Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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lewis m. grist, proprietor.! $nbtjphitt Jfamilg fMnspapr: Jfor tjjt ^roaution of t|t ^(ittital, Social, ^frienltoral anb Comnurtial Interests of % Smttjj. |tebms?$3.00 a year, in advance. VOL. 17. YOEKVILLE, S. C? THTjtoAY, MAB^H 16, 1S71. - NO. 11. 1 - * I * " * 1 J X1 A nMili ^elected foetrg. SLEEPING. Go down, thou sun, nor rise again, ?? Sink low behind the purple hills, And shimmer over western hills, And gild the dusky moor and plain. t'hant low, ye wild-wood birds, chant low; The cooing ring-dove so forlorn, Her parted mate as gently mourn? And thou, sad river, calmly flow. I sit beside the mossy mound, That gently lies upon my dead, And violets wave above his head, And daises germ the dewy ground. The willow, like a mourning veil, Waves quietly above my grief; The very rustling of the leaf Against the ruined garden-pale. Murmurs of him who sleepeth here, As sweetly in his narrow bed With roses pressed beneath his head, As if his mother's arms were there. Julx, 1361. C. V. D. jm (Anginal fri.se j^arg. Writiun fr?r t.hft Ynrkville Enouirer. TEMPTATION. BT MRS. S. A. BEDELL. CHAPTER I. The scene comes up before jne now, as it lay that evening, spread out in all of the magnificence of autumnal glory?an old stone house, deeply embowered in an almost tropical luxuriance of green and crimson foliage, wellkept grounds, whpre shrub and flower seemed crowned with perennial bloom. A long avenue, guarded by giant hickories, led down to the placid waters of a lake, that stretched away for a score of miles, like some huge mirror, wherein the sun smiled down on himself from morn till eve, and the stars played hide and seek with their twinkling counterfeits. The level beams of the setting sun burnished the rough gables of the stone mansion with wonderful brilliancy; and touched with golden splendor the white, spread wings lama u-utor fnwls which were hastening \jl lug iui^v iimvv* , home across the lake, looking like tiny sails, riding the crestless waves of the upper blue. A gentleman and a lady, just returned from a ride, had dismounted and stood on the bro&tfe graveled walk, completing the picture already inimitable. Phillip Arrowly was of thatport which, for want of a more definite term, w?r m call princely. He stood with his right arm carelessly thrown over the glossy neck of his charger, and looked down on his companion with a passionate fire in his clear blue eyes. If he was of regal presence, Maude Alleyn was worthy to stand by his side, and receive the verdict?"Male and female created He them." Hers was>no face of dainty infantile loveliness, such ad some writers love to portray ; but that of a beautiful, intellectual woman, strong to do, or suffer for one she loved. He looked down into her face, and his bold, beautiful eyes read every thought mirrored on its glowing surface. He reached over and took her hand, thus releasing the rich riding habit, that swept away in graceful folds from her voluptuous form.? '.'Raise your eyes?No I Not yours! They are mine?then raise* my eyes, my Beautiful, and let me see what they have to say to me!" A timid glance was raised to his triumphant face, and then the long lashes again swept the soft cheek. "If it did not savor of vanity, Maude," he said softly, "I would tell you what beautiful eyes I possess. Like a gazelle? No! They must be like heaven, for they are like nothing earthly?so soft! so pure! so unfathomable! Does your soul truly look .out of them, Maude ? Was it your divine soul that came but now and looked out, and said: T love you Philip? I love you more than-all the world?* Was it Maude ? Was it? Or was it some delicious, deceiving spirit, who whispered those blessed words to raise my blissful soul to such a giddy height?" The great love in the girl's heart rose up and banished all affectation of modesty. "You know, Philip, (Oh ! that I should say it and never blush!) that I do love you more than this world or the next, or my own soul! Then why do you torment me to repeat it? You know it! You know it without my saying a word. Why, then, do you, because you are master of one poor slave, tyranize over her and make her say unseemly thiugs?" He started forward, and drawing her to his bosom, pressed kiss after kiss on the sweet, unresisting mouth. "Why do I make you say it ?" he cried, breathlessly. "Oh ! my child, why do we love things that are sweet, and tender, and beautiful ? Why do we love to hear words that give us life, and joy unspeakable? Why?" r "Why do we love to make fools of our selves ?" broke in a voice, in which amusement and sarcasm were curiously blended. Mr. Alleyn, among his pomegranates and orange trees, enjoying the glorious sunset, had inadvertently come upon the pair of blissful fools. "Pardon me," said he, courteously, but with a twinkle still in his eyes; "I might have gone . away?I ought to have done so, I know; but I " gave you sufficient warning of ray presence. I* ' You seemed, however, to be such insane egor . tists, as not to care for the existence of any ^ other sublunary corporality." Mr. Arrowly, ignoring the old gentleman's pleasantry, still clasped Maude's hand, as he said with that dignity which became none sc well as himself: "Mr. Alleyn, I cannot regret this interrupi tion, since it gives me the opportunity of asking this dear hand from you, to be the greatest and most precious of all my possessions. L She loves me, Mr. Alleyn," he said, with a tri* umphant intonation, "or I would not dare presume to corae into your presence, so bold a beggar for so dear a boon. You cannot exI pect me to be very humble, when her love has made me so proud." I . "Humph 1" said Mr. Alleyn, gravely, "this | threatens to be a very serious affair. But * hospitality before business, Mr. Arrowly When the groom has relieved us of these hori scs, which are as much in the way as the im mense brown horse of the Pickwickians, ] ' will then be pleased to consider your applica tiou. Maude, my dear, do you wish this t( be a council of three ?" At this hint Maudehid her blushing cheeks by stooping to gather up the sweeping folds o; her riding habit; then with a graceful incli nation of her bright head, left the two men t< . ' the consideration of the momentous subject ^ ~Her father looked after her, with eyes of