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lewis m. gkist, proprietor. | |nbcpcnbeitf Jfamiljj ttetospapcr: Jfor % promotion of f|e political, Social, ^gricnltnral antr Commercial Interests of % Sontjj. terms~$2.50 a year, in advance. VOL. 26. YoEKVILLE, S. O., THURSDAY, MAY 27, I88O. 3STO. 22. r Jk fUmatw of ELLIS Q 0 KING'S M * - --?= CHAPTER XXII. "Come, gentle nigbt;come loving, blaok-brow'd nlglit, fiive me my Romeo." Skakspeare. "Glorious news, Miss Ellen! Our arm3 have been again victorious," said Mr. Adams, as he entered the Mansion. "That is indeed joyful tidings," replied Ellen, with sparkling eyes. "Have you bad direct news from our friends ?" "No; nothing definite," he replied, "but the country is full of it. Tarleton's dragoons are flying, for dear life, to the main army." "We shall hear to-day. God grant our r friends are safe," said Ellen. "Yes, I think so. I shall not go home till I hear the particulars." But the day passed, and yet another, without tidings. Ellen was growing intensely anxious, when, at the close of the second day, a couple of horsemen were seen advancing, and Ellen could scarcely recognize in the pale and haggard face of the elder, her uncle, Mr. Willoughby. Davie, too, was fearfully pale, and the broad black patch on his brow, betrayed the cause of his feeble and faltering gait. "Mr. Adams!?the one of all others, I wished to see. This is kind," said Mr. Willoughby, feebly dismounting from his horse. "Henry, you are wounded," ciied Ellen, as ghastly pale he sank upon a seat. "Not seriously," said he, striving to reassure her by a smile. "Only a sabre stroke, and a long ride has weakened me." An expression of intense anguish crossed Mr. Willoughby's face, as he watched Ellen performing those offices for Davie she had so recently performed for the noble Graham. A few whispered words from Davie told her the v- startling circumstancss of his death, and Davie forgave the tears that dropped so gently over the memory of the high souled chivalric Englishman. Mr. Willoughby never held up his head again. His heart was indeed brokeo, and the remorse of years took speedy , revenge on his feeble frame. A few mornings after his return, he entered the room where Davie and Ellen were sitting. Giving them an open packet and a miniature, he said in touchingly teuder tones? "Read this, mv children, and if vou can, forgive one whose sins have been only equaled by his sufferings. As evidence of your pardon, I ask you to grant me but one request ere death closes my life of misery, and the grave hides forever this burning memo ry." He turned and left them. And Davie, opening the miuinture, disclosed the counterpart of the picture Graham wore in his bosom. A secret spring had been opened, and another face, in youthful manhood looked out upon them. It was the facsimile of the portrait of Mr. Willoughby, which hung on the wall?taken years ago, in England. A tress of wavy hair, black as night, slowly unwound like a long dark memory, surprising them with its fabulous length. "This is not the picture Graham had," said Ellen. "The hair there was brown and curliug." "No," replied Davie, "that was buried with him. Mr. Willoughby said he was unworthy to remove it. He opened it, however, and showed me a separate case like this, with bis own likeness, and Herbert, engraved in golden letters beneath. It was very cunningly contrived. No one would have ever suspected there was a second likeness; and poor Graham carried that next his heart, n -l 1 I pernaps lor years, ana never anew nuw slight an accident divided him from the a knowledge of his father." The manuscript was broken by much that was irrelevant to the single history, and had evidently been prepared since the discovery of Graham as his child. There were prayers of thankfulness, passionate bursts of grief, solemn vows to permit neither memory or affection, life or death, to stand between him and the love of his neglected child ; and Ellen read that she was to be sacrificed to this darling scheme. Here then was the secret of all his madness, and Davie told her of the stormy interview they had on the day of his capture. The old man had met him with a dogged stubbornness, which Davie, in vain, tried to overcome. Finding his persuasions only seemed to exasperate Mr. Willoughby, Davie told him firmly and plainly his determination. Mr. Willoughby flew into a stormy passion and swore Ellen should be cut off from all expectation from him. Davie coolly replied he had enough for both, and was quite willing to assume the responsibility, then and there, of her future fortunes. Mr. Willoughby then tried to frighten him with ' his curse, which not intimidating the fearless soldier as it had Ellen's gentler nature, he implored him by every solemn prayer to desist from his suit, and in a moment of earnest entreaty, and agonized terror, confessed the relation in which Graham stood towards him. Davie was kind, respectful and sympathising, but as firm and determined as ever, and plainly told him that to expect Ellen to make the atonement for his sin, was a3 cruel as it was unjust, and he would forbid it were it at the very altar. The old man wept and stormed and supplicated in in vain, entreating Davie not to mention his suit to Ellen. To which Davie replied he had and would, and he lacked but her conseut to put forever and immediately out of his power, this cruel and continued persecution. And so they parted?the one bent on his cherished scheme of restitution ; the other, if possible, more firmly resolved at once to relieve his Ellen from these trials. How each was disappointed we have seen. The manuscript concluded in