoled s I me. Janie. have vou ever done anything to de , serve a parent's love, that you should now tacitly s reproach his misfortunes? Ohl Janie, where is I your generosity ? Have you no love, no pity ?? d John, you have disappointed me; when I aoubted Margaret and distrusted Janie; when I feared thut t Annie would prove selfish and weak, I turned to \ my boy. He will come forward, I fondly thought, e ' and will be our stay, our support, our encourage- s 1 inent For years we have watched and guarded 1 these children. If they all forget *our care, John t j will not" t x John sprang forward. "Mother, you know," said he, grasping her S hand, "that it is for you I suffer. I would do ) anything"?the mother glanced at the father who 1 still leaned, with buried face, against the mantel. 1 For au instant, the manly fellow stood, then with . a generous flood of feeling said, "Father, forgive me. I assure you, sir, I do r not care for myself. Will you take my hand, sir, \ ' and let me promise to do all in my power for you \ and mother?" i 3 The father turned his head. "Oh ! John"? . 3 but he could say no more. He bowed his head on the young shoulder before him while sobs convul- j 3 sed his frame. f "Father, don't give way," said poor John, to" tally unmanned by this unexpected flood of feel- c ing. "Indeed, sir, I would not have been so irri- t [ table had I not gone out this morning ? and heard i , it in an insulting way from that fellow Lynph, who } wanted to get those ponies; but I knocked him s . down for his pains? forgetting for a moment his trouble in the gratification of having chastised the r fellow, "I got that satisfaction out of him." s 3 Janey stood trembling, now fully aroused by this c emotion; then throwing herself in her father's 1 t arms, she burst into tears. ^ 1 ! "Dear father," said she^'T did not thiq|&t was f so bad. Please 4o?'t think anything abourit? r We will all work for you." i 3 Margaret stood by his side, and toached his t 9 brow with her lips. r 1 "I will no longer disappoint you and mother," c f said she. "You shall find me equal to this." a t Her face was very pale, and her lips compress- r ed. Annie was standing by her mother's side i weeping on her bosom; she looked longingly at her i ? father, and when he held out his hand, went for 1 ward shyly, and kissed it, Dot aid not speas. 1 "Who says I have lost eveiy thing with this r wealth ?" said Mr. Carter, as his eye rested fondly ] r on them. "With the love of wife and children, t how can I be poor?" i "Tell us all about it now, father," said John, c * "and let us know your prospects for the future, i If you have not thought of them, we will help you; c a the trouble has got to be met, and I'm ready now { } to meet it like a man." John straightened him- t g self and looked the proud brave boy he was. s "I have thought of you first, my son," said Mr. s Carter. John's honest face flushed at the unwon- f * ted term of endearment as well as at the care im- 1 , plied in the words. "You will have to give up i e the thoucht of college." John winced. 1 P "My education then is lost, sir. I will have to r j give un the thought of a profession." "I fear so, my boy; but I trust your education e is not lost You can employ it in pleasure and i fro fit in other ways than in a profession. I think I can get you a place in a counting room, which \ t will .prove lucrative at present, and open to you a : a path for the future." c "The counting room! Good heavens I Are all [ my intellectual attainments to be buried in a count- f . ing-room," said John, with an impatience natural 1 to him. - i s "Not buried, John," said Mr. Carter, gravely. I s -"The method, the discipline, the patience, the e struggle, you will find more important than mere s intellectual acquirements, and I trust the work to a bring out and develop what is in my boy." The t e grave, sad smile with which this was concluded, \ a silenced John. He felt that his father was suffering keenly, and he inwardly resolved that he would ' i, prove resolute in the struggle. a ,t The parents and children talked long over their i. prospects. The father was to take a situation, as 1 i Dook-keeper, in a firm friendly to him. John was s to go as counting-house clerk in another house, t e and the girls were to wait to see what the future i d would do. Everything was to be given up, tne c e children proudly declaring they would rather have f the legacy of their father's unsullied name, than f it all their former wealth. While they were thus ? conversing the door bell was rung, and a gentle- t o man's card handed to Mr. Carter. t >, Janie's face flushed crimson, then bent low over 1 o a book which she hurriedly opened. Mr. Carter t r. left the room and was absent about half an hour. ? 