prid< and tenderness. "The man that takes hei r away," he murmured to himself, "will leavi the old man's heart a bankrupt." The horses, Sir John aud Lady Franklin, of a pedigree as unimpeachable as their noble namesakes, were led away to the stables, and Mr. Alleyn and Philip Arrowly stood con fronting each other in the gathering shades of j evening; the one sad and depressed, the other j , flushed and triumphant. "Mr. Alleyn," said the younger man, "you j heard what I said. You know what I desire. ' Answer me,then; shall I have your daughter ?" "I must hear what my daughter says, first," j : replied Mr. Alleyn, with the vague hope of i putting off the great trial before him. "Your daughter says?Yes, father," whis- j pered a clear, sweet voice, aud Maude put her i arms around her father's neck, and kissed him fervently. "I came back for *my gloves,; which I left somewhere out here. I did not j know your council was in session, or I would j Ml have had an usher to announce my presence, ! she added saucily. i J . ... "So much ceremony is not practiced in an j ! approach to this body," returned Mr,.Arrow-! j ly, with a sly reference to Mr. Alleyn. "No," answered the old gentleman, smiling,: and looking at his daughter; "neither is 1 much ceremony necessary in leave taking." , Maude laughed at this second hint of her father's, and entreated with mock gravity, "Dont ask me to stay, dear father, for indeed I cannot," and with another kiss she disappeared. "This is very unexpected to me," said Mr. Alleyn seriously, "I knew you were here of- < ten, and you seemed to be fond of the child, but I did not apprehend any dauger of this?" "Danger ?" and the self-assured face opposite, flashed with haughty surprise. "Yes," said the old man with dignity, "there may be danger, in trusting our most precious treasures into stranger hands. Of i course, Mr. Arrowly, you are a gentleman; i your good breeding and acquirements evince j that; but from the custodian of my daughter's happiness, I must demand more than that. I must not intrust that happiness to the keeping of another, however specious he may seem, without knowing something of his antecedents." "You are right sir," replied Arrowly, with proud humility; "though I swear to you, that * love your daughter with infinite tenderness; lat I will cherish her as I have cherished saay. own soul, yet you are right to demand from my past, sureties for the future." "It is customary," replied Mr. Alleyn, sim- , ply, "and it is not well to depart from the old land-marks. To whom do you refer me?" A haughty red burnt all over Mr. Arrowlv'a hut, he answered courteously, refering Mr. Alleyn to some of the most eminent men of the day. "In the meantime," he added, "I understand, I havfe your permission tg * be with your daughter." ? "Yes," said Mr. Alleyn, smiling; "I thiuk I can trust you together for so short a time. To-morrow I will .write to these gentlemen. You must think nothing of this, Mr. Arrowly; it is but a form, as you observe, but still?" "Pray say no more, my dear sir, I will be hurt if you mention.it again in that depreca^ ting way. Most ccrtatyily you aife right How * could you do otherwise? Would to God !" j he added, bitterly, and to himself, "that others had been equally circumspect; it would have saved me from all these miserable years, now to be crowned with the commission of a great crime." Air. Alleyn did not hear this bitter closing of his speech, but he gazed with surprise at the fierce face, all aglow with hard and augry passions. "Pardon me," said Philip, recovering himself; "if you will allow me, I will now join Miss Alleyn." "Missy," said Rhoda, Mnude's colored maid, ruuning away from the window ; "Missy, here comes your beau ! I know he's gwine to stay for supper, too. Wonder what aunt Fauny's got ? Mr. Arrowly always looks so grand, I think he ought to be treated like a born king. Don't you, missy." Maude leaned languidly back in her chair, gazing with steadfast, unconscious eyes, out tlio nrnthprinor frlnnni. Rhoda thought v?*v jj-"' - w with a sniff: "Missy got no taste, no how," while Maude was thinking what king, crowned as he might have been, with earth's richest diadem, had ever been as noble or as kingly, or deserved to be as blest as her Philip! Aye, and blessed he should be. Had he not told her that life, for him, had hitherto meant nothing but weariness and pain ; but that she could crown it with blessings; that she could make it a living song of praise and thanksgiving, which should never cease until death hushed the last hallelujah on his dying lips. And would she not do it? Would she not? Her heart almost ached with the bliss of the precious mission. "He's corain' in the front door, now, Missy; I'm gwine to fix the table," and away ran Rhoda, all important on her mission. She was quite proud of the display at the supper table; for were not the adornments the work of her own hands ? "Tom (the butler) didn't know nothin'," she avowed, "and as for Missy, she done let the table go to the dogs, since Mr. Arrowly been comin' here so much." The happy party adjourned from the supper room to the ample piazza. It was one of those delicious, autumnal nights that are the exclusive heritage of the sunny South. The > moon came up like a bright silver shield hangs ing on the arm of night. The dark foliage, > opposing with its sombre shadows, the rising radiance; the atmosphere, almost heavy with its rich perfumes ; the droning noise of some night rover, as he wheeled his lazy flight through the moon-flooded piazza, acted like a gentle narcotic on Mr. Alleyn's senses, and soon sent him nodding to his room. Then the lovers lived. No restraint. No sleepy father, constantly waking up, to keep himself from falling, to catch the tender, pas s sionate words. "Tell rae of your past, Phillip," said Maude, s sweetly, inquisitive. "Tell me how it is that ; you, of all men, should see thirty-five, and . still unmarried." He started from her; "No!" he cried, almost fiercely, "Don't ask me of thepast! What past? Have I not told you, [ Maude, that I have no past? As long as i you live, child, never speak of that again. I ) have put the hideous time, far out of remembrance, and have only lived in the light , of your love. Maude, dearest one," recovering f himself, "do you know why God has given - you to me ?" > "No," said Maude, very