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"WE WILL CLING TO THE PILLARS OF TEE TEMPLE OF OUR LIBERTIES, AND IF IT MUST FALL, WE WILL PERISH AMIDST TE RUINS
SIMKINS, DURISOE & C0., Proprietors. EDO-EFIELD S. C DECEMBER 28, 1859.
From the Southern Presbyterian.
The Old Year.
Dr uAnar HOPE.
The good Old Year is gone,
'Twill never more return,
'Tis buried in the past,
And mem'ry is its urn.
The vigil of the dead,
I keep with many a tear,
And chaunt, with midnight winds,
The dirge of the Old Year!
The dear Old Year that's gone,
Had love, and life, and light;
Had zephyrs for each day,
And stars for ev'ry night.
It summer was a dream,
Of visions sweet and clear,
And hope was but a name,
For th' winter of the Year.
The kind Old Year that's gone,
Its luxuries diffus'd,
Free, full on me and mine,
Yet I it grace abus'd.
For sunshine and for dow'rs,
For all that life endears,
I burthen'd with my faults,
The best Old Year of years.
The hones' Old Year's gone.
Beyond a world of strife,
Its spirits is with Cod,
To read the serells of lire.
May mercy blot the faults,
With a forgiving tear,
That we may never blush,
To meet the good Old Year.
Y WILL T1OUGITLESs.
Who thinks at merry Christmas time
There may be sad hearts near,
From whom the jest and sparkling rhyme
But force the silent tear ?
Who dreams that at the festive board,
Where all seems glad and gay,
There may be one whose inmost soul
Soars from the scene away ?
Above the earth our Saviour trod
iiome to its place ot birth,
And sees before the throne of God
The saint it lost on earth ?
Or who at twilights happy hour
When day and noise depart,
When maidens own Love's holy power,
And heart speaks unto heart;
Who knows but he who sits apart
Watching the shadows clide.
Written for the Advertisor.
THE OPERA SINGER!
BY JENNY WOODBINE.
Every sad and happy feeling
Thou hast had in by gone years,
Through thy lips comeC stealing, steatling,
Clcear and low:
All thy smiles anti all thy tears
In thy voice awaken.
And sweetness wove ofj joy and woe
From their teaching it hath taken.
It was Christmas night in the crowded city.
FEvery street -,s in a blaze of ilhutnination.
Fire-erackers were snapping-tar-barrels were
blazing-rockets were looming up on the face
of night, and snakes were wending their for
tuos forms through the air. It was a bonnie
night-for Christmas never seems like Christ
mas unless it snows. The snowv was rery
deep,-so the urchins said,-and truly the
streets seemed covered with a beautiful white
carpet, which glistened with preternatural
brightness in the soft moonlight.
Christmas with the rieh! Princely halls
blazed with the light of chanduliers-fesiry-like
feet moved lightly Over silken carpets in the
merry mazes of the dance-floods of melody
rang on the air-rich tables were spread as
for a feast-costly wines sparkled in costly
glasses, or lent their radiance to cheeks as
rosy-bright eyes we re glancing--happy hearts
were beating, and occasionally a cle-ar silvery
voice rang out, " Merry Christmas !"
Christmas for the children! Little eyes
were big with wonder and delight--tiny feet
danced aro.mnd the Chri.,tmas tree with its
load of handsome treasur.es-li tile hearts
leaped with joy, and jubilant voievs on every
key screamed out "Merry Christmas!"
Christ imas ihr the poor ! Ahlas ! Ijir the poor
-thev who dwell in haunts of wrretdness
they who till t he hovels fj despair-who shiv
er over a handfull of ashies, ori repowse on a
becd of rags-who shrink fromt the windi as it
conmes whistling downt the chimney, or howls
for aidmzittantce at the rag-pathedl windows,
they fur whom no tutrkey is btutchtered-nuo
"fattetd calf" is slain-where li:tle ones pe
their cold noses against the brotken pantes andl
look with envy "right across the street," where
mierry lighit are gancin, and wher hiari
tvs b~owl is li i'-d t) the brim ;andal here lit
te hearts, obhlbfre their timae, aire throbbling
with a vntgne va in wish that Santat (.!an< W woni
remaembealr themi. Theaa pooar-Goaai help tl-m!