5- Janie trembled violently when he returned, and 1 n her burning face was bent still lower. j it "Margaret," said Mr. Carter, "you are wanted d in the parlor. Will you go in, daughter?" < >t She immediately arose. He. face never varied ] .o from the marble paleness which it had assumed. 1 if when she first spoke to her father. He handea < t, her the card. < n "Stephen Hunter." I is "My daughter," he whispered, as he placed it i it in h?r hand. She looked up at him such a look? i b he could not interpret it?half entreating, half 1 ur deprecating^ then without a word, she left the i room. Janie's eyes followed her. JPoor child, her r, liitherto crimson face was now pale enough, and i, her large eyes looked almost wila in untold sorrow, v As Margaret entered the parlor, Stephen ad- i I- vanced to meet her, his fine face expressing aQ the k sympathy of his nature. / # i 9, "I would not now have intruded," said he, c. "had I not thought it possible I might hare ast isted vottr father. I have funds lying perfectly die. Indeed, I would esteem it a kindness for ouJd be prevailed upon to accept theae^ it would, assure you,-do me an infinite kindness, and might ave him from much annoyance." "You 'have offered them to my fhther ?" said hannAtrfinningly \ "He refuae^fthem," said Stephen, ooloring: 'hot Ifearimns bat a poor aovqpate, though iressing with all. the energy I possessed ji if yon rould?" "My noble father?I knew it !" said Margaret, iroudly. " ' ' "Ana yon will not assist-me?" said Stephen, rguing Ul for his cause frdm her exclamation. Yon must not ask me," said she, lifting her yes to hisfaoe. "Yon refhse it from a stranger?" said: he, rei roach fully. "No," said she, "sach an evidence offiiendhip. Itednot doubt" ' ' 1 ; accept ft,"-saidhe;^ph?liD^yr' ?*&< "I doubt it would not now answer its purpose,]' aid Margaret. "My father has undoubted busiess talent, and I have no doubt contemplated ev- ? -i-. _ *...v.- v i L. ry possiDiiiiy 01 regaining nia pouuiuu. uuwv us ielded. It was the strictly honorable line of coninct, and as such he panned it I thank yon irnestly. warmly, for the kindness, bat I can do o more. He looked dissatisfied. , ^ "You would not destroy ray noble epic I" said he, with a smile that made her whole foce sonny. His face flashed. Before she was aware, he aught her hand? ''Margaret, give me a right to thislet me, as a on. assist your parents." She drew her nand proudly away. . _ "Now, least of all, she said. "Do not think me premature," said he,'hnrried7. "I have just spoken tdfrmur father. He anboriies it;, will yon not givene some enoonragenent?" ,'v Her face grew harder and colder; the lines stony nd rigid. Her voice was as harsh as its sweet ones could be, as she said: "I do think it premature, and?"' "Selfish, yon would sa^, said Hunter. It may eem so, jDMjing my claim at this period of your rouble, bdRbaeed. it is not so. I would assist our family, and? < n: * "Rpsmifl mfl." she interrunted. with a haughty mile. "I appreciate the chivalric intention, the eneroeifcy implied, bat you will pardon my unqualied refusal.' ''Miss Carter, you totally misunderstand me," aid Hunter, wounded to the quick. "I would lace yoa in no such podtiori. I offer you in all andor and honesty, niy heart and hana. If you using i, you hive no right to attribute tome base runworths motives. I will not consent to the position you have given me, nor are you generous a making it neoessaiy for me thus to defend myelf." , "Forgive me, if I have wronged you," said she, weetly. ' 'I know your sympathies are warm, and feared they were urging vou to what you might leera virtuous and honorable." . , "And is it not, Margaret," said he, more genly, "to esteem a pure ana lovely woman? And rould you blame the virtue and honor which urged ne to win her? Be generous and listen to my uit" "I doubt the generosity that would listen only o deny," she coldly replied. "Let us dismiss his subject It is as painful as it ia unpleasant'' "My time has proved unpropitious," replied Jtephen; "let me nope that a future?" "Hope nothing," said Margaret, peremptorily ; 'the future holds no promise." He looked at her earnestly. "You will not refuse me your friendship ?" , "To a great extent, it would be valueless," she eplied decidedly. "Our paths in life will now bo videlv different * I doubt if to either party, it rould prove pleasurable or profitable. Our partnghaa better be final." He started. . "This is simply cruel, Miss Carter. Deny me 'our love if you willt but you have no right to reuse a friendship which I nave not forfeited." " _ "It is not likely you will be disposed to urge its iaims in the position I may oocupy. It will neiher be advisable or pleasant, for me to reoeive it n that position," saia she. firmly. "What do you contemplate ? he asked with a urprised manner. 