seriously, "unless . He saw I could not live without you." i "Could you not ? Could you not, indeed ?" r he demanded joyfully, "Then whatever hnpb pens you will always be my own, my very, very own!'' She laid her head with such full contentment on his breast. "Yes, I will always be your own. No one shall take me from you, but God, who gave me to you." "My darling! my darling! I love you im- j measurably, and all I can do, is to say again? j I love you." They went out into the glorious moonlight, , audwandered about under its mystic influ- i ence. At last they sat down in a little rustic | summer house where the garden looked off, i over the beautiful moon-clad lake. In one of those delicious, little pauses,! wherein the lips cease, but the heart speaks ; on, Maude started suddenly, and clung with ! a long, cold shiver to Phillip's arm. "What is it, ray darling ?" asked he softly, trying to soothe her, and looking around with a vague, undefined chill at his own heart, j His new happiness was so precious, that his ' lieait seemed ever on the watch, for some se- j cret enemy to try to tear it from hiro. Her head went lower and lower, and her breath came in shivering gasps. "My life! my life!" he murmured, "what disturbs you ? What distresses my darling?" and his kisses lay thick, like fragrant flowers, over all of her shining hair. She forced the shivering nerves into passi veness, and raised her head with an effort at pride. ''I know I am foolish to feel so, and here by your side too ; but I could not help it, indeed I could not! I seemed to hear something of evil breath near me, and a burning breath swept over my face. It was imagination?I know it was, but it seemed so real, so fraught with evil, that it entirely overcame 99 me. "You are excited, my darling," lie said tenderly. "My strong, passionate nature has excited you. I must be more careful of my treasure, for if I lose it, I shall never find another." "Did you ever have another ?" asked Maude, more with an effort to rally, than with any jealous fear of assent. He caught her to his bosom, and strained her there, almost smothering her with a thousand. kisses. "No! By the Eternal God 1" he swore, "I never loved any woman but you !" "Ha! ha! ha! ha!" The wild, shrill laugh startled them as a cannon ball could not have done. In the door of the summer house stood?was it a woman ? or was it a spectre ? Anything so white, so thin, so altogether unearthly looking, could | not surely be of flesh and blood. It stood there ! with its long, attenuated hands grasping vaguely in the air, and a low gurgling sound, as if speech would not come, issuing from its pallid lips. "Oh! Philip*. What is it? What is it?" gasped cowardly Maude, as she rushed bodily into his arms. Philip rose and put her?her his darling, whose lightest touch thrilled through him? put her out of his arms, and thrust her behind him, then stood looking at the horrid spectre, butjpeakiojilp Mfllirlp- \n a vniee so nnneentrated by passidh and suffering as to be almost inarticulate said, "It is hell !" CHAPTER II. In the beginning of the present century, there stood in the southern part of Virginia, on the banks of the Nottaway, one of those fine old country mansions, that speak at once of wealth and refinement. This one was beautifully located, and exceedingly picturesque, as it looked down from its sunny slope, upon the broad plains below, which sometimes waved with summer's glorious promise, sometimes bowed with autumn's full fruition, and, auon, lay spread out wide and white, as the floor of highest heaven. To this house, Mr. Arrowly brought his lovely bride from her New England home, and here Philip, their only child, was born. Mr. Philip Arrowly belonged to the old cavalier race, whom political troubles or poverty drove from their ancestral homes in England, to give their polish, their refinement and their prestige to the new colony, growing into fame on this side of the Atlantic. He did not shame his ancient lineage, but was every whit a cavalier still. Nature had made him handsome and commanding in appearance; education and travel, made him a man of polish and distinction. Mrs. Arrowly was a delicate, lovely woman, with a complexion made up of the snow of her northern hills and the roses of the South. She had none of that strong-mindedness, which has since been so fully developed, in her native section of country. From the time Philip opened his eyes on mundane affairs, he was a despot, and ruled over his mauma, and the whole household for that matter, with unrelenting severity. The negroes, who came to look at "young master," avowed that there never was such a child born before, and kept his poor mother in a constant state of apprehension, by predicting that he would never be raised?he was too sipayt. But notwithstanding his supernatural developments, he did live, much to the annoyance of some of the evil prophets and prophetesses, for he was a genuine tyrant; and master Philip's dictum went before that of all others. The chief butler and the chief baker were more anxious to please him than they were tlio lnr/t r>f ttio mnnnr At. Jin eflflv age. he shook off the trammels of the nursery, and, accompanied by Tom, his body guard, made tours in search of adventure throughout the poultry and barn-yards, and even extended his explorations to the "quarter," down in the meadow. Mauy were the scrapes "Mas Phil" got into among the younger negroes, who had not yet learned that his superiority consisted in anything but better "close and wittels," and in these knock down contests, the boy grew strong and hardy, notwithstanding all the petting administered at the manor house. The first time he came home with torn clothes and' a bloody nose, Mrs. Arrowly went into hysterics and wanted the offending darkey severely punished. "By no means," said her seusible husband; "if young gentlemen, like Phil, who never get their proper modicum of switchings at home, go about hunting up fights, it would be a pity for them not to be provided for. Let the boy alone, Lucy, he is only learning to make his way through the world. When he goes away from home he will find plenty of people, wiser than Cuffee, who will not think him the brother of the sun and moon, and the grand uncle of all the stars." Poor, gentle Mrs. Arrowly! She wept over ! her darling's dirty clothes and dirtier asso