tad ye-t fronm their hau tnts of tmi.ry there
goeLs forth a feeb'. wail-a mo~ry- Mh-r
Christmas for the negrues ! Ath.! who shall
paint the wild! glee of this resp.-etab 'eh
ment' oft our populationt-the shrih-ks and
groans of the tired fiddler-t he bowls zandl
screams of the well-used bantzjo-thme bows and
scrampes of Mr. Charles Augustuts I )revnport,
and his graceful partner 3Miss S-~rqaia, wvho~
apes with many a turn of the headit the helile
of the ptarlour. Perhatps no where otn carth is
Christmnas so much enjoyed as in the kitchen,
whl. re the ladies and gentlemen of1 culo'r enact
haigh life before stairs, and where sientairiatn
lungs shotut ini indescribable mirth and me nrri
mnent " Merry Christmas !''
Christmas for all!I Yet to many a sada so~ul
it is anythinig but merry. At sonme table a
vacant chair .is placed for the ocean wanderer
of one over whose young beauty the grave
has closed. Some pale mother counts the
stockings in the chimney-and misses one-a
tiny sock, that will nevermore have a wearer
-a sock that covered a foot which will walk
no more on earth I And she listens for a voice
which will prattle to her no more-a voice of
Who walked the paths of life awbilo
And blessed her with its sunny smile
But ere its childhood's morn was o'er
Had "gone to sleep" to wake no more.
The betrothed maiden lingers by an escritoir
and pens loving words to the one afar; and
wonders if Christmas will bring happiness to
him in that distant land. The deserted wife
crouches by her lonelyfireside and dreams of
vows tiat all too soon were broken.
Yet the jovial crowd out of doors think not
of the mournful parts in the life-drama. Even
old men have become children again: bands
are discoursing sweet music-less heavenly
sounds mingle with their strains-the whole
town is in uproar; and from every street-cor
ner rings forth the sound-" Merry Christ
Eustace Walcot, fresh from his European
travels, and filled with the memories of other
lands, felt his soul swell with happiness as lie
emerged from his elegant bachelor apart
inents, and became. a part of the moving
throng. This was h1ome-these were s/ire
sounds, and the heart of the returned wander
er swelled with rapture as he repeated,
" There is no place like my own home."
Yet, his was not a nature to be glad long.
Elegant, wealthy, highly educated, an accom
plished schollar and gentleman-the pet of so
ciety, and the idol of his relatives,-nothing
or what the world calls trouble had ever fal
len to his Uot ia life. But the soul of genius
creates its own troubles ; and indescribable fits
of melancholy come over the sensitive, which
a coarser organization could never feel. And
as lie gazed on the scene he reflected : In
the great Heart of Humanity how mnany chords
are this night wailing forth a dirge-bow ma
ny strings there are which can awaken to
joyance no more!
He moved a part from the rest-his smatill
sympathy in their exuberant jollity having
vanished,-and extended his walk to the less
Shall 1 describe him as the moonlight falls
on his lofty figure, with the costly talma hang
ing gracefully over the shoulder,--gracelidly,
but careless//, for Eustace Walcot is no fop,
although he has dwelt in the heart of Parisian
it is a sonr wnmc stops 11n) -anu no pau
ses by a half-oopened window to look unseen
on the singer-an old lay which lie had hum
ned by the side of Lake Geneva, andI whose
tmourntid notes had recalled his boy-hoods
Listen to it! it conies like a breath of liea
ventover the discordant noises without.
Why my heart-ah! why this sadiness,
Why midI scene's like tlese repine;
Where all though :.trange, is juy and gladnei?,
ay Wiat ish ial yet be thiIle
Oh !.4.ywhat wish can yet he thine ?
All that's dear to mue is wranting
Lone and cheerless here I roam:
The stranger's joys howe'er etu-bant intg
Can neve-r be to we like home
Can never be to tie like homne!
The silken curtains parted-a pair of burn
ing eyes were fixed on the stars above, and
Eustace felt-fur he was faimiliar with the fa
ce-s or foreign climes-that he gazed upon an
Italian. Oh ! how lovely the face, and how
divine that voice ! HeI could have looked for
ever on a visiotn fairer than his poet-dreams.