words of most hopeless misery, praying forgiveness for all the sorrow he had caused them, and imploring the death that would rest and release bis bur dened heart. To avoid much of repetition, we will give the MSS in our own words: , Herbert Willoughby was scarcely twenty years of age when he left America to conclude his studies on the Continent. He traveled under the care of his tutor, Mr. Monckton, a man in every way worthy as to mental and moral training, but so completely wedded the flswltttwtt. R, OUNTAIN. * ,Y A, EWAET. to intellectual pursuits, as to be utterly incompetent, so far as discipline and corapan ionship were concerned, to restrain the wilful, , impressible and volatile Herbert W. The , restlessness of travel increased this natural , disposition of 6cklessness and versatility, and , declaring it was impossible for him to study until he had visited classic Italy and caught ( some inspiration from the poet land, he per- ] suaded Mr. Monckton to accompany him thither. Some whimsical caprice led him to , take the name of Howard, declaring it was 1 not only more poetical, but more chivalric | and noble than YVilloughby, and by this ,] name he insisted upon being addressed. , Arriving in Italy, his life there was like i a dream of fairy land. Now he would study . "clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks, and ' emerald turf," beneath the shadow of the 1 Alps; listen to the crash and roar of the I thundering music of the aiftlanche; or in the j heart of Switzerland's grandeur, gaze on the I snowy monarch of the mountains, its huge < glaciers, its granite peaks, its beautiful vales, j still and shining like a picture. Here with i air, earth, ice, rocks and mist, he would study i the glorious images of Dante, whose burning 1 pen bad traced what his imagination had ] painted of Paradise; for surely here was 1 where the angels of God, brighter than the 1 "* " ? ? i* t 11 %f*l sun, ascend and descend ; now UJina oia iyiiiton would claim his worship, as the fleecy i clouds, like a cohort of angels brushed the . summit with their wings, the sunlight reflect- ' ing from the snow to the clouds, from the \ clouds to the snow, making a glowing and ] dazzling splendor. And then what an Eden i below ! Forests of the richest, deepest green ; 1 vast masses of umbrageous foliage; the open- 1 ing of the rich valleys, leading oft' the eye in ! a perspective wilderness of idleness and beau- ] ty; the bro d imprisoned lakes, the rivers . springing from their crystal sleeping sources, i gliding swift and graceful as an arrow; or 1 burstiug from the guarding glaciers thunder- j iug sullenly on. The miniature cascades fall- 1 ing like veils of silvery lace; the vines trel- . lised among the rocks?the flowers worthy of I Paradise ; the luxuriance and sublimity, the < desolation and the beauty struck his poetic J sense with 3uch exquisite pleasure, as to forbid j all graver or more practical pursuits. These ' J ??- k?? raIUa t??y ofroomc i wauueriugti auu ievcnt? uy guuuti r onrouio I and mountain passes, this study of the poetry 1 of the middle ages, its lofty strains according i well with the "surrounding aisles of the dim : ! woodstheir checkered light, their Gothic i grandeur; this listening spirit, that heard the \ wild song of the glaciers and the thrilling j tales murmured by rivers from mountain sol- < itude; this music of brook and waterfall; the i sighing of the wind among the leaves, the ] carroling of the birds in the air, the tinkling 1 sound of the distant villages was to him as ] the evening sfng of the angels. His vivid i imagination, his southern indolence, in fact | the dolcefur niente of his nature, was led com- | pletely captive, and his wilfulness would min- i ister to thai and to that alone. Now he would ] away to the land of Tasso, of Dante, of 1 Ariosto, and by the memory-haunted Medi- i terranean, he would dwell on the glories of < the past, while enjoying the charms of the j present. He would study diplomacy from I their great; statesmen; their brave heroes i should teach him courage and daring; and then noble poets, ah! their poets, should tench f it is impossible, "Not to love all things in a i world so filied where the breeze warbles and the mute still air is slumbering on her instru- 1 ment." He would study Titian's radiant i pictures of sensuous beauty, glowing with ' their gorgeous tints, or the dreamy landscapes of Claude Lorraine?soft, breezy, dewy; or I wonder at the gloomy grandeur and terrible i magnihcence of Salvator Rosa, Praxiteles and Phidias; the sculptor of Grecian fame, i should give his dreaming mind fresh models 1 of beauty and grace, and from every temple < and arch and breathing statue, would he i gather a luxurious and fascinating memory, i He would visit Athens ; muse on the bauks of 1 the Ilyssu8 with Socrates, or sit in the acade- ] my of Plato. Now he would ascend Parnas- ' sus, and sitting by the Castilian fount, wor- i ship Apollo and the muses, and with the sun- i light of festivals and the moonlight of ruins, he would forget that a career of miud is ac- < tion that has an aim, and indulge in blissful reverie?that heritage of women. If Mr. i Mouckton dared to expostulate as to this ' waste of time, Herbert would indignantly de- i clare he was accomplishing the most earnest j labors, pursuing the most arduous study. . For was not eloquence, with mute persuasive ' strain stirring his soul to deeds of daring and of blood ? Was not philosophy, rich in intel- I * l LI! lect, acute m metapnysics, ana spariuiiig wuu admirable morality, breathing iD every record i of the past? Was not poetry, the enchant- ] ing