ciates. Growing up with little savages! That day she took occasion to write, surreptitiously, to her brother, who was a professor in a northern college, and broach the subject of Philip's education. Her brother's reply came in due time, and was highly satisfactory. How to approach Mr. Arrowly on the subject, was the question that puzzled her little, intriguing feminine brain, for as yielding as Mr. Arrowly generally was, never caring to set his strength against her weakness, she knew he had a will of his own; and fearedthat he would maintain it against her inarms case. After turning the matter over every day for six months, to get a new view, she finally came to the determination to take Master Philip, a youth of eight, into her confidence, and endeavor to wiu him over, by bribery, to her plans. Having found the young gentleman one day, engaged in applying some very striking arguments to Tom about the ownership of a new leather strap, whioh Tom insisted was. his, and his young master as strongly insisted on giving to him, in a very decided sense, she captured her dear, little darling, and bore him off to her own private chamber, for immediate conversion. She seated him in her easy chair, and drew a hassock to his feet for her own accommodation. "Mamma, you take this chair," said Philip, who even as a child, was instinctively polite. "No, my darling," said mamma, "I have a great deal to say to my little boy, and, I want him to sit right still, until I say it." "Yes, mamma," said her little boy, "but couldn't you be in a hurry ? I'm afraid Tom will take my new strap, and hide it. If he does, I'll beat him again." "Oh my child ! my child!" cried Mrs. Arrowly, in horror, the tears overflowing her mild eyes. "What a life! How can your papa let you grow up so ?" "Why mamma, I like it!" cried the young beligerent. "And Tom don't mind it?he hits back every time!" . ~ ... "Oh! Oh!" moaned the mother, "the little black imp to strike my sou!" "Don't you mind, mamma," said master Phil, magnificently, "I always whip him. He says he's going to get Ned to help him ; but don't you be afraid, I can lick 'era both ; if I can't I can take papa's pistol and shoot one, then I can whip t'other easy enougn.' "Oh my child!" almost shrieked Mrs. Arrowly, "you shall not stay here to be the victim of a conspiracy. You shall go to your uncle, Doctor Surrey's, at once." "But I dou't want to go to uncle Surrey's," screamed the victim of the conspiracy, fairly aroused by this threat, "andi won'* go! Its a nasty place 1 I like to fight Tom and Ned, and all of'em, and I won't go! I'll tell papa!" "You naughty, naughty, wilful boy," said mamma taken aback by this outburst, "you shall go, for your disobedience." Whereupon master Philip set up such a storm of howls and kicks, that papa, who was passing, ran in to see what was the matter. He found Mrs. Arrowly in hysterics; and Master Philip ditto. After miir.h rirenmlocution, ,the whole truth came oul Mr. Arrowly, who was thoroughly annoyed, spoke more severely to his mild wife than he had ever done before, which so shocked her, that she instantly went into a very complicated state of hysterical faintings. This so alarmed her already penitent husband, that he left her in the hands of her women, and not trusting another, for fear of delay, mounted his fleetest horse, and setofTfor a physician. It was a long time before Dr. Fitziuarshall, who was friend as well as physician to the family, arrived. Mrs. Arrowly thought it i i ...i 1 - i 1 U..11 0(1(1, wneil sue neuru 111a step iu me nan, mat lie should be alone. But, perhaps, her husband was detained about something, and would follow presently. She had very magnanimously made up her mind to forgive him and get well, without much trouble, and she thought it unfeeling in him not to come and ease her mind of the burden of forgiveness. When the doctor entered, he looked so pale and distressed, that she, being naturally a kind hearted little woman, felt sorry for having disturbed him, when, as she well knew, there was.jeally nothing the matter with her. "Doctor Fitzsraarshall," she exclaimed penitently, "forgive my husband's anxiety for bringing you out, when I see you ought to be iu bed this moment. Do, my dear sir, let Pompey show you to a room, where you can lie down until you feel better. Don't trouble about me," she continued, as the doctor made a motion of dissent, "I am doing very well. Indeed, there was no occasion to trouble you at first; but Mr. Arrowly is so careful of me. You can't think, doctor, what a comfort it is to be so petted and cared for. But where is my husband ? Did he not return with you ?" The doctor had not spoken since he entered her room. He had merely pressed her hand iu silence, and sat looking at her with infinite compassion. When she asked him direct about her husband, he answered in ft strained unnatural voice ; ''Mr. Arrowly did not return with me?he will be here soon." "How very impolite in Philip," she said, nnt in ctriptnrp Hilt. nlpjlSlintlv. "to Send V0U on ahead, while he rode at his leisure. I must lecture him about it, and I am sure he will never do it again." He repeated her words mechanically. "No! He will never do it again." Dr. Fitzmarshall kept glancing restlessly out of the window that commanded a view of the road he had just come. At last, Mrs. Arrow ly, attracted by his strange manner, began to watch the road also. Suddenly she exclaimed : "Who are those coming up the road, Doctor; and what is that they are bringing with them ?" He came and sat down close by her, took her hand iu his, his own shaking as he took it. "No, no," he murmured, looking at the weak, helpless creature before him. "She cannot bear it! But she must, she must! 