Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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lewis ra. grist, proprietor.) fnbrpmbtitt Jfatniln ftttosgaptr: Jbr f(je promotion of tjje political, Sural, Agricultural airb Commercial Interests of % Sonfji. TERMS?$3.00 A YEAR, IN ADVANCE. VOL. 19. YOEKYILLE, S. O., THUESDAY, MARCH 6, 1873. NO. lO. ? - ? - 1 " Jto Original Jforjr. Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. FLORIMOND; OR, Divorce or No Divorce. BY MRS. CLARK WARING. CHAPTER I. A SUDDEN JOURNEY AND A QUICK RETURN. "Oh ! no madam, it is not too late, if you will only be quickand the polite colored waiter, ushering the traveler into the room with a maiestic wave of his ebony hand, added : "Have the note written in the next half hour if you please, and I promise you the gentleman will get it this very afternoon." "Very well?it shall be ready," answered a clear feminine voice, and the lady?Mrs. Albert Dandridge by name?entered the drawing-room of the Spottswood Hotel in Rich " mond. Beating herself on one of the luxurious sofas near the window, she drew forth writing materials from her capacious traveling satchel, and proceeded, in as few words as possible, to inform her husband?an army officer stationed near the city?of her unexpected arrival. Begging him to use all speed in seeking her presence, the note was soon finished, with a rapid hand sealed and addressed, and then having nothing else to do but wait for her traveling companion, who had stopped in the hotel office to gain some information concerning his proposed crossing the lines by flag of truce, the young wife sat idly toying the note in her fingers, feeding her heart the while with fond and pleasant reveries. While thus engaged, let us glance at her more closely. She is apparently extremely young?even girlish in her appearance?and, to judge from outward evidence, one of those fragile, timid beings, the geutlemen call "a sweet little thing." The face is undeniably pretty, and decidedly striking, though yet childlike in its immature loveliness. Underneath the black feather which floats from her traveling hat, can be seen waves of soft black hair, pushed* carelessly back from the low, smooth ferehead. The eye-brows are jetty black, delicately curved with an exDression about them almost ~ .7- ^ A infantine in its innocence and open ingeniousness. The eyes are uncommonly large?of the deepest, darkest, softest brown, with a tenderness of sentiment in their expression, rather than intellect or brilliancy?those kind of eyes which glow, but do not scintillate; whose earnest, steady glance falls on the beholder like rays of tranquil moonlight, and touchthe heart like tones of melancholy music. Her mouth is small, with full lips, red as the reddest coral; her complexion not fair, but clear and pure, with fluctuating color. A casual observer, looking at the girlish face and quiet eyes, would, in all probability, pronounce her a being of calm, contemplative character; a happily constituted being who knew nothing of the wild turbulence of ungoverned emotions?who never felt excessive affection or aversion, and whose heart was never fired, save by the warmth of a solar sun. But the expert physiognomist would have known better?would have recognized the hidden fire underlying this almost frigid tranquility, the latent power which dwelt obscured beneath the seeming and deceitful calm?the calm of sluggish waters. The might of the mountain rivulet is unsuspected while it flows peacefully along, enamoured of serene skies and fragrant blossoms ; but swollen by excessive rains and descending streams, the tiny rivulet becomes a desolating flood. Or again, the insignificant brightness of the feeble spark suggests scarce a thought of danger, but when metamorphosed by a breath of wind, becomes a monster of devouring flames. So the quiet glow of those large melancholy eyes. Perchance their sorrowful expression was engraved therein by the trial of her early life, for Mrs. Dandridge has knqwn bereavement and poverty?two fatal antagonists to earthly felicity! At an early age she was left, a penniless orphan, to the care of unloving strangers; and penniless orphans are not always desirable or highly appreciated legacies even to kindred and relatives who should feel the ties of hlnnri if fin not. How much less. then, accceptable to strangers! No doubt, this poor young thing had a joyless life of it? bereft, unloved, feeling acutely her dependence and yet helpless to carve out a happier destiny for herself; aud now, when life has become so fair, so bright, she feels yet the clinging of those old sorrows, the rankling of | those old wounds, the undying hunger of that j starved young heart! This is, we think, after ! all, the worst of those disappointments, trials J and sorrows, which embitter our earthly exis- \ tence. We may endure their torture with j commendable fortitude, and live through their ; long agony and get over them?that is, cease to feel the soreness and the smart of present, j actual pain; but we never forget them, and j their memory leaves "the trail of the serpent" { on every joy, and their pale-faced ghosts haunt us in every hall of pleasure! There j is, we believe, no enjoyment for hearts so old in suffering as to have lost the capacity for joy. So with these beautiful sad eyes, with i their unfathomable depths of pathos; they J are gazing yet on scenes of sadness?yearning still for something better! From her life of dependence and poverty, Mrs. Dandridge had been rescued, at the age of fourteen, by a letter which came to her dead ! mother?the first in many years,.for her moth-' er had married against her parents' wishes : and been exiled from the paternal roof in con-; sequence. But at the death of the uuforgiv- j ing father, the mother's heart releuted?and ! how can a mother's