Ilow beautiful she was in her sweet uncon
seiousness, as she warbled forth the song
which brought back her own loved Italia-as
she lingered over the litnes :
" Can never be to we like home."
Now Eustace could appreciate music-not
the studied efforts of art-but the simple out
gushing melodies of nature, amid he paused,
spell-bound, attracted as much by the sad
dened music breathitng from that sweet young
face, as by the bird-like voice which entranced
the listening ear of night. " That face would
make the fortune of an artist," he murmured
tmentally. " Would that I wvere one so that I
might transfix itotn canvass even as it is pain
ted on my heart. Oh ! glorious gift of beauty
-the beauty of soul!'
lie surveyed the t.partment frotm his retreat
but it gave nto clue as to its ownter. A few
paitnigs adorned the walls-tihey' were tmootn
light scenes attd landscapes tuostly', and one
was thte pictutre of a beautiful child nt phemy
amtotng thne flowers. Several articles of furti
turer weire p'aceed in diffe~rentt parts of the rootm
--a pianto, harp and guitar were visible-fir
companions for- atn (embhodied spirit of music!
A lamp burned otn the table, and beside it
wa~s a writing dles! of curious shanpe atnd in
laidl with go!d.
ilut whot couldt hook o:: things like the-se
Wiet etle So fair wats near.
Oncee miore his eyes rested on that face
sad, /oo sad for thefatc of youth,-and he for
got to speculate as to who and what she was.
hirighit olive comtplexiotn, so clear that you
eadsee the- smazll blue veins as they fcoursed
und-' trut ath thetd.ee skiti--rt-gtdarantd t is
Ih-aniing b...- miirbt htave- mti-L.,-ti for ii .
midn'ghm~t nyes,-tnw .,f', -ubdlued, :im.d ten
der-mnow lla-.lh ig, hI k letritn, brni:; hi
.ill titht v .ie* warbi-s ont
'-It hl .n *'.-ah a tc gI In.Ine,
Yet it t.e nt sad:t
Yeut it bill notmbi
.- .lim.t Sweet, twiimaht v'oiC it i,
Where to dwsi are'it..tmetd btue
[s .1ver-;:nrav.yC~ wn itlh memottrice,
Withit.tary feelintg quiveredl throutgh."
Andi litstae Watlcot hats for the mnomnti
forg''t .n te whole w'arbil int that one voice!
I;utm thers :tte at tracted--o:her footsteps
comie up atnd lrinte.
4 I Iandsomue otn or off the stage, InEl"
" Eh ! who is she ''
"~ The nmew opera singer you booby, that thte
whole world is ravintg abu-s'sh iie?
" llather-oht that I were a glove oti that
r aad-see how daitntily those fintger-tips
kiss her forehead-egad ! I wish it was My
"They say old B- is making a fortune
utit of her,-her beauty as well as her voice
wins everybody. Count T. followed her clear
across the waters, and half Europe was mad
about her. Deuce take it, I was dying for her
myself, and actually had honorable intentions,
but then-ah-she is an opera singer."
Yes, she was an opera singer, about whom
men were at liberty to say what they pleased,
and that street dialogue bad disenchanted
EtUstace Walcot, for he had all the false hor
ror of a patrician for a public performer. He
walked rapidly away casting no backward
glance at the face which had well-nigh .un
manned him-it was so like the one which had
haunted him from early boyhood-mentally
calling himself a fool, for remaining so long
in the chilly night air to gaze, himself unseen,
in a face that everybody could look at.
And yethe caughthimself saying: "Fools
may listen to that voice, heartless rouea and
brainless puppies glare on those delicate fea
tures. Hapless stranger, I could pray that
heaven had given you a kinder fate."
le pitied her.-She, the peerless queen of'
beauty and of song, whom "half Europe was
mad after "-whose voice could sway -he
souls of thousands-who stood nightly, bla
zing with jewels, before an almost worship
He remembered her partly in scorn, and
partly in pity. And she, poor child! uncon
ious of it all, kept looking on the night mur
muring one sad snatch af er another, feeling
that fame and grandeur may he won, and
empiness. Recalling with a sigh her humble
home, where to loving parents her simple
beauty had been
" A thing of joy forever."