Priestess?with allegory, fable and fiction, i daily opening rich mines of precious ore? i No, in Dante, he would study the history, theology and politics of the middle age?. Shakspeare would unravel the great mysteries 1 of the human heart; Cervantes should teach j hira to shun the follies his satrical pen describes ; Spenser should elevate him .to sub- i lime pathos, and Milton to a holy fervor. Ariosto, fresh, spirited and rich, would be his model for action. Boccacio with his Decam- I eron paiutiDg, extravagant and comic?touch- i ing and tragic, would be to him imagery and melody; and Tasso, equisite Tasso, would be the string of feeling and love. Too good natured to contend, too absorbed to do more than occasionally expostulate, Mr. Monckton allowed the young Herbert to wander as his mood called him. Now in Verona, where he would "stop with Juliet at the Masque now in Venice, "rising with her train of proud towers;" now at "sober, learned Padua"? , now Genoa, "the city of palaces." He would "see Naples and die," and Rome?"the Niobe of nations?childless and crownless," and Florence "with its laughing climate, none so fair?without; within, enchantment." Here he would rest and study the dust which is in i itself an immortality." But first he would dream in the valley of Arno?its garden depths, its rock grottoes, dim and cool?its hedges of acacias and laurels, its shaded avenues, their leafy labyrinths, fitting retreat for the "loving and beloved," or mounted upon a superb steed?for he was accomplished in the noble art of horsemanship?he would ride: through the green aisled forests, peopled with , the grace and the chivalry of flowers, his gay ! charger keeping time in proud praucing, to the music of the Cascine. His air and handsome face, with his graceful figure and rich dress, soon attracted the attention of many a dimpled and rosy beauty, as they rode along in their open carriages, and in many a mute flirtation did thesuscept-! ible youth engage. An airy kiss tossed from | the tips of lovely hands, answered by a bouquet of marvelous beauty and fragrance, i fKfl Ion nf nwnpr nf I UlCVClljr l1i1u1yu iu uic ibji vi miv ?< ->. .. that loving gesture, or a graceful bow returned by a smile of coquetish sweetness, was quite food enough for many a twilight dream, till capricious fancy would invent a new inamorata, with love's fabulous charms. One evening he had lingered longer than usual, viewing the brilliant and gay panorama. The sun bad sunk behind the snow-capped mountains, but the twilight was gorgeously light Clouds of gold were piled in .a firmament of glory, and the soft clear light of that exquisite half-tone which he so loved in Claude Lorraine, was shed over tree and flower. The beauty of the lovely Florentines, by this heavenly light, was enriched to a soft voluptuousness, subdued to a dreamy grace, perfectly bewildering. While his heart was bounding and glowiug under this scene of enchantment, a sudden fascination, a mysterious influence, caused him to turn. Heavens, what i picture ! Seated in a phaeton, whose elegance and liveries of scarlet ai>d gold of the ser?????ut. WAMlltXT CTflQ ft VilULS, JUU1UUICU Vtcnitu OUU uuuiut;, ? lovely girl. A girl?indeed a child iu years? being scarcely sixteen ; but in all else, a won- . ierous specimen of glowing womanhood. Her glorious eyes, dark as the night, tender and passionate, were fixed fuU-^ upon him. Her cheek, smooth and glowing, was warm with the rich blood mantling its brunette surface. Her mouth was proudly, sweetly full; lips richly tinted and parted in eager scrutiny. The wavy fold of her black hair was wound in immense coils around the small and beautifully shaped head, till, as if weary of still braiding, it fell iu glossy coils around the lovely neck ; and Physche, what a figure! Full, voluptuous?the falling shoulders, the swelling bust, the round symmetrical limbs, the dimpled hands, the tiny feet, from every *race, from every beauty, the warm Promethean fire, burning, glowing in eloquent spells. A robe of crimson contrasted gorgeously with the warm dark skin, and the rich black lace nf the falling mantilla, formed a lovely net frame for this glowing picture. She was bending eagerly forward as his gaze met hers. Ihe rich blood mantled her cheeks to a yet tnore 'sunny hue, as in graceful gesture, she tossed the usual kiss, and whispered "to-ruor row," as the phaeton slowly passed onward, lie was tempted to play the spy upon the movements of this lovely stranger, but his nice sense of honor forbade it, and, with every pulse quickened to warm excitement, he hastened home to weave, with lover's madness, many a dream of airy bliss. How impatiently he waited for the morrow! again to meet die Hebe of his fancy. The loitering twilight would never come?the hour sacred to romance?luxurious, beautiful and fascinating ! It came at last. Again the elegant phteton rolled leisurely along, and scarcely iwaiting the signal from those melting eyes, he spurred his horse to her side. Placing her Bnger on her lip in a terror almost fierce, she signified her disapproval. Her head was quickly turned?a little note fluttered to the ground and again the mysterious beauty left him. Snatching the tiny epistle, he hastily read?"to-morrow." "Pshaw!" he cried, "I am but the victim of some practical jest?I will think no more of it." But that little note would not rest so quietly. Again aud again he drew it forth, to study the fair Italian hand that had traced 'to-morrow," so tantalizingly. "Well," said he, at length, "love and beauty beckon. If a jest, it is a sweet one, and I i willing victim ; so once more my Venus !" Another day, another twilight. Again the intoxicating circe, and again disappointment ivith the consolation of an exquisite bouquet, with the mystical word "to-morrow," hid amid its fragrant leaves. The excitement, the curiosity wasWlmost maddening, and determined to be no longer foiled, he indicted a warm and passionate protest against farther cruelty. 