heart do else than relent, to her erring children ??and she had written ! for her child to come back to her. The sum raons came too late. The exiled one was at home now?in the grave. Her cold body had,; long since, furnished food for worms?though little matter that, if her world-weary soul had ' at last found a haven of Peace! The poor mother being thus at rest, they sent the orphan child to the grandmother, who at once took her to her inmost heart with such a love as only those who have been bereaved can : love an only remaining object. Florimond?for such was the orphan's name?had only been an inmate of her grand- ; mother's house about two years, when she was ^ wooed and her young heart won by her pres-! ent husbaud?Albert Dandridge. The grand j parent at first objected to the match in conse-1 quence of Florimond's tender years. Otherwise she had every reason to be highly gratified and delighted with the alliance, for Albert Dandridge was a most eligible parti in every respect. His family were of the highest respectability; yea, he was even of illustrious descent, for one of his ancestors on the maternal side was an intimate friend and fellow officer of George Washington, and his grandfather had occupied, as his father now held, positions of highest honor and merit in his native State. After filling respectively the positions of member of Legislature, State Senator and member of Congress, Judge Dandridge had attained now to the highest honor in the gift of the State?he wore the ermine. There was but one fault to find with this al most perfect family. By some unfortunate business speculation the Judge had been reduced to a very moderate income. But this was 110 objection to Mrs. Summerville, the grandmother of our heroine ; who although a woman of plain family, had, however, considerable intellectual culture, and was the possessor of great wealth. This wealth, at her death, would be inherited by Floriraond. Personally, Mrs. Summerville had the highest respect and esteem for young Dandridge?as everybody else had, beiug as he was a young man of intellect, refinement, and influence, "who won golden opinions from all sorts of people." Every circumstance suited so well, this seemed to be one of those traditionary matches made in heaven ; and so at last Mrs. Summerville consented, and the young people were married, when Florimond was only seventeen?Dandridge being at the time but twenty-two. At the period we open our story, little more than a year had elapsed since the celebration of these auspicious nuptials. But Florimond Dandridge is no longer playing idly with the note in her hand and thinkiug idle, fond thoughts of her husband. She has been interrupted in those employments by the entrance of a frisky, middle-aged individual, who accosts her in the following brisk language? "What's all this ? Paper, and pen, and ink? Been writing? Poetry, I suppose? Well, I declare! Can't clip the wings of your vivacious fancy even ou a journey! Can't let Parnassus alone, even in a hotel par lor? Not poetry? What then ? Oh ! I have it?'Pencilings of a Traveler.' Not that either? Then it must be,'Notes on a visit to the rebel capitol during the war,' eh ? But I have no time for the discussion of this interesting subject, for you know I travel in wedding haste and must, I find, continue ray journey in a few minutes, if I wish to pass by the next flag of truce. I am very glad to have met you?wish it had been in an earlier stage of your journey. Can I do anything for you before my departure ?" "Nothing, thank you. I have arranged already to send this note to Albert this very eveniug, so I presume I shall see him to-morrow. To tell you the truth, now that I am actually in Richmond, I wish heartily I was back at home again. Now that I am so near him, I look forward to the meeting to-morrow, with more dread than pleasure; for he so positively refused to let me take the journey, and he is so firm in his peculiar notions?and thinks that?that?I ought to?obey him so implicitly?" The beautiful eyes were veiled now in confusion and embarrassment. "Oh ! you cannot tell me anything about Albert Dandridge I do not know," said the brisk gentleman, quickly. "I know all his peculiarities. That husband of yours is, no doubt, something of a tyrant. No wonder everybody looks up to him. Must say he's a fine fellow?very fine fellow! Known him ever since he was so high," and the brisk gentleman measured the air about a foot and a J half from the floor. "He is peculiar about some things, but he can't be less than human, and I think such a proof of your desire to see him will undoubtedly please him. It would me; so do put your mind at rest. I'm sure when he-sees you, he'll soon forget all about the disobedience in the pleasure of the reunion. But, under the circumstances, how on earth did you ever get the consent of that very strict disciplinarian, your worthy aud most estimable graud parent, to allow you to undertake the journey ?" "Bless you, she knows nothing about it," j said Mrs. Daudridge, her face suddenly crimsoning. "I fear I have been very deceptive j and wicked all round, but I wanted to see i dear Albert so much. I'll tell you how I j managed the affair. You see I left home j more than two weeks ago to spend a mouth at j Albert's father's. Oh ! I assure you they are good people?the very best people in the world, in fact; but perfectly intolerable to me. I never saw such prim folks, and so awful fussy? I never did do anything to please them, and I'm sure I never will." "And I'm sure you pleased them greatly when you married him." "I cannot imagine why," said Mrs. Daudridge, and apparently not observing the peculiar smile which passed over her companion's face, she continued, "they do not seem to 1 think now that he made such a good match, for Martha and Anna have told me several