-looking back with mournful glance on the
past scenes of her childhood, while "Merry
Christmas" was ringing from mouth to mouth
in the stranger land-; and feeling that one
may have the world at one's feet, and yet be
alone, utterly alone!
Young ardent soul, graced with fair nature's truth
ipring warmth of heart, and fervency ut mind,
And still : large fate love of all thy kind,
Spite of the world's cold practice and time's tooth.
For all tbeso gits I know not in fair south
Whether to give thee joy, or bid thee blind
Thine eyes with tears.
Follow me to yonder brown stone mansion,
--~.a and most handsome on that most
seems to hang a gloom whiel not even
sounds ;f music and dancing within can dis
perse. The flowers in that large front garden
lie pale and dead, and their withered leaves
re tipped with snow.
Ia the handsome well-filled up library, near
a grate which sends forth a pleasant warmth,
sits a lady of not more than twenty summers.
She is plainly but elegantly dressed in a rich
black satin which tells without words the re
finement of its wearers. An air of delicate
languor pervades her whole frame ; and her
tee is startlingly pade. That Iace too is plain,
ad has nothinig beauitiful about it but the cqes.
In repose they remind you of a velvet violet,
but when some quick expression flashes from
their quiet depths they sparkle like the stars
A book lay on the lap but she was not rea
ding; a Iharp stood near her, but God had not
given her the power to express her thoughts
in music. Her head was leaning on her hand,
and her thoughts were wandering away, away.
" Come with me to the window, Cousin
Cor," and Lizzie Leigh. a merry blue-eyed
girl of sixteen, drew the lady from her chair.
" I have been dancing until I am tired to
death. They are so merry below stairs. Agnes
May is swaying it like a right royal queen
when 1 lef t she~ lad a dozen admirers around
her, all vieing for a smile-one wore her rose
bud, another held her fan, while a third was
tying her slipper. I wonder you are tnot with
them, Cora ?"
"I ?" and the young girl startedl. " I have
no sympathy with such seenes, imy soul shrinks
within itself, and I long to creep into some
far corner, and hide myself. I live so much
ini the world of fancy, that I cannot accustom
myself to everyday life. I start like a guilty
thing when sonme one calls my name, and
blsh when I should retort with a brilliant
repartee. All the truths with which I have
store'1 tmy mind are out of place in a parlour,
and 'in smal! talk' 1 am woefully deficient.
Should I go back to antiquarianl topmies I would
he calledl a pedant, sh~otld I talk of Poems
they would term me 'lov-e-siek' or'mnoonstruck,'
nd. I have nlo amnbitioni to wveari aniy one~ of
hese titles. Do you know that I wish I had
been orn poor, then .I could have been edu
eatted for the sta~re. In the dehineationis of
imina' life I should- have found my proper
sphere. I feel tha~t within mec which could
make me win reniownl as an actress. Then I
should be rid of these vague longings-these
easeless repinings, which fill ine with tan
qiietess, which mauke my friends unhappy,
atnd eni~e ltem tt imagine that I hatve " en
eni oft the itnsane root." As an actress I
shou~ll roamt from place to place, to-night
qeto-monrrotw perha~ps a be-ggair. I should
ifory ini the eblaiige, for I de-jpise mionotony.
l.:vni the trials wich-l dishearteni timid debu
taits wonuldh fill mec with reniewedl rigor. Then
the wihd passionate e-xchtmnations of the
Poets wotuld call every feeling which now lies
drianit inlto play-it would be a buisy life
a lili- of excitemnent itnd forgetfitiess."
iltut the immorality of the stage !" urged,
Lizze who hatd bieen trained in a rigid school
of orals, " the promtiscous imntercourse with
Cora lauighed-" Promiscous intercourse !
An yet yout see nto immorality ini thte waltz
you do not shrink wihm horror when you see
the wisit of a fa'hionable woman encircled by
te armi of a wine excited dandy of doubtful
character. Even~ in yonder ball-room below,
presi oe by my auntherself. the princes
of propriety, I have seen a man with princi
pIes as low as those of the most degraded ac
tor, admitted breause forsooth he came of a
noble family. ile danced the Schottische with
Miss May, when he almost required a support,
and bent over with disgusting familiarity to
whisper in her ear his maudlin love-words.