'To-morrow was the only answer, sighed from those warm lips, as kissing it, she hid the letter in her bosom. And now opened upon I Herbert new life; a life invested with all the sharms of the most bewildering romance. Epistles were daily, or rather nightly (for it required the twilight's dim light) exchanged. The lovely incognito, cunning as a sorceress, imperious as a queen, uniting a warm and passionate nature?one too, perfectly reckless of consequences?with a courage that we would call boldness; with a wildness, we would call freedom ; hesitated not a moment j: to commit the error we consider so tormidable in America?in Italy so pardonable. Her education had taught her of nothing but love. The very air breathed it?it was an atmosphere of seduction and dangerous ex- < ample. Her faults, and they were many, had never taught her deceit heretofore, and when she loved, nature and education gave expression to it. Adventures in this glowing land are rapid and open, and-the strict surveillance under which she had been placed, but tempted her more strongly to evade its vigilance. She had seen Herbert?had loved him. She could not, she would not analyze why? sufficient that love possessed her being. She was the child of a noble house, a branch of the D'Este, that Tasso had so madly worshipped, and whose burning words for the Leonora of his love, found a ready response to her > passionate heart. A broken and decayed branch 'tis true, but still haughty, proud and arrogant. Her beauty was to redeem their fallen fortunes, and she had been closely im- , mured till her fifteenth year released her i from captivity. A wealthy relative dow took charge of her, and a noble?rich, old and jealous?was to be her future lord. How her nature loathed the union, may well be imagined. She had no hope of extricating herself from the hateful fetters; but while she was free, she would indulge in one wild, passionate and seductive dream. She saw no danger, and if Herbert loved her, where would be the shame? Too intoxicated to. see his own danger, or too warm a nature that had never known rebuke, a character that was a stranger to restraint, Herbert gave himself entirely up to the witching fascination. His days were now all merged in those short twilight hours, when a whispered word, or more rarely, a tender pressure of the hand, was but fresh fuel for dangerous reverie. The previous months of listless inactivity, the subduing, seducing listlessness, well prepared him for the tender romantic finale. He was no longer master of his own actions, but consumed by a fever his nature would not struggle against, he was restless, impatient, and irritable. He had in vain petitioned for an interview. Leonora either could not, or would not, grant it. " ? ' - "J: ??,i.j remaps areaaing a umuuvery mm nuuiu forever mar this stolen sweet, or perhaps dreading a weakness that would have defied all conventional rules. In vain Mr. Monckton (who, shut up with his books was a perfect .stranger to the cause of this restless irritation,) expostulated. In vaiu he argued, till finally threatening to return to America, Herbert, in a passionate letter of reproachful tenderness, upbraiding Leonora with cruelty and perfidity, barde her adieu forever. Giving this in charge of a trusty messenger, he awaited the result, perfectly satisfied it would be as he wished. A long restless day sped. Another and yet another. Still no message. Worked almost to frenzy, again he sought the evening drive. The phreton, with its lovely freight, was already there ; but another figure was by the side of Leonora, an older and graver face, one less lovely, but more proud. It was a sister? one*wrapped in the fortunes of her house, and whose patrician pride was but secondary to the worship of her lovely and loving Leo nora. She watched Herbert's bold look with jealous wrath, and as reckless of appearances, he stooped to whisper a bitter farewell as the phaeton slowly passed, her angry glance seemed ready to strike him with its proud scorn as punishment for his temerity. A low cry reached his ear?was it Leonora ? He turned, and again passing the phseton, saw * ? -i ?? "NT her pale ana tearless id ner sister s urms. nu longer hesitating, he followed the carriage that was now rapidly conveying her home. It stopped in front of a high massive portal, for Florence's palaces are built like fortresses. As it waited an instant for the opening of the gate, Herbert sprang from his horse and throwing the reins over his arm, advanced to her side. "Leohora," he cried, impetuously, "one word before we part, perhaps forever." Her eye's sparkled. She laughed a low triumphant laugh. "It is my fate, sister. To night," she whispered to Herbert, "and here." "Leonora, are you mad ? What would you do ?" said her sister. "Hush! Franceses; be prudent." She smiled bitterly, as she pointed to the servants. "It must be so. When did you ever know me to give tip after that? Farewell, Herbert, you have well nigh maddened me?but to night." She smiled a warm, beaming smile, and resting her head on her sister's bosom, as if yet trembling from sudden sorrow, she passed through the gates that were now opened to receive them. He saw them enter a spacious court, heard the gurgling of failing fountains, and the heavy leaves were closed. Night, calm, placid, silvery, found