'The position of governed," said she, bitterly. His brow knitted. He looked at her; tne proud, ensitive, and lovely woman. She had not realised ill the heartrtrial to which this would expose her. 3e endeavored to paint it all as gently as ne could. 3e endeavored to show how her very nature unItted her for such duties. Her priae would bfe ebelling, her sensitiveness shrinking. Her coldless would fail to win children's love, and her la?r would, consequently, be drudgery. She ooldJy eplied, that she knew it all; but the faithful disiharge of her duty would bring its own reward, md she did not fear performing that She did lot even give him her hand at parting, and they jarted with the understanding that they were lever to meet again. That evening, Janie was standing in the conserratory. The day had passed to her in nervous iritabiiity, in passionate tears and gloomy fancies. ' 11-? ?L ?A ? ivery sounu muue uer buux auu uuou?u*cu ? rambling pallor succeeded?a hurried haste, busyng herself about trifling concerns, as if to shut ?ut a sorrow that was dreaded. Rare exotics were iround her; the golden fruit of the orange tree ontrasted beautifully with its dark leaves and fra,Tant blossomsT Waxen Camelias, pure as snow, inted like a rose leaf or shaded to gorgeous crimen, were around her. Fragrant geraniums, creamy nid red-hearted roses, filled the air with their perume. A soft, dreamy light, was shed from the langing lamps over it all, and Janie stood tbinkng, as young, emotional hearts will think, of the tappy past She did not hear a footfall on the nossv sward, and started as a voice said, "Good evening, Miss Janie." She threw her curls back with a quick, ioyous notion; the soft brown, eyes grew humid?her ips trembled as she turned to the speaker. He reuld have been less than man, had he not seen J1 this. He took the little trembling hand in both >f his. "I have come to offer my sympathy, my?my riendship, Janie," said Edward Wilcox. The tears trembled in Janie's eyes, but she did tot answer, save to^rest the hand more confidingy in his. "If there is anything I can do"?he hesitated. "No.; papa says there is nothing can be done," md the tearsj barely restrained all that long day, tow gushed forth, and Janie sobbed as if her heart rould break. "Janie," said Wilcox, and his voice trembled, 'don't cry so; maybe it is not so bad as you imtgine." "It is not that," replied Janie, speaking through ler sobs, "but I have felt so badly all day, I have 10 wished?so wished for. some one that I could ell?you know I could tell mother," said she, checkng herself and her sobs at the same time, "but I lid not wish to distress herA and it seemed so sel ish in me to give way betore any or tne nome oiks, for of oouree, they were all goffering alike; ind when you spoke to fte. I felt as if you?" the ears gathered again, and leaning against the ormge tree poor Janie wept bitterly. It was very lard to see a woman, andf a woman ho loved next :o himself, in such abandonment of grief, without driving to console her. It would be sweet to comort her, and why should he deny bimawlf the pleasure. "Janie," he said, resting his hand on her thick juris, 1 'J anie, let me comfort you. Did you think [would? Say, Janie?" he whispered, drawing he sobbing form to him. "Dear girl." He pressid her closely to his heart, he smoothed back the jlustering curls from the flushed face, he called her by every term of endearment, and whispered low md lovingly in her ear. Not long had Janie thus: stood, when her sobs quieted; she grew very still, I then raising herself from his detaining arm, she1 ilmost whispered, "Let me go in. I do not like to stay here." "Why Janie ?" said he, his voice still trembling. "To me it is perfect paradise; come back, rest here again dearest" He would have drawn her to him, bat Janie shrank away. "No, I most go in; mamma will wonder where lam." there an hour, or maybe, more. Janie didrwt know, for Ed. Wilcox, always facinatinf, waa now the demonstrative lover, and the charm of the place, of the oonaon, the charm, of this .spoken jovew^BuMuing Jaaie to^juch adegreo^as^o ^toS^tS^tdgi?MW," aud .beulengdi. m2?& 1 'Edward"?she hesitated. ' struggled to free herself ?rtA^4Uki A.^. fe . .ii- >? head and blushed. "Mil Bowaa I. W4%&9 each been too demonstmtm, but?but IootiiMPt she whispewl "You know our paths in life will soon be very (Efferent, and I should hare bad geaeroei# to think of thafcM^ w HertnitBd. t?i'And yog would tell me?"