'God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb'?she is a tender lamb, and she is all shorn; but the wind is rough?very rough." "Doctor 1" she cried, violently alarmed, "Whatis the matter ? Where is my husband? Why don't he come?" 11 He will be here presently" said the doctor, almost in a whisper, when he added in great distress, "My God ! I wish this was over with." Meanwhile the little procession wound up the sunny slope, through all the summer flowers and glad Bummer sounds, to the quiet house. It was very near now. Some intuition of the horrible truth flashed on the wretched wife, and she darted to the window. One look?it was enough! On a stretcher, borne by four stout men, and followed by some twenty weeping slaves, lay the mortal remains of Philip Arrowly, uncovered, gazing with what we are wont to call sightless eyes, but perhaps, with a newbora spiritual vision, straight up through the ether blue, to the throne of the everlasting God. Going, in his haste, at headlong speed, his horse had struck his foot against a stone and fell Jorward, crushing his rider under him. Some i5PfUe servants, working in an adjoining field, ran to his assistance, but all aid was unavailing ; he was killed outright, and never spoke after his fall. One of'the negroes mounted the horse, which was uninjured, and rode after Dr. Fitzmarshall, who found Mr. Arrowly quite dead wheu he reached hira. He felt that he must jftTTta before and prepare Mrs. Arrowly for the (3tpadful shock; but how he shrank fromUtejelf-lqiposfed task, we, only, can tell, on similar errands. -Amiwhen Bemi vea, he could find no words to break th* awful tidings to the unconscious woman, it* soon to be stricken from her happy security. When she ran to the window, he knew it was all over?that she knew the worst, and he was glad of it. But when she looked up at him with that piteous face, from which altf affectation of sorrow was forever banished, he felt th^tit would have been a blessing to her if she could have gone away somewhere? anywhere, so she would never* never have known. Of course that was impossible; but her ghastly.face smote him to the heart, and made him feel as if he were, in some way, accessory E5%er murder; for in the awful change that came over her features, his professional eye at once detected the sign manual of that inexorable hand, whose decrees are never reversed. She looked into the doctor's agitated face, an^l threw out her poor hands, saying with simple and sublime grief: "Why is it Philip !" She never spoke again, never noticed her poor little: fatherless boy, who crept, awestruck, in^the bed, and crouched down by her side. In that supreme moment, every earthly consideration, however dear or sacred, was laid aside, and the soul stood "Br the river, the awful river, In the dying light," gg^jgg acrosj into the inconceivable mysteries* of the Paradise of God. A -few more quivering gasps, a few more shrinkings from that "veiled guest," into whose hand she soon 1 ' 1 ? ? J n/ir.AA/1 AfTQV fKo ftjQ piacea nerowu, auu tucj jjos?cuu?ci wuiuu ful river, and entered into the shadowy land of the everlasting hereafter. Poor little Philip! His nurse curae and took him away, and kept him very quiet. Utterly subdued, he lay in the nurse's arms and begged piteously to know why his papa did not come, and what the doctor had done to his mamma. He was only told to be still and not make a noise. How the deathly quiet of the house weighed on his childish heart. Everybody walked on tip-toe and spoke iu whispers, and though so many were he never heard tfte door pell oij^e! Strange people, too, came and talked to him kindly; but to him,so stupidly. Why didn't they let him alone, and go away to their own homes? All he wanted was his papa and his mamma. Why didn't they come ? Why didn't all the naughty people go away and let them come ? He was tired of eating his breakfast, and dinner, and supper, in that nursery by himself; he wanted to go down to the beaufiful dining room, and be again the autocrat, not only of the breakfast, but of the dinner and supper table, too. Once he had stolen into the great, solemn drawing-room, where -he saw such a curious looking box, covered with a great black cloth, resting on the marble tables. Childish curiosity led him up just to take one peep, to see what the great box contained. His shrieks brought those strange, hateful people running to him. He was lifted up and carried out amid a shower of exclamations, such as "poor child!" "Poor dear!" "Hush! there's a darling!" amidst which the poor little bereaved thing only kicked and screamed louder, demanding that his papa and mamma 11 i- 1 A A- *?!.? SI1UU1U. BtJ UYYUKCUCU IU utAC men jjuvi lam boy, who was so sorry, away from all the horrid people. Oh! the weary, weary days. Poor little feet, tired of running to every opened door?to meet papa and mamma! Poor little eyes, tired of looking into every coming face, for papa and mamma! At last his uncle Surrey came, and at once took the desolate child to his compassionate heart. Philip went with his kind uncle in a carriage, followed by many more carriages, and preceded by a strange vehicle, drawn by six black horses, decorated with nodding black plumes, until they came to the^old churchyard, where he saw some gentlemen, with long black streamers on their hats, take the same curious looking box, which he had seen in the grand drawing-room, and lower it down into a dreadful hole, which some workmen, with their spades, had dug into the ground. Then^-^Jjild screamed in its agony? papa and mamma! Don't put them in the ground ! I'll never be naughty again ! Oh, please bring them back!" In vain ! in vain! The dirt was shoveled in and heaped up; and earth's favored ones, slept beneath the next year's daisies, CHAPTER III, A little out from the city of M?, in the ! State of New York, stands Heath House, a I private lunatic asylum. On a stormy day in I \Tn..n.?Un? 1 Q-lfi o nlnco trnvolinor HU?C1?UCI, 1U-JU, U. WWV V i ~ G 0 . ! turned the broad sweep, and drew up before the imposing door of Heath House. A gen- j tleman descended from the carriage, and closed the door carefuliy behind him. With I a telegraph of caution to the man on the box, he ascended the broad flight of marble steps, and rang the asylum bell. The attentive footman led the way into a comfortable, cheerful room, where the bright fire and peaceful quiet contrasted delightfully with the storm without. The stranger drew a card from his pocket, and presenting it to the footman said, "Let Doctor Michael know that I await him," and turning his back on the luxurious warmth of the easy chairs in front of the fire, he stood by the window, watchiug with troubled eyes, the carriage that stood in the outer storm. The sharp profile, which the firelight threw on the opposite wall, was the outline of no ordinary face. Strong aud commanding in its beautiful con| tour, it was grave and quiet, with a haughty | and constrained repose. He stood there looking out, and determinedly