him waiting on this enchanted ground. Minutes like hours, rolled on; but at leDgth a small postern was opened, and a dark figure cautiously peered out. "Howard!" was whispered, and Herbert sprang forward. "Hist," said the voice ; "no words, follow me." The wild feeling of romantic delight to which Herbert now gave himself up to, amounted almost to a sense of pain, and though he would not for worlds have gone back, yet he almost longed for a sober moment to cool his chaotic feelings. Following a winding path that led amidst statues and tropical foliage, he descried a stately portico, its pure Corinthi an columns shining like silver in the moonlight. Then the majestic proportions of a large and noble mansion were clearly defined, as he followed his dark and silent guide through the gardens, arboured avenues, and caught the glimpses of the sparkling fountains as they fell in murmuring music. They stood before a low and trellised arbor. "In there," she whispered, "wait." And Herbert was alone with that wondrous moonlight; with the wild music of the murmuring water and the rapid beatings of his own heart. He did not have to wait long. A fawn-like step struck his ear, an eager whisper of "Howard," and Leonora, 4he passionate, the proud, was folded to his heart. She knew no coyness; she had no "cunning to be strange." This fair Saxon youth had daz zled her, and now he was unconsciously adding yet another charm. He possessed the irresistible grace of youth, the youth of heart and soul, joined to the youth of beauty, and as the sparkling poetry with which his nature was so deeply imbued, broke forth from his heart and showed in his features, Leouora gave herself up to the intoxication of the hour, and drank draughts of passion that intertwined itself with every fibre of her heart. Is it wonder that midnight still found them lingering over the sweet sorrow of parting, or that again and again Francesca warned them of the fleeting hours ? 11TU ma.h/mi. T T TYior s?nmo 9" hfl I JLU*lilUliU)T] JUtVU\m*j A. ill UJ I aaw whispered. "To-morrow ! Will it ever come ? I'm jealous of your liberty till then," she said. "But bark, my sister, again ; Howard, one word. Look at me." She drew him to the warm moonlight, and those glorious eyes discoursed a language lovers are no strangers to. "Now, once more, tell me you love me." Her warm arms were around his neck, the heaving breast pressed close to his, her soft breath, sweet as the perfume of violets, fanned his cheek, aDd those wondrous eyes still looked, and longed and listened. Is it wonder his sense was led captive, and words ; warm, tender and glowing, were breathed and pledged in those parted lips ? Is it wonder the boy and girl lovers should whisper of graver ties, and vow that the next meeting should forever unite them? And so it was. It was easy for Leonora to steal out in the early morning hour, easy for Herbert to meet her, and easy to find a worthy father, who, for the Englishman's broad gold, made the lovers one, and kept his own counsel. As quietly as she had ventured out, Leonora returned, for the plan of the lovers was to keep their union secret for a time, till fate would open a favorable opportunity for revealing it. Too late to remedy the fault, Francesca discovered it, and her pride j and cunning alike, aided in keeping it quiet. The old noble to whom Leonora was betrothed was ill, perhaps dying. This was what had prevented Leonora from seeing or sending to Herbert. 8he had been suddenly summoned to his palace, and her wild grief at the prospect of Herbert's forever leaving her, was ascribed by the maneuvering Francesca, to the love of Leonora for her intended lord. So convinced was the doting noble of this, so infatuated with the magnificent girl, that he willed her all his broad lands and proud estates. It was Francesca's terror lest the young people should be premature in the confession of their love, and by all the artifice and cunning of her nature, she duped the impatient Herbert to believe she was urg| ing his case before her parents. At this time, too, Herbert, who had been cautiously feeling his way as to how his Dnae would be received by his parents, whom he honored and loved most deeply, received answers to his letters. His father, taking alarm at the prospect of his son wedding an Italian and a Catholic, was stern and unyielding in his displeasure, and wrote to Mr. Moncklon to return immediately. His mother, who was to Herbert as an angel lent to earth, by every affectionate endearment entreated him to return, drawing such a picture of their distress at the contemplation of a foreign union, and placing foreign habits in such odious comparison to the pure home life to which he bad been accustomed, as startled and grieved him. He, for the first time, now seriously contemplated bis position. How could heintroduce to bis gentle womanly mother, as daughter, this warm, impulsive, and alas, to some degree, unprincipled Italian girl? How recommend her to the stately courtesy, the just and discriminating judgment of his father? How teach her the duties of an English borne; bow bid her appreciate its quiet comfort, its peaceful joy. Alas! why had he not thought of all this before? He now determined to see Leonora and urge her to flight. Once with kio rtnvanfa lifif WrtM/l rAllQ Koailfv WAllM IIIO jJCli gu tO) UOfc livuuivuw WVMW *>j be his best excuse?her devoted love, her best recommendation. His visits to the arboured garden had been almost uninterrupted, and not unfrequently midnight lengthened to morning, ere he could tear himself away. Francesca's prudence had saved them from discovery?her watchful love