times, duriug this last visit, that their brother could have done much better ; I am so careless, and lazy, aud foolish, and so on. You canuot fancy how unhappy it makes me at times." "Well, it ought not," said her companion emphatically. "It is none of their business. You just try to please your husband, dear child, and don't mind the persecutions'of those old maids?they are as spiteful as the devil." "T helieve fill men dislike old maids." re plied Mrs. Dandridge, sententiouslybut I! think it very unjust. I know one who is the i most agreeable, charming woman I ever met." J "Oh ! so do I?I know a score of them very ' agreeable, very charming ; but my remark j was particular, not general. I referred entire-1 ly to the Misses D., whom I have known from j their cradles, so I know what I am talking 1 about. However, hasten your narrative for I must go. How did you circumvent your ma- j ternal ancestor ?" "Well, as I told you, I went on a visit to j father-in-law Dandridge, and after remaining there two weeks found the time insupportablj ! heavy. I could not stand it any longer, and I wanted to see Albert so much; so when they sent me alone in the carriage to the depot? mad as hornets because I would not stay the mouth out?instead of taking the southern train home, I took the northern, and here I am, and none of them know a word of my whereabouts." "Quite a successful coup d'etat," he cried, patting her on the shoulder ; "and you are a | brave hearted little woman." That's right I "Audacea fortuna juvat." And if Albert is not glad to see you, he will deserve hanging? i tell hira I say so?and good bye, for this is ' the third time that disagreeable man has called j me. I am going to such a far off country I ! suppose I shall never see you agaiB ; so a long good-bye, and Heaven bless you, Florimond!" Thus left alone by the departure of the gentleman, the young wife resumed her seat and fell back in the old train of thought. In her pre-occupation of mind, she did not once remember to ring the bell for the delinquent servant. He came at last of his own accord, full of apologies for being so tardy, but as he entered the room concluded the lady had left, ?: .wi,:?rv? o nno ror o n. liUb seeing uujr itiiug ui net. vu u ui/uiv. uy proach, however, he perceived her in an obscure corner behind one of the heavy window curtains, a thick veil completely hiding her face and head. She had apparently- fallen asleep, for her head was bowed against the window and her breathing heavy. The servant could not tell whether it was the same lady or not, and he was about leaving the room without disturbing her, when she moved, and raising her veil, showed him a face of such deathly pallor as quite startled him. "Excuse me, ma'am," he exclaimed ; "but you are sick. Let me show you to your room immediately?it is ready. As to your note, ma'am, I will send it over to-night. There is an officer going back to camp when the performance is over at the theatre, and he will take charge of it. I spoke to him about it. I think you said, the gentleman is in the South Carolina Cavalry ?" Mrs. Dandridge looked at him vacantly, as if bewildered and stupefied. "What did you say ?" she murmured, falteringly, from lips whose coral had all vanished. "The note? Ah ! yes; but I believe I will not send it. I am sick. I shall return home, j At what hour does the southern train leave to-night?" "At half past eight, ma'am." "Then I will leave at that hour. Do not forget it; and now show me to a room that I may rest in the meanwhile." The servant acted in obedience, and true to her sudden determination, Mrs. Dandridge began her homeward journey at 81 o'clock that night. - Perhaps, reader, you too, will wonder as did that servant, why the lady changed her mind, and why, without seeing her husband,! and before she had time to rest her wearied body, she should have quitted the Confederate capital so abruptly. Perhaps, if you are pa-' tient, you will solve the enigma. CHAPTER II. AT HOME. Mrs. Summerville sat on her front piazza ' one mild afternoon, rocking in a large, com-1 fortable chair and knitting, 011 long wooden needles, a gay scarlet and white neck scarf for her idolized Florimond. Her portly, majestic figure was clad in the heaviest of black silks, and on her silvery white locks was placed the neatest of snowy caps?its rich lace a fit shading for her gentle features. Time, which had dimmed the beauty of her aged face, and stolen the roses from her faded cheeks, had not quenced the vivid brightness of her dark and brilliant eyes. A gloomy, lowering sky hung overhead, and the breeze which swept in wild gusts across the southern landscape, brought to the old lady's senses the delicate breath of flowers and the taint oaor 01 tne fragrant pines, a whole grove of which lay just beyond the green meadow. The house is large, commodious and of modern architecture ; and standing, as it does, rather on the outskirts of the city, has a greater retirement about it and a much larger share of pleasure grounds than can usually be found with town houses. Mrs Suramerville is engrossed in deep thought; she is thinking of her granddaughter?or her child, as she always calls her?and the faster her needles fly, the faster her thoughts are borne through the air to Florimond. She becomes restless, and evidently her mind is troubled and ill at ease, for ! ever and anon she arises, and peering over her glasses through the French window, consults the bronze clock, ticking within on the black marble mantel-piece. Finally she leaves her1 seat, and going into the room rings the bell, which is immediately answered by her favorite man-servant. "Come, Charles," she said in a voice of peculiarly pleasant accents, "go now to the postoffice. You know I have not heard from your Miss Florimond in four whole days, and if I! do not hear