making up his mind to what he considered a little piece of harmless deception, "Yes," he muttered doggedly, "I'll do it Why should all the world know?" Why do physicians, who manage lunatic asylums, always look so bland and smiling ? Dr. Michael came in with a bow and a smirk, as if a trip to his establishment, and a look at its poor, God-forsaken inmates, were among the most pleasant things that one* could do in the longest of summer days* The stranger arose with that courtly grace, which marked his every movement. "Dr. Michael, I believe." "Yes," replied the smiling physician, "Dr. Michael, of Heath House. Is there any thing I can do for you, my dear sir ? If you are so unfortunate, as to require medical treatment for any dear friend, it is lucky that you came tn mv pafahliahmpnt There is not another like it in the whole country ; one combining sormany excdtencleo^-lfealtliy location, excellent attendance, good society; for I allow persons.of the higher class only to enter my parlors. And of myself?well I may say, without vanity, I have had thirty years experience, and one does not do the same thing for thirty years, without knowing something d^ut it Heath House is widely and flatteringly known. I have had many patients from the very first families. Strange episodes^ in some of the most brilliant lives?friends all thought them traveling in Europe or Asia, while all the time, I assure you, they were Here. Cured them. Sent them back well. Friends congratulated them on their safe return from foreign lands, and some of them actually had the tact and hardihood to write books of trans-atlantic travel, which they either imagined, or stole from some obscure author. Facts, my dear sir, very strange facts. Why, on my visits to the larger cities, I meet scores of people, whom I have cured, but I never recognize them," and magnanimously concluded, "I would not so wound their delicacy." "It must be positively pleasant to lose one's mind and come to Heath House to have it restored," said the stranger with the nearest approach to a smile his gloomy features had yet worn. "I have brought a young friend?a relation?to place under your kind care. Perhaps she had better be brought in at once." . "Certainly, certainly," said the little doctor, bustling to the door. "Just what I was going to suggest. Is she?ahem !?is she dangerous?" "Sometimes. You had better be careful." They were at the carriage now, and Dr. Michael guardedly held the door open. Crouching on the back seat was a woman of perhaps, not more than five and twenty years, but the fires and storms which had raged in that tempestuous soul had obliterated all the delicate pencilings of time, and seamed and drawn the once fair face, with characters deep and fierce. As she^aught sight of her traveling companion her eyes flashed?nay, literally blazed, and her lip was drawn op as we sometimes see it in snarling animals. , "Stand back, sir! keep out of sigh/t," said the doctor, warningly; then smilingly and soothingly to the unfortunate woman : "I am delighted to see you, madam. Will you not come in out of the storm ? See how it rains. You cannot proceed on your journey, to-day. Come into my house, I have some rare and costly paintings to show you. Many persons have desired to see them, but I would not let a soul even take a peep, until I heard your opinion. Come." After much hesitation, she consented, provided "he," looking over her shoulder, should not be allowed to follow. "No, that he shall not," said Dr. Michael, decidedly; "he is not fit to go with us. Do you know, becoming apparently more confidential, and speaking low, "I have a mind to lock him up ? I don't think he is safe." "No," she whispered fiercely, her eyes blazing again. "No, he is mad! I say he is mad!" "Aha!" said the Doctor, "I thought so. Well, we must go right away and prepare a room for him. Dont you want to see it? w?>n i?? u; ?n nnnr " Tf C 11 1IUYC liim WJX iiguv ?W!f. With joyous alacrity, she hurried before the doctor, muttering as she went, "Yes, I must see it. I must see where he is to live, and?die!?die!?die I We'll let him know what bars and bolts are, and dismal days and hideeus nights!" "It must be strong?strong," she continued, speaking to the doctor, "or you'll never keep him, for he is strong!?strong!?strong!" "Here is one that will just suit," said her companion still humoring her, "you stay and arrange it, while I go back for him." With feverish haste, she went about her task, unmindful that the door was closed, and the key turned upon her. That idea became fixed in her shattered mind, and days, and weeks, and months, aye, and even years, the tireless hands, daily arranged the scanty pieces of furniture, then sat down and listened for the footstep, which would never come. Meanwhile, after locking up his patient, Dr. Michael returned to the cheerful room and the stranger. "Well ?" asked he, looking up as the doctor entered, "Bad, bad?incurable, I fear. Not closely related I hope." "She is my sister," replied the stranger, a slight color tinging his oheek. "Pardon me," the doctor hastened to say, observing the flush on his companion's face, "you are so totally unlike, I inferred the relationship was very distant." "The case is hopeless, in your judgment?" ooirt lm onfirplv wnivincp fVio aithias?t rnlft. U(UU ilVj VilHlAVtJ ? g) l,MV WMWJWII v? tionship. "Pardon me, I cannot yet decide positively. Cures sometimes seem miraculous ; she may recover." "No, you were right in your first conjecture. She is irrecoverably insane." "Pou't be sure," said the doctor, his vanity aroused by hearing any one intimate that there were cases beyond his skill. "There have been remarkable cures made in Heath House?remarkable indeed. Let me confide the particulars of a very strange case to you, and I avouch for it on my honor. "A gentleman of wealth and position, unfortunately had some domestic trouble, and his mind was seriously affected. His friends tried one celebrated institution after another, without benefit to the patient; on the contrary, his condition became alarming to the last degree. Finally,- sir, he yas brought to Heath House. Brought here" ostensibly to give me a trial; but really that he might be out of the way until he died. "Hisgreedy relatives, counting on his speedy dissolution, actually gave out that he was already dead, and entered on the