guarding Leonora's fond secret as jealously as if it were her own. Torn by the contending emotions of duty and love, Herbert sought her to urge a speedy flight. Francesca was not at the postern?the usual sign it was not safe for him to enter. ?ut bis impatient spirit would not brook delay. He had made up his mind to see Leonora that night; nay, to claim her if necessary, and he rather courted discovery than not. Their grottoed retreat was vacant. How desolate without her beaming presence! He entered it's dark recess. Leonora's guitar was resting against their usual seat. A roll of verses had dropped upon the ground. He opened them, and by the bright moonlight read a reply to some he had set to a simple air for her. They breathed the deepest tenderness, the fondest love. Every line was eloquent with a passion that knew no restraint. Completely beside himself with grief, love and madness, Herbert took the guitar and striking the strings with a bold hand, he sang in his rich tenor voice, the words her love had composed. He finished the first verse and waited a reply. None came; and in yet fuller and clearer tones he sang again. Ere the last note died on his ear, a figure came bounding down the pathway. "My love, my life, my treasured bride, I knew I would bring you." He laughed triumphantly as he clasped her in his arms. "Hush ! Herbert, hush ! What have you done ? Fly ! fly, you are lost," she cried in wild terror. Her face was ashy pale, and her eyes, wild and stariDg, seemed starting in their sockets. "What is it, Leonora, my darling? my own; tell me what terror is this ?" ' Fly Howard, fly. My brother, ray jealous, vengeful brother. You do not know his fierce nature. He has suspected us?even now he charged me with ray crime, as he calls it, and while denying it your song burst on his ears. I told him it was a wandering serenade^ but he left me with wrath and passion in his fierce glance. Oh ! Howard, must we part!" She threw herself weeping into his arras. "Never," said be impetuously. "Never, Leonora, till death divides us." "Then, die now!" said a voice behind him, "and part forever, for I swear, traitor that you are, you shall never leave this place alive." With a piercing shriek, Leonora threw herself between her lover and her fierce saturnine brother. It was the work of a moment for Herbert to place her on a seat, and draw his sword to prepare to defend himself. "Hold," he cried, if indeed bonds of blood unite you and Leonora. I cannot imbue my hands in her brother's blood. Let us go no deeper in this quarrel. I have done wrong ; but forgive me and let the splendor of her beauty and my passionate love, plead ray pardon." "Traitorous coward," shouted the infuriated Juan, "talk not to me of love and beauty. Die, cmrsed thief!" He would have plunged his sword in Her- i bert's body, but his vigilance eluded it. "T "At sJnawr o KrsitVinr'a hlnnrl " TTpr- I X Y) 111 UUt Uinu U UiVfilVft U wtwwaj bert replied. As the kinsman of my wife, I ] will respect your life." i "What do I hear?" cried the fierce and < startled youth. "Kinsman?wife ! Nay then ; < know I would murder you now, baseborn j Saxou that you are, if I had to drive the stilletto at midnight in your back. Presum- < ing dog?how dare you lift your eyes to the 1 noble house of D' Este." 1 He sprang on him with such fury, that it i required all Herbert's adroitness to elude the ? blows; and finally discovering nothing but < his life would satisfy the infuriated youth, he 1 attempted to cripple his sword arm, in order < that he might be unable to pursue longer the 1 sanguinary combat. Aiming for this, a sud- < den movement of Juan's foiled him, and the I young Florentine received the weapon in his I body. He fell, faintly crying? < "I'm murdered." i Leonora, who had watched this scene in the i wildest terror, now distracted between grief at i the loss of her brother, and fear for the safety 1 of her lover, was almost beside herself. The 1 calmer Francesca, who had been absent at the time of Herbert's entrance into the garden, now appearing, Herbert wae hurried away and the wounded Juan removed to the house. Herbert hastened to his hotel, but he had been there but a short time, ere Mr. Monckton came in, full of the news of the attempted murder of a youth of the city, high in influence and position. The attempt had been made by a young Englishman, who had audaciously attempted to carry off, by force, the Florentine's youthful sister, the pride and boast of the city, and who was even then betrothed to one of their noble Lords. Mr. Monckton represented the people as infuriated at this bold deed, declaring their determination to make a speedy example of the perpetrator of the insult THis grief and surprise may be better imagined than described, when Herbert. rnnfesaed himself as the author of the crime, ami revealed all the transactions of the last few months. So incredulous, so shocked was the old man, that Herbert had to produce his bloody sword as witness of the truthfulness of the statement. Too grieved to'rebuke the mad imprudence of Herbert, and too anxious to advise other than hasty flight, Mr. Monckton at once made preparations for departure. In a few hours they were ou the road, and ere many days were safe from all pursuit, in Germany. Here Herbert received peremptory letters to return home, and his mother's failing health being urged as a necessary reason, he determined to return to America, and throwing himself on the generosity of his parents, confess all his folly and madness. Entreating Mr. Monckton to remain, and, as soon as practicable, to follow with his young wife, Herbert departed. He left with