to-day, I am firmly convinced she is sick. Return as quickly as possible, for if there is no letter, I will send immediately a telegram to Judge Dandridge to know the reason of her unusual silence. Charles, there must be somethiug the matter?she would not norrlof?f mo for ? al iorht. rmisp. Thprfi ifi Some thing wrong .vith ray child." "Oh ! no, Mistress," said Charles, in a comforting voice ; "you may depend Miss Floriraond is not sick?she only be enjoying of herself so much." "Don't talk to rae," replied the mistress, impatiently ; "but make haste and bring me a letter." Charles became invisible instantly. About a quarter of an hour later, as Mrs. Summerville still vibrated to and fro in her commodious rocking chair, and still knitted as if her life depended on the rapidity of her motions, she caught the sound of carriage wheels, and on looking up discovered the vehicle driving rapidly up the long avenue. She looked, she wondered, she gasped, she ran down the steps as fast as her sixty-seven years would let her?and yes, her eyes did not deceive her, it was Florimoud! But Florimond, looking so changed, so wan and haggard, that j her doating grandmother shed tears over her. j "I knew you had been sick, ray child," she cried; "my heart told me so. I have thought of you so much, and dreamed of you, and I've been so lonely without my dear girl." "Then, why did you force rae to visit those horrid Daudridges ?" asked Florimond, impatiently. "I hate them all." "Do not speak so, dear child. I thought it your duty." "Duty? Duty be hanged!" cried Florimond, still more impatiently. "I'll never go there again. I shake the very dust off my feet." "Why, what on earth have they done to you ?" "Oh ! nothing in particular," said Florimond, throwing her hat?anywhere, and sinking languidly into the first easy chair, "only as meddlesome and disagreeable as possible, ' as they always are, to my mind. Martha? hateful creature! took occasion several times I to tell me it was a great piece of condescen I sion on Albert's part to marry me, for he could have made a far more brilliant match." "Which is absolutely false," said Mrs. Summerville, "for where could he have found another girl as rich an heiress as you ?" "And?is it true?did Albert marry me for money?" "No doubt that consideration had its weight with the family," said Mrs. Summerville. "Oh 1 I am utterly miserable, mother," said Floriraond, passionately. "I don't know which is worse?to have no money or to have nothing else but money! When I was steeped in poverty and had not two whole suits of clothes to ray back, and not enough food j oftentimes to stifle the cravings of hunger, | then I thought I was unhappy enough ; but I when I learn that I was only sought after, and am now only tolerated for my money, it seems to me my last state is almost worse than my first." "How nonsensical you talk!" exclaimed Mrs. Summerville, "and how ungrateful to God, who restored you to your own and to the enjoyment of affluence." "But to i)e sought?not for one's heart, nor one's sense, nor one's good qualities?not for one's self at all, but merely for one's money, mother, I think it horrible 1" "I did not say you w?re sought only for money, Florimond. I only said no doubt that consideration bore its weight with the family in promoting the match as they did, in every proper way. Yon know how aristocratic they are, and your superior wealth equalizes the thing, making amends for your lack of good blood." "I am respectable! My blood is as good as theirs!" said Florimond, angrily. "Why, of course it is, only they don't think so. Because their great grandfather got rich, working at the same trade in which yours remained poor, they think themselves better than you ; only now, that you have money and they have lost theirs, they will condescend to receive you as an equal. That is the way the thing works. The aristocracy of this great republic is essentially an aristocracy of money, and the only difference between an aristocrat and a plebian is, the aristocrat has money and the plebian has not! And the best aristocrat is he who gets it first, gets the largest quantity, and keeps it the longest time! In the world wealth has always been, and always will be, the first and highest consideration to respect. My dear daughter, why will you worry over this knotty question ? ' With your attractive face and person, your sweet manners and affectionate heart, you cannot fancy, for a moment, that Albert sought you only for your money. He was attracted at first, no doubt, by your good looks, for undoubtedly beauty goes farther with men, as a general rule, than anything else." "Fiddlesticks for my beauty!" exclaimed Florimond. "I have no good looks worth speaking of. Why, mother, I have seen a woman, ah ! so superbly, so unutterably beautiful! Five hundred times better looking | than I?" I "That tale is hard to swallow," said Mrs. Summerville. smiling. "But tell me, when did you hear from Albert, and how is he?" "The letter which you forwarded me, was the last I've received," said Floriraond, indifferently. "He was quite well, I believe." "Fie, Flory ! why such feigned indifference to the man you adore? Those Dandridges have had a dreadful effect on you. What else did they say or do to put you in such a cross humor?" "Oh! do not return to them," said Floriraond beseechingly?"pray do not; I am sick of the subject. Mother, dear, do you not know I am nearly dead with fatigue and have not tasted a morsel of food since day before yesterday ?" "Can that be possible, child?" said Mrs. Summorville, ringing the bell and ordering hot tea and other refreshments. "Why did you not tell me before? Why did you not eat ?" "Well, for one reason I had no appetite," said Floriraond, and adding mentally, "and for another very good reason, I had nothing to eat." It was in the days