~ha queationed. ^ "To forget me," she aaid,ihtto* mauHbiy. ^ . "The world will expect from you something fcril*' held out her hand, PbTwMoold and txtmf do twtwaotto tllnk of'S Her face grew white and ooH '*S&& "I fbroed the expression-it Uj&totjr to &n? it that," fiaid he, impetpoualy. ? Shelooledathimloilgandesraeffij5Tff she would read his ray souL He sfcxtf iriknt and ^ Mi]>a) then;tat "Wen, if wearetopart, letrapartl&w; said he. --"When shall we meet again T She hnkeduMat hfcLj^WfwTfa* tHHfc "Shall we ever meet, Janie? You will be away from all these aoenea. And I~I wdL be ?o wretch ed without yoa" /- & > Janie'g eyas sparkled, bntahedid otaiuftrea.-t "You say our paths io. life will be different/' said he, awkwardly^ < kit may be our opportunities at meeting wflFbe rare, but (where me, T shaB always cherish the fondest sentiment*, the deepest f'!.' ii.' J & ^&SSK,jS^ in atone of bitter impatience. "From myeoiri, I do," odd she, rehementiy. The tone increased hie venation, -vra ^Lwwwk "And you will not target me f' he ashed, etn- " vingto regain the tenderness he had kwt, Sifff 'forget yon !" she said, opening Widehe* brown eyes, "nevarl" ? "Ida not want to be remembered as a -ftiead, Janie," said he tendeiiy. vlwantyoo to iniithb. ber me as one who loves you more than life " 1; ^ She turned her head away. A large tear fell on world talk, I do not care! Give meyomrl^^^k ?She moved away. "It would not satisfy you, and you aurfULj* spared from the theatre of life. I>o not think it cruel in me to gay so, but you trill soonfoigefme; and wedding, as you wiff, wealth, beaut/ and client, you will scaroely give a sigh to the girl reverse has reduoed to poverty J' "Janie," I'll never forget you," he said, vehemently. '^<xxiMeune the ?vte which aeueparatee ? us." "Still, a fate which you ^acknowledge must he met," said she, looking at bim keenly. - He did not answer. "Gome, Mr. Wiloox, let me show you how to bearik Afew teare,Wfcw sighs, a few regrets, and all is over. Ytra go to chum a position, an alliance, which the world will call hrUhimi. i go as school-mam to a daily school, or fill the post of governess, perhaps, to ther sisters of your fiancee." She laughed bitter]?. . ^ "Janey, how.can yon talk, oof I don't believe you love me as I love you," he said rojpoachftiljly. "No ?" she questioned, opening her eyes; 'woman never does, you know. " " -, "Janey, tell me good-bye f" said he suddenly. "Good-We!" she said* r- .; , "Will you not give me your hand?" he asked. "Certainly?both if you wish," she said lightjy, placing her hand in his. hard." "Oh! no," she said, "only as you take it You can bear it,*' she laughed lightly. "Now, just look at dashingjhe seed out of his ?" sm^ Lunched Into. mocL heroics at the rinof exfravagapoe in such,perilous titpe^ws almost provoked , Wilcox to laughter. As she evident]*had no intention of returning to him, he slowly walked to the door. Before he reached it, Jame's bird-like voioe sang, "Call me pet-naaes, darting." < . ? vB How conld ehe sing in thatafcaiiirR manner while he was leaving; and such a song?sufficient to awaken the tenderest memories! lire next instant she was scolding her bird, aod then, clear and voioe tort} : a T's u T;. W : .fflK "nsfat. "Plague, the vixen! she was doing-it to tease mm." tTiFv w. He walked with a firm step down the passage, pansed a moment to catch the last wraod of Conie? from Uie heart, (ood bye." 1 hesitated, lost his hat, and while searching, lTofrd Janies' skipping step, her laughing voice saying, "Oh mamma, I nave just tag an eternal and affectionate farewell to Mr. Wilcox. Of comae, tfe tears* were all on my side, the protestatioo^oo hfe, but now he's gone, and she sang, . - -i* "I'llnever Me-mj may UN," -r-st/r "But I'm to have a tablet erectedInWirt and on it inscribed, 'In memoriam Wilcox, Jr., departed this heart on a night of October in the ghost-haunted regions, of Weir-^&at is my coijhrvatory.' Of oourse it wiB be to me now a tarn' of Auber. Well! Reqyaescat in pacefBear'me, mamma, what a cemetery my.heart will be bfcrore the burials of this week are over ! What the poets call a petrified heart. Won'titbe nnsto uve no further trouble with the bothersome, 'heating bounding thing, that is always panting and-shrinking and running over at the very time it should be quiet," - "What has metamorphised ytm, Janie? You have been trembling on the verge of tears all d*y> and now you are perfectly wild with fun?" . "Oh! mamma, howoould you, Haveyonforgotten that the same hand that wrote 'Highland Maiy' and 'Bonnie Dear!' wrote also The Twa Dogs' and Tam O'Shanter?* Why not let fools be blest without questioning?" . ? And tbe mother had yet to learn there wasmthe depths of that young heart, a disposition to the ^^^^l^oonuc^ in (TOSS 009B8QIDBSXT VTXEL)