high hopes, for immediately previous to bis embarking, be had heard of the convalescence of Juan, of the death of the old noble, leaving to Leonora all his wealth, and, better than all, a long and affectionate letter from his bride, vowing anew a devotion that would know no change in time or eternity. A prudent letter from the wary Francesca, forbade his returning at present to Florence. Her revengeful brother had vowed to take his life, and wrote Francesca, "a D' Este keeps his word." She wrote also that Leonora, too, prayed him not to return, but to see his parents as be contemplated, and Francesca herself would see his bride placed under the charge of the friend he appointedfand would, if necessary, bear her company to - .aland and tiia narpntj? Theflfi circumstances auieted Herbert's anxiety, and it was with considerable calmness that he took leave of the scenes that were burdened with such a dream of romanoe for him ; and with a thrill of pleasure, once more he lauded on his own his native shore. [to be continued.] grading. WRITE THEN A LETTER TO-*fIGHT. Don't go to the theatre, concert or ball, But stay in your room to-night; Deny yourself to the friends that call, And a good long letter write? Write to the sad old folks at home, Who sit, when the day is done, With folded hands and downcast eyes, And think of the absent one. Don't seliisbly scribble, "Excuse my baste, I've scarcely the time to write." Lest their brooding thoughts go wandering back To many a by-^one night, wnen mey iosi ineir neeueu aiuep ?uu icov And every breath was a prayer That God would leave their delicate babe To their tender love and care. Don't let tbem feel that you've no more need Of their love and counsel wise; For the heart grows strongly sensitive When age has dimmed the eye. It might be well to let them believe You never forgot them quite: . That you deem it a pleasure, when far away, Long letters home to write. Don't think that the young and giddy friends, Who make your pastime gay, Have half the anxious thongbts for you That the old folks have to-day. The duty of writing do not put off; Let sleep or pleasure wait, Lest the letter for which they 1 poked and longed Be a day or an hour too late. For the sad old folks at home, With locks fast turning white, Are longing to hear from the absent oneWrite them a letter to-night. TALHA6G ON THE SOUTH. THE TRUTH A8 SEEN BY AN UNPREJUDICED j OBSERVER. [From a Sermon at (he Brooklyn Tabernacle.] 1. The first misrepresentation in regard to the South that I wish to correct is, that the Southern people want to get back and have reinstated negro slavery. Why, all the people are glad to get rid of it. The planters told me that they could cultivate their land now at less expense under the new system of labor than under the old. A planter who had a hundred and twenty slaves before the war, said that there was so much care necessary in looking after so many slaves, and in looking after the aged who could not work, and helpless colored childhood, that there was constant anxiety and vast expense and exhaustion. Now they have nothing to do but pay the wages when they are due, and each family looks after its own invalids and minors. Submit to the ballot-box of the Southern people to-day the question, "Shall slavery be reinstated ?" and all the wards and all the cities, and all the counties, and all the States would give thundering negative. They fought for the institution eighteen years ago, but now they congratulate themselves at the overthrow of the institution. God be thanked that, North and South, at last we have one sentiment on the subject; and those Northern politicians who keep the subject of American slavery rolling on and rolling on are doing a thing as useless and inapt as it would be to make the Dorr rebellion of Rhode Island or Aaron Burr's attempt i at the overthrow of the United States Government. a test for our fall elections. The i whole subject of American slavery is dead ] and d?d. i I said to the planters : "How do these men i work now under the nSw system ?" and they i replied, "They work well; we have no trou- j ble. There was a good deal of trouble just ifter the war closed, and a demoralization ] and disorganization consequent upon a chapge i )f things; but now they work most admira- 1 oly, and they work far better th$n the col- j ired men who come here and work, because :be climate seems better adapted to the col- ? jred people, who will on a summer day, at ( ;heir nooning, go out and lie down to enjoy ( die sun." My friends, all this talk about the ? Iragging of the rivers and the lakes of the f South to haul ashore negroes murdered and j lung in, while it may be believed by many j it the North, is a falsehood so absurd it is ( lardly fit to mention in a religious assemblage. The white people of the South feel their i dependence on the dark people for the culture of their lands; the dark people feel their dependence on the white people for the payment of their wages. From what I have seen of the oppression of female clerks in some of the dry goods stores at the North, fmm what. T have geen of the oppression of some young men at the North on small salaries which they must take or get nothing at all, I have come to the conclusion that there is more consideration and sympathy for colored labor at the South to-day, than there are consideration and sympathy for some of the employees in some of the dry goods stores on Fulton avenue, Brooklyn; Broadway, New York; Washington street, Boston; Chestnut street, Philadelphia. In all the land and in all the earth there, are tyrannical employers, and their maltreatment of subordinates, white