enjoyment of his estate. Well, sir, I took pride in the case because I saw they had given him oyer, unalterably, to death, and were actually desirous I of getting rid of him. I did all that skill ' and care could do, and in less than a year, he i was as sound in mind as you or I. You may well believe there was confusion and terror, when he walked in, one day, on his happy relatives as they sat feasting on his dainties, at his board. "But they were his relatives, and some of them very near, too, so not wishing to give a , scandal to the world, he allowed the affair to I be hushed up. But the tale is true in every particular, as a dozen people, now living, can i prove in any court." "That is very remarkable," said his listener ; "I do not doubt your skill, but you must allow there are some cases beyond human concharge?' ' "Do not despair of her recovery. Persons, after sojourning with me awhile, have turned up in the world, in an almost miraculous manner." There did come a time when this handsome, haughty stranger, fully endorsed Dr. Michael's statement. He gave his name as Mr. Surrey, and that ?of his sister as Alethia Surrey ; said they were natives of the South, but had been traveling many years for the benefit of his sister's health. She had now become unmanageable, and he was forced to place her under restraint. He had heard of the fame of Heath House, and now confided her to the kind care of its supervisor. , The only conditions he exacted were, no visitors were to have access to her, and she was to have the constant attention of some reliable person. He did not cavil at charges; so he and Dr. Michael soon came to an understanding. In an hour the traveling carriage was gone, and Mr. Surrey was never seen again in Heath House. The money, however, was paid regularly and Dr. Michael was satisfied. And as for the rest?one miserable man, with the savor taken out of his life, went into the world and met it with a proud and careless front, scarcely hoping or oaring what the future had in store for him?and one more miserable woman, cursed by God and man, who, in room No. 46, Heath House, daily made ready the humble apartment for the coming of one, whose greatest desire was to put seas and continents between them. Ten years had gone by, and Dr. Michael himself had given up all hope of restoring Alethea Surrey to sanity; although, he had ten years more experience now, than when he undertook her case. She had been very ill, and as is sometimes the case, the weakened body strengthened the feeble brain. She was lying quietly, while her nurse and a gossip sat and croned over a letter, which had come to nurse, from her sister, who lived in the South. "My sister," nurse went on to explain to her friend, "is housekeeper for Mr. All^yn in Louisiana. And a delightful lime she has. Well, I'm sure, she deserves it, poor thing, for she's had trouble enough before now. But they are to have grand times now; for Miss Maude is to be married, (ray sister thinks, whether her father consents or not,) to a gentleman, ever so rich and handsome. But Mr. Alleyn is not likely to object, for Mr. Philip Arrowly is?" Nurse never finished her sentence; for just as she pronounced Philip Arrowly's name, a laugh, so strange, so thrilling, so weird, broke on her narrative, that with eyes starting from their sockets, she grasped her corapanioh's arm and whispered. "My God! What's that ?" 1171 .1 J 1??1, YY lien uiey auuiuiuucu vuuiogc w >uva around for the dispenser of such ghostly mirth, they saw no one. Alethea was sleeping calmly, with nothing approaching even a smile, on her haggard features. The gossip rose to go. "Don't leave me, Mrs. Luter," said nurse Carmon, imploringly; "I can't stay here alone?indeed I can't" Mrs. Luter shook her head, saying: "You know I can't leave my ward : it would cost me my place." , "I wouldn't stay here alone, for a dozen places?no, not for my life," said Mrs. Carmon, in an awed tone, following Mrs. Lutei out; "I'll go and get some one. to stay with me," and in her agitation she forgot to lock the door. She was gone longer?much longer? than she anticipated, for it was hard ^o find any one willing to sleep in the same room with a crazy woman, however harmless she might be. At last, by dint of persuasion and bribery, she marched up to the room, accompanied by one of the kitchen girls. When she entered the room, and looked round, her hair nearly stood on end. The room was empty ! Her patient was gone! [to be continued next wkekJ grading. SEEDS AND SHOTS. The announcement that the buildings known as "Crockford's," in London?the "Crockford's" of 1827?is to be let, recalls a singular story of a duel which arose from a circum stance that happened at the London "Crockford's" of 1809. In these club-rooms, habitually resorted to by the bloods of that day of knee-breeches, long boots, ruffled shirts, and cravats of duplicated folds of soft muslin, which Brummell, to his credit be it said, kicked out of fashion when he introduced the present style of cravats, in August, 1809, three young men were dinning. They were heated over their wine, and one of them amuqpd himself by tossing watermelon seeds at a stranger who sat near them, an elderly man, wearing a shabby gray surtout, closely buttoned up to the throat, and who was discussing a modest mutton-chop and a glass of ale. Three seeds chanced to strike the stranger, on the right ear, on the elbow, and the breast of his coat, respectively, and as they fell he quietly picked them up, wrapped them in a piece of paper, and placed them in his pocket. After finishing his meal, he went to the young man, and without a word handed him his card. The card bore the name of a lieutenant-colonel of the British army. The young man understood the meaning of this action, and offered his own card in return, receiving which the stranger departed. On the next day the young gentleman received a challenge from the elderly gentleman, the note being accompanied with a melon seed. At the meeting that ensued the stranger shot away the young man's ear, where he himself had been struck oy ine nrst meiou aeeu ujiuwu. x?. muuw <u' ter the young gentleman received 'another i note, with another seed. Another meeting ensued, and the young man was shot in the elbow. Finally, the same person who had handed the first two notes to the young man, on behalf of the stranger, brought to, him a third. It contained the melon seed, but no challenge. Surprised at this, the young gentleman questioned his antagonist's second up* . on its meaning. The answer came that the stranger was dead, and that, with that melon seed, he had sent his forgiveness. The Shadow of a Rock.?The Bible uses every event in nature and history to teach the only lesson man should pre-eminently learn?his soul's salvation. It makes every season preach Christ. That most fruitful, and, as usually treated, most foolish of all themes, the weather, in the hands of the inspired pfinmaflL-alazaiES-becomes aain>nnljw jl iuminated. Does it snow ? "He sendeth lor his snow like morsels." Does it rain ? "He sendeth forth the earlv and the latter rain." Is it cold ? "Who dm Stand before his cold ?" Is it hot ? "He is the shadow of a great rock in a weary land." Is it spring? ''Hereneweth the face of the earth." Is it autumn ? "The summer is past, the harvest is ended, and we are not saved." So should every one attune the weather to the heart He will thus make these varying hours an JDolian harp that sings divine songs in this devout spirit ' We have pissed through a season of violent and unchanging heat Bay after day the sun rises hot and dry, sweeps through arid heavens and over a parched soil Infants faint and perish; invalids pant and die; laborers toil wearily at their.tasks* The whole head is sick and the whole heart is faint Murmurs against the weather climb the sky. ' God hears these complaints too often couched in oathis/; rarely couched ip prayer. And yet he intends' this dispensation as one of instruction. He would lead us through this burning to the shelter of his side. He would instruct us by Jt of the greater heat that falls upon the soul?a heat that burns up happiness in the destroying flame of death,-that consumes holiness in the more destructive flames of sin, which burn into the lowest hell He points us to himself as the only shelter. He-proclaims himself "the shadow of a great rock in a weary land." ? Gen Sam Houston's Wedding Secret.? The most singular incident in the eventful life of Sam Houston, and one never hitherto explained, was his abandonment of the Governorship of Tennessee only three days after marrying a young wife. He became a volunto?tra*iJo rnnnns tk? Tnrltnna rrf thn nlftins for years thereafter, was made a great chief, and only reappeared in public life when Texas was struggling for independence. The Galveston New lifts the veil from the secret chamber of Houston's heart by this strange narration. What we know about this matter is so honorable to him that we shall for the first time put it in print We may premise that our information is derived indirectly from one now deceased, who during her life had a right to know what caused that strange episode in the life of a great man. Governor Houston's first bride was &'Tennessee belle of surpassing beauty, and of considerable social rank. She was, if not the affianced bride, at least the sweetheart of a neighboring gentleman, when Gov. Houston sought her hand. Her family, being very ambitious, forced the match and she was married. After retiring to her bridal chamber her conduct was such as to cause him to suspect while her hand was his her heart was another's. She confessed the truth when interrogated, and, while promising fidelity and wifely duty, declared ^herself unable to love him. He at once retired from the house, leaving his bride as pure and spotless as ever. He then resigned his positiou and went among the Camanches. In due time the lady sought aod obtained a divorce. - ? ? ; '4 f Origin op the Word Toddy.?The ori> gin-of the word "$oddy" is thus given in: an. i English publication: There was, and is,*well called "Tod's Well," which, in 'Edinburg in the by-gone days, When water was a : scarcer commodity than it ought to be in any well-regulated municipality, supplied the city with as much of the pure element as sufficed.: for that primitive and unsanitary time. It *'l mav be mentioned that as aqua vitas, in Latin^ i' eau de vie in French, and usqitebce in Highf land, Gaelic, severally mean the "water of life," so "toddy," of which the Scotch at 'home , and abroad seldom lose the love of the flavor, seems, if we may believe an allusion in 4-llen ' Ramsay's poem, "The Morning Interview," to have originally meant water without any ; whisky in it Speaking of the adjuncts at the ' breakfast table, the tea brought from the 1 Eastern, and the sugar from the Westefn'hemjsphere, Ramsay says that Scotland brings to the feast "no costly tribune," but Only some kettles full of Toddian spring, > and explains the passage by the statement in a foot-note, that "Tod's well supplies the city with water." The eustom in Scotland in the whisky trade, to invoice whisky as qua, lends strength to the supposition, and tends to dis> prove the allegation of the dictionaries that the word "toddy" is derived from India, where it signifies a kind of arrack. Change of Habits in Birds.?M. Pouchet says that the common swallow of Europe. has modified the shape of its nests within fifty years. It is certain that many birds have changed their nest-building habits within a historical period. Some have learned to use thread in preference to grass. The common swallow and the chimney swallow must have built different before they had the use of eaves and chimneys. The old swallow nests were globular, with a very small rounded opening. The new nests are long and oval, and the opening is a long slit, four or five times as long as high, close to the top of the nest, where it meets the wall above it This is an improvement on the old nest, as the young are not so crowded and can reach out their heads for fresh air, while their presence does not impede the ingress of the parents. Equally Iqnqbant?A story is going the rounds of the English press, under the head ; of "Lamentable Ignorance," to the effect that ' a little girl ten years old, examined at an inquest on the body of her father, could not tell where little girls went to who told lies. This : leads a correspondent of the Pall Mall Gazette ! to relate of the late Judge Maule, that having a little girl tendered as a witness, if she knew where she would go after death if she told a ; lie, and the child replying, "No, sir," the ; .Judge was overheard to mutter to himself, ; "No more do I."