of the Confederacy, reader, and provisions were not very plentiful?scarcely to be had for love or money, at times, en route to and from Richmond. "Poor child !" ejaculated Mrs. Summerville, "I am glad you are back at home. You look miserably, Florry ! Do you feel any unusual pain, ray child ?" "No, mother, I do not. Do not be appre| hensive about ma. I fancied I was feeling a little stronger than usual, until a few days ! ago. I think I shall go to bed now and stay there until I feel rested. Come sit beside my bed, dearest mother, and bathe my head, which burns as with a thousand iires, and give me your warm hands to hold, for mine are freezing cold. Mother, can you tell me? why?lam?trera?bling?so? Help!" "Here the low languid tones ceased and Mrs. Summerville, bending over her with irrepressible tenderness and scanning her pallid face, found she had lost consciousness. She was borne tenderly to her room and placed on the bed, while every thing was done for her restoration and comfort that love could suggest or wealth bestow. The catastrophe which they feared, wa3 averted; but the family ? j l.:. j.:i. * . pnysician COUlinueu mo utwiy visjus, eveu unci Florimond was about again as usual. Mrs. Sumraerville was greatly distressed. Laying aside her ill health, there was an impalpable something about Florimond she could not fathom. A few weeks wrought a great change in her appearance; her cheeks and lips lost their brilliant coloring, and her spirits were painfully fitful and gloomy. Though she had never been a remarkably vivacious or sprightly person?her young life had been too hard for that?yet she had never been subject to capricious moods as now. Mrs. Summerville mentioned it to the doctor. "You must try, in all possible ways, to enliven her spirits," said that worthy functionary. [ "This depression?this excessive heaviness, is greatly against her." "Just what I am aware of," said Mrs. Sumraerville in despair; "but how to enliven them, there's the rub !" It was dreary mid-winter and the weather unusually rainy and tempestuous. Wrapped in despondent thoughts, Florimond lay upon a low couch listening to the dreary howling ! of the wintry blast, and weeping with uncontrollable grief, while the mournful rain poured down in drenching floods upon the desolate : earth. Florimond's hands were crossed on her breast as if in prayer, "While her largo eves were grown Yet larger with the steady tears;" Mrs. Summerville entered the room, saying as she drew a chair up beside the couch? I "I wish, dear, the rain would cease and the j weather grow pleasant so that you might take j an airing in the carriage! This long condnement is very irksome and trying to you." "It makes no difference," said Florimond listlessly. "It is all the same to me. If there is no sunshine in our hearts the brightest sunshine without is but mockery!" "My dear girl, ypu must not give up to such feelings," remonstrated her grandmother. "Think how wrong it is! You disappoint me! I thought you would have borne these physical trials incidental to womanhood, with more fortitude and patience." "I do not mind my physical sufferings," said Florimond ; "or, rather, under different circumstances, I would not, but as it is, I am utterly wretched!" "My daughter, you are ungrateful to God for your many blessings. You are positively wicked in your repinings, when you* have everything on earth to make you happy." "Everything I" said Floriraond, sadly, "but the one solitary thing I want." "And what in Heaven's name is that? Tell me, and you shall have it, if it can be bought with money." "Alas 1 money cannot buy it," said Florimond bitterly ; "all your money is worthless, mother, since it cannot purchase the paramount desire of my heart. Mother, I crave the tenderness, the devotion of a fond and devoted heart. I seek a love 'high as life and deep as death.'" "And have you hot even that in me?and in your husband ?" "In you I have," said Florimond, precipitating herself into her grandmother's arras, and embracing her passionately. "Yes, you are all?everything ray heart could wish?the dearest mother, the truest friend ! But Albert does not love me, and this is the mortal disease which is sapping away my whole life's happiness. Mother, tell me, honestly, did you ever see Albert return my tenderness, my foolish, overwhelming love, with anything but cold indifference ?" "You must not expect too much from Albert in that way," replied Mrs. Suramerville, evasively. "He is very differently constituted from you, and has been reared in an atmosphere of repression and formality. Even if he felt as deeply as you, he has been taught not to show it." "I don't believe in that undemonstrative sort of afleetion," broke in Floriraond abruptly. "If there is any fire, there's obliged to be some smoke. Whatever has life and strength will make some positive assertion of existence. If love is voiceless and without fruit, then 1 say it is worthless." "But still I protest," said Mrs. Summerville, "that real, positive, undeniable affection, is sometimes wanting in outward protestations. Albert is one of those self-sustained, uraimpassioned?not cold, but?" "I think you may safely say cold," interrupted Florimond; "at least cold to me?cold as an iceberg, and unfeeling as a stone. Otherwise, would he allow week after week to elapse, and write me not a word, knowing, too, that I am delicate and feeling so badly." "Has he only written you that once since your return home ?" interrogated the grandmother, musingly. "Only once?and I have been home two months." "And how often have you written to him ?" "I haven't written at all." "Why, Florimond!" exclaimed Mrs. Summerville, in grieved amazement. "And can you wonder at Albert's silence ?" "What is more," said Florimond, sullenly, "I shall never write to him again, so long as I live, unless he