or black, deserves execration. But in the work of reformation let us begin at home. NORTHERN SETTLERS WELL TREATED. II. Another impression in regard to the South that I wish to correct?and that is, that they are antagonistic to having Nortl^-" erners come down there and settle. The whole impression given bereft the North has been that if Northerners go down South they are ku-kluxed, kept out of society, or, getting into society, tbrovn out again, and in , every way made uncomfortable. From the States where I visited the cry comes, and I bring it to day in their name, "Send down your capitalists, send down your Northern farming machines, come and buy " ' A-A? ? ? * ??i. ^ ziA^An our plantations, open mores, uuuu >;uuuu factories and rice mills?come by the hundreds, by the thousands, by the millions, and come right away." I declare here that that is the sentiment of the South. Of course there is no noro admiration at the South for Northern fools and Northern braggarts than there is here. If a man going South shall put his valise at the depot, then go up on the nearest plantation, and say by his manner or by words: "We have come down here to show you Southern people how to farm ; we whipped you in the war, now we an going to whip you in agriculture. I am from Boston, I am ; that's the "Hub." How much you look like a man I shot at South Mountain ! I believe it was your brother. I marched right through here in the 14th regiment of volunteers; I killed and quartered a heifer on your front stoop. What a poor, miserable race of people you Southerners are! Didn't we give it to }ou ? ha! ha j"? ao tlinf tn UV will TlOt DUl/U a uiau ao iuu?f w ?MV ..... make a favorable impression! And he will not be very soon elected as elder of one of their churches, and if be should open a etore he would not get many customers; and if such a man as that should get a free and rapid ride on that part of a fence which is roost easily removed, and be set down without much reference to the desirability of the landingplace, you and I would not be protestants. If a moral man go South, and he exercises just ordinary common-sense, he will be welcome, he will be made at home, and coming from Brooklyn, he will bejustaswell treated as though he came from Mobile. A Southern crAntlemAn (in the audience") nods his head as R N? / much as to say, "That's so." AN ILLUSTRATION. I could give many illustrations. I give one. There went from this church, seven or eight years ago, a member, to reside in Charleston, South Carolina. He took no fortune. By mercantile assiduity he toiled on, up. Was he received well ? Was he treated well ? Judge for yourselves when I tell you that a few days ago, when his lifeless body was carried into the Episcopal Church of Charleston, where he was a vestryman, the members of the Board of Trade assembled in the church, the children and the patrons of the Orphan Asylum of which he was a director, and a great throng of the beet citizens, amid a wealth of floral and musical tribute, . that the Charleston News and Courier describes as making an occasion almost unparalleled in the history of private obsequies. Why, this tide of heaven there is not a more hospitable people than the people of the South, and I bring you from those States which I had the pleasure of visiting, I bring you to-day an invitation for immigration that way. The South is to rival the West as an opening field for American enterprise. Horace Greeley's advice of "Go West" is to have its addenda in "Go South." The first avalanche of population that way will make their fortunes. It is a national absurdity that such a large proportion of the cotton of the South, at great expense, should be sen t North, in order to bo transformed into useful fabrics. The few factories ar, the South are the pioneers of innumerable spindles which are soon to begin the hum of the grand march on the banks of the Savannah and the Apalachicola and the Tombigbee. LOYAL TO THE GOVERNMENT. III. Another wrong impression in regard to the South that I want to correct is, that the people there are antagonistic to the United States Government* These people submitted to the settlement of the sword certain questions, and now they are submissive to the decision. There is no fight in them. We talk about the fire-eaters of the South. If they eat fire, they have a private platter of coals in a private room. I sat at many of their tables and t saw no such style of diet. Neither could I find a spoon or a fork or a knife that seemed to have been used in eating fire. Why, sire, they are the most placid people you ever saw. Some of them, their property all gone, at forty and sixty years of age, with one arm, one foot, and one eye, the mism/itviUnim in Kottld Tt. ifl Rim. Slug UJCIUU^IO oavttuwu 1U MMWV.V. ?? ' ?? ply miraculous and the work of the Lord Almighty, that these people are as amiable and is cheerful as they are, and it is dastardly mean in us to keep speaking of them as waspng and acrid, and saturnine and malevolent. I have traveled as much as most people lavein this and other lands, and I am yet to and a more affable, more delicately sympa;hetic, more whole souled people than the people of the South. The people of the South are loyal to day, md if a foreign foe should try to set its foot >n this country by way of intimidation or jonquest, I believe the forces of McClellan ind Beauregard, Bragg and Geary, Grant ind Lee, would come shoulder to shoulder, die blue and the gray, and the guns of Forts Hamilton, Pidkens and Sumter would join in )ne great chorus of thunder and flame. He that soweth iniquity shall reap vanty; and the rod of his anger shall fail.