While society countenances such displays,
never talk to me of the immorality of the
" Ab, well, Cora, you always could out talk
me, but I have the right of it. I know how
it is, you are what Eustace calls a genius, and
what Aunt Lou calls a fool; and it makes you
discontented with the whole world, and fills
you with wild startling notions. Tell me se
riously did you ever entertain the idea of be
coming a public performer ?"
"In my present position, cetainly never.
And now let us change the subject. See how
beautifully the pure white snow-flakes are fal
ling, wrapping the whole earth as in a veil
they fall, like the mantle of charity, and hide
all defects. The humbleot dwelling has a sil
ver roof, and the lowliest shrub is hung with
pearls and diamonds-watch those icicles,
how they glitter in the moonlight-u hat could
be more beautiful? I love to see it snow
when the year is dying-it seems so like a
friendly shroud hiding her death agonies-It
would be a noble Poem-the song of the dead
"Why not write it ?" asked Lizzie eagerly.
Cora colored-she could not bear to hear
one speak of her own gifts,-they seemed so
humble in comparison with those of others.
And she, whose soul was burning with the
divine gift of Poesy, actually looked with a
feeling almost akin to envy on the graceful
belle who moved with ease, and had the power
to enchant, and win by personal charms.
With a soul keenly alive to the beautiful, she
felt painfully her want of what the world calls
attractions. She loathed a fashionable parlor,
and seldom entered one but to be repelled
immediately. While there, she either sat qui
etly, entirely unnoticed, and all because tshe
lacked vanity, and self-coifidence, or some
one would disgust her by saying,
"Your last Poem was divinely beautifl
I do adore your poetry,"
Without one particle of feeling in the com
pliment, and Cora knowing its emptiness
would grow disgusted with herself and the
Cora was 'out of place' in fashionable life
-as she had not the passport of inordinate
self-love. She had qniet lionie virtues which
"No. Cousin Eustaceis a regular runaway.
ie is ten times more unsociable than lie was
before he went to Europe. He walks about
so dignifiedly, and seems so " wrapped up in
himself"-lie is a bad copy of Byron's Lara.
Now to-night when we spoke of the Christ.
inas party he said good-bye immediately
"had no wish to be bored "- knew all about
such things "-" did'ut want any such simple.
ton asking him why he didn't bug Paris." I
declare Eustace Waleot, is really hateful some
" Is lie?" asked a quiet voice at the door,
and the themie of'their conversationl entered.
The two girlish faces flushed-the one with
sppressed merriment-thie othier with a seine
" Well, I don't care Mastcer Eustace," laugh
ed Lizzie, " Listeners never hear any good
of thcmselves, is an old saying and a true
one; and you had no business eaves-dropping.
But I am going down stairs-see I'm off.
" Cora, I am so glad to see you, and alone,"
and Eustace elasped the small white hand
which was reached forth eagerly but timidly
to meet his own.
"Are you ?" And for the moment her plain
face was radiantly beautiful.
" Yes: 1 want to talk with some one who
She smiled, but the happy color faded, and
she rejoined in an altered voice,
a I fear you will be disappointed then."
He looked upon her as did the rest who
sought her-he wanted to) talk withs somec one
" They tell me you have grown quite a wri
" A literary woman then if you like the title
This time a half bitter smile.
"I am proud of your acquirenments, Corn,
as we can claim a third or fourth cousinshiis."
She fidgeted 1measily.
" The Editors, I hear, are lavish with their
" Talk of ye tr avels--your walk to night
-of, in short, aiything but me.'
He looked down on the reddened, somewhat
angry check he fancied, and smiled.
J, in my rambles I heard a voice like
the voice of an angel, and it rang so sweetly
that I lingered spell-hound for an hour in the
cold. So you think me a madman ?"
" No one is mad who pauses to listen to
" But it was the voice of a public singer,
and I can hear it any night in a more com
fortable situation by paiying for an opera box."
"Eustace, you are so coolly satirical. I see
you have not lost yuur quiet irony."
" Nor you your quick perception-but sup
pose0 we join the dancers."
The proposal jarred on her nerves. lIe had
been gone so long ; and it was so pleasant to
have him standing therc with no one else
near, playing