changes his demeauor toward me?" "Which would be a very wicked and supremely foolish course of conduct on your part," said her grandmother. "Granting your your supposition is true, and he does not love vnu. i.q such a course calculated to win his regard ? Do you imagine you are the first woman to pass through this heart struggle ? Do you imagine you are the only unloved wife iu this wide world ? You are now learning the hard lesson of patient endurance. Why, my poor child, were it not for mutual endurance, mutual forbearance and a mutual making the best of things, half the married couples on earth would be at open rupture with each other?would fight in open warfare! Nor must you imagine that all the forbearance, all the sacrifice, is on your side. Not a bit of it! I can easily suppose, knowing Albert's disposition and education, that your very excess of affection annoys him as much as his coldness annoys you." "My excessive affection shall never annoy him again," cried Florimond, vehemently ; "be assured of that!" "Do not give way to temper, my child," said her grandmother, gently. "I do not say that it does?I only make the supposition for the sake of argument. Try to regard this subject from a christian point of view. In the eternal order of things, the very trials and rigid discipline of matrimony make it a desi rabie state lor an nuraan Deings; it is airyiug ordeal, but a very beneficial one ; a severe discipline, but equally advantageous?a hard, fought battle-field, I may say, whose defeats and conquests fit our tried spirits for the glory of our eternal hereafter! These trials are not sent with a view to the rewards of earth? "Where mon that faint, do strive for Crowns that fade," but with a view to that eternal commendation and never-ending reward, which will hereafter crown duty, well done, with a halo of -unutterable felicity." "You require too much of me, mother," said Floriraond. "In the contemplation of celestial happiness?so far off?so unattainable?so difficult to secure, I cannot lose sight of ray earthly misery." "Earthly misery!" repeated Mrs. Summerville. "How many poor human creatures, bowed down with genuine sorrow, and insupportable affliction, and encompassed with a thousand difficulties and misfortunes, would joyfully change places with you at this moment, and think themselves supremely happy! My dear, if religion cannot comfort you, nothing else can ; but if you will not listen to religion, perhaps you will give an ear to modern philosophy. I will repeat to you some words I rend yesterday. "The affections are the childreu of ignorance. When the horizon of | our experience expands and models multiply, love and admiration imperceptibly vanish." And again, "There are really no miseries except natural miseries?conventional misfortunes are mere illusions." Is there not food for thought here? Come, do not let me hear anything more about "earthly misery." Those words in your mouth are a sin." "Then I am the greatest of sinners," said Florimond, passionately, "for those words are nothing?nothing to other words which burn in my heart; and those thoughts which I have expressed are good thoughts, compared to those which brood in my mind, which I cannot tear hence, but with my life!" CHAPTER III. COLONEL DANDRIDGE SPEAKS A PIECE OF HIS MIND, AND GETS IN RETURN A PIECE OF MRS. DANDmDGE's. So the melancholy days dragged out their weary length. Mrs. Summerville, finding remonstrance and argument effected no good results in regard to Florimond's mental ailment, let her alone. She only sought to divert ftWAtttr nnoaiKlfl irQTT AflnPP.1 A.11V hv Iici IU1UU 1U otfgij |mooil/iU if j wj^v??J ?J reading aloud to her, a species of diversion of which her granddaughter was inordinately fond. Mrs. Sumraerville possessed a rare gift; the gift of a marvellous voice full of richness, power and sensibility, and a wonderful power of impersonation. Under the spell of this delicious voice, now rising in passionate declamation, now sinking .into exquisite pathos, now soft in love, now agitated in tumultuous storms of feeling, rich even in repose, Florimond seemed to be soothed, and appeared, by degrees, to attain a state of greater calmness and content. She ceased her expressions of repining, and though her spirit still groped in darkness, and she did little else but sit in silence and morbid melancholy, yet she never wept now. Mrs. Summerville could not decide, to her own satisfaction, whether this change was to be attributed to a healthier mental atmosphere, or whether it was rather an evidence of greater hopelessness in her grief?for as that incomparable authoress, Mra. Browning, says: "Hopeless grief is passionless." "Touch it: the marble eyelids are not vet? If it could weep, it could arise and go." Seated together around the blazing fire, Charles came in with a letter for his mistress. It was from Col. Dandridge, and Mrs. Summerville read it aloud to Florimond, who, sitting on the opposite side of the fire place, was unraveling, for her grandmother, a tangled skein of zephyr wool. Camp Near Richmond, Va., February!), 186?. My Dear Madam:?Having received no letter from Mrs. Dandridge?nor indeed heard anything directly from or about her?since she left my fafhor'a limine on t.hn 21st dav of October? ? ? / ? "He has made a mistake in the date," corrected the precise Mrs. Summerville; for I remember perfectly it- was the 26th. Aral not right?" "Don't remember," said Florimond, carelessly. "It's of no importance, anyhow." Mrs. Summerville proceeded with the epistle? "Since she left my father's house on the 21st, [but it was the 26th], I write to you for some information concerning her, and some explanation concerning her extraordinary silence. It has complete'y dumbfounded me. I cannot believe she has been sick, or else you would have written to me. Tell her if she is "moping" for some real or imaginary offense?as she is too apt to do in a case of personal grievance?I trust sue will soon get over it. My sister Martha writes me that Florimond only remained with them two weeks, apparently much bored all the time; and since leaving, has never sent back a line to them to say whether she over reached home or not. They don't know whother she is dead or alive, and I'm sure I do not 1 My dear madam, it would be conferring a great favor on me, if you would use your influence with my wife, to induce her to treat my family with proper respect. I have appealed to Florimond in vain. In two letters of late, I have asked her in all kindness to write at least to my father. This request she has treated, so far, with silent contempt?as she has also treated my letters and the letter which Anna wrote her recently, notwithstanding Florimond's rudeness. Since she seems to have such an aversion to my sistersHeaven knows why?for two more refined, no bier, kinder creatures never breathed!?I will say nothing about answering Anna's letter; but I do insist that she shall write to me, through respect, if for no other reason, andalso for the same reason to my honored father. If she perseveres in her present unladylike behavior, I shall be deeply displeased. Moreover, in the way of well-merited punishment, I will not come home to her in April, unless she writes. Notwithstanding my visit last July, I have secured the promise from the general in command and my intimate personal friend, to give me a two wgks' leave of absence at that time. But I will notspend it at home. I will go elsewhere?if Florimond does not mend her ways. I have no fancy for snlky women. If she was hurt with me for not letting her make me a visit in camp, or if she thinks I have not written as often as I ought (I confess to great pre-occupation latelyand unfrequent letters), or if I have offended her in any way, why does she not write and tell mo so, that I may make it all right between us? "Can you not place the matter before her in its proper light, and bring her to reason ? Hoping to hoar from you, I remain, my dear madam, With great respect and esteem, Yours most truly, Albert C. Dandridoe." P. S.?I should be very sorry to hear anything had gone wrong with Florimond. A. C. D. " Very sorry, no doubt," said Florimond, with a heightened color, and a very unusual glitter in her melancholy eyes. "Florimond," said her grandmother, "if this letter does not bring you to your senses, what can I say to move you ?" "You can say nothing," said Florimond; "so mother, dear, spare yourself the trouble. The whole universe cannot move me. If all the dead Dandridges should rise from their graves and confront me, I wouldn't write to him, or his honored father either; and as for Anna?" "Florimond," interrupted Mrs. Summer ville, thoroughly provoked, "you talk like a child?you act as if you had no sense 1" "I haven't much," said Florimond ; "for if I had I should never have married, but walked life's journey alone. 'On marcheplus vite, quand on marcheseul'?not to mention the risk of getting an unsuitable companion for the trip. Dearest mother, do not worry yourself about this unfortunate matter. It will come j right some of these days, and if it does not, what matter? According to that modern! philosophy which you have preached to me, 'these conventional misfortunes are mere illusions, and what we style the heart only a ( nervous sensation so, henceforth, my heart' is dead, and I shall live only through my intellect. Come, let us quit this. You promised, mother, to teach me that new stitch in crochet, and to read to me those beautiful i essays of Macaulay. When you read them,' mother, they live not in language, but music." ! i This was another new phase of Florimond's | malady, which made Mrs. Summerville fear j it was sinking deeper and deeper to her inmost soul. In the early stages of this soul j sickness, when Florimond had wept such co- j pious tears, she would talk, without cessation, I of ber grievances ; but now, she never, of her I own accord, mentioned Albert's name, or in j any way referred to the subject; and if it was J introduced by Mrs. Summerville, she changed the topic as soon as possible. The day following the arrival of the Colonel's letter, Mrs. Summerville made a yet more strenuous effort to break Florimond's resolution. For a long time, all to no effect. Finally, however, to an impassioned appeal of prayers, remonstrances and entreaties, she took her seat at the desk and wrote: Colonel A. C. Dandridge?Sir .?If it is any satisfaction for you to know it, I utterly abominate your whole femily, from your "honored father," down to your own dishonorable self! Knowing in your heart, your utter indifference toward me, you yet professed an affection which you did not reel, and married me for the money you were too indolent, or too incompetent to work for. I write because my grandmother requests me to write, and now close because I have nothing more to say. Florimond Ernestine Dandrige. This letter Florimond folded, sealed, stamped and addressed, and then rose from her seat "Why, have you finished already, my child ?" interrogated her grandmother. "I fondly hoped you would write a long affectionate letter." "I'd die first and be buried," and with this emphatic answer Florimond quitted the room. It was perhaps a month after this, when Mrs. Summerville, one day, informed Florimond she was going to write to Albert, asking what she must tell him ? "For mo toll Viim nothing?for voureelf anything you please." "Has he never answered that letter yon wrote hira some time ago ?" "No." "Well, I raustsay he certainly should have replied in this time. But anyhow, he has asked me to write and keep him posted as regards your health and I will do so." When her grandmother's back was turned, Floriraond could not refrain a smile at the thought of Albert answering such an epistle! She knew so well when she had written it, that the everlasting mountains would totter, ere Albert's pride would allow him to answer that letter! [to be continued next week.] BIBLE WIT AND HUMOR. "Shocking 1" many a good old saint will cry at the very thought of it "The Bible a jest-book! What Godless folly shall we have ** up next#' N?, the Bible is not a jest-book. But there is wit in it of the first quality; and a good reason why it should be there. Take a few specimens: Job, in his thirtieth chapter, is telling how he scorned the low-lived fellows who nretend to look down upon him in h's adversities. They are fools, they belong to the loDg-eared fraternity. Anybody with less wit might come out bluntly and call them asses; but Job puts it more deftly, (xxx, 7)? "Among the bushes they brayed; under the nettles they were gathered together." If that is not wit, there is no such thing as wit And yet the commentators don't see it^or won't see it They are perfectly wooden when they come to any such gleam of humor. Take another instance?Elijah's ridiculeof the prophets of Baal. They are clamoring to their god to help them out of a very awkward predicament. Ana while they are at it, the prophet shows them up in a way that must have made the people roar with laughter. The stiff, antiquated style of our English Bible tames down his sallies. These quack prophets have worked themselves into a perfect desperation, and are capering about on the altar as if they had St. Vitus' dance. The scene, . (1 Kings, xvii, 26, 27,) wakes up all Elijah's sense or the ridiculous. "Shout louder! He is a god, you know. Make him hear! Pep haps he is chatting with somebody, or he is otf on a hunt, or gone traveling. Or maybe he is taking a nap. Shout away! Wake him up!" Imagine the priests going through their antics on the altar, while Elijah bombards them in this style at his leisure. If Beecher ever said anything that convulsed his audience more thoroughly than the prophet must havedone the Jews around him, I should like to hear it. Paul shows a dry humor more than once, as in 2nd Cor., xiii, 13: "Why haven't you fared as well as the other churches ? Ah I there is one grievance?that you haven't had me to support. Pray do not lay it up against me!" These instances might be multiplied from the Old and New Testament both. What do they show? That the Bible is on the whole a humorous book ? Far from it. That religion is a humorous subject?that we are to throw all the wit we can into the treatment of it? No. But they show that the souse of the ludicrous is put into a man by his Maker; that it has its uses, and that we are not to be ashamed of it, or 10 roll up our eyes in holy horror at it?0. B. Wilcox in Independent. The Measles Peddler.?George Alfred Townsend has been gathering legends of the "Long Island Pilgrim Fathers, and adds this bit to the common stock of traditional lore: " 'Twas only about seventy years ago." said the driver who carried us, "that the Last Hampton folks undertook to get the better of a peddler who came among 'em with the measles. He was smart as a fish-hook, and measles or no measles, he would go to meetin' next day, being Sunday, in order to let them know he hed ariv. Every body knowed him ! The landlord of the tavern where the peddler stopped sez, 'Don't you go to meetin', man, with them measles comin out all over you I' Yes I will,' sez the man; Tor,' sez he, 'trade is trade, and there is no place like a meetin' to advertise notions. I'll go and hear the word 'expounded!' And go he did. Now, you see the landlord told the people, and sez he, 'That peddler is all bruk out with the measles, and he went to church among the children.' The young men got right deown mad, and made it up to whip the peddler; but he, hearin' tell of the feelin', had gone over to Southampton. However, they gave chase, and tuk him up and fetched him back, and there they ducked him in the horse-pond, and rid him on a rail. Well, neow, what do think that pesky peddler did ? He sued the town, through lawyer Aaron Burr, and rekivered one thousand dollars damages. And, by George ! he giv ninety of them the mea- / sles, and twenty-two died. 'And a trade's a trade,' sez he, as he left the town. An Indian's Revenge.?The Richmond county (Wisconsin) Independent tells a curious story, which it asserts as fact, to the following effect: An Indian trapper and hunter has been operating in one of the northern towns of that county, and near his camp lived a farmer. The Indian had a box filled with rattle-snakes, covered over with glass. Last August, the Indian came to the farmer's house one day intoxicated, and asked the farmer to give him a certain sheep that he was preparing for exhibition at the county fair, saying that. he was hnncrv. This the farmer refused. but offered him a hen if he would shoot it The Indian thereupon declared he would have the sheep, and fired at it, but missed it. The farmer then set his dog on the Indian and drove him away. A few nights since, the farmer was awakened from his sleep by some* thing cold crawling over him, and, seizing the object, he hurled it across the room. He was horrified to hear the noise of rattles in every direction. Telling his wife to lie quiet for her life, he raised up and turned up the light, when he saw a large rattle-snake coiled up at the foot of the bed, ready for a spring. Seizing his revolver, he fired and shot off its head. The noise of the pistol aroused the hired man, who hastened to the room, and before reaching it, (the door was open,) killed two rattlesnakes. Two more were killed in the bedroom, making five in all. At the foot of the bed was the Indian's box. It is supposed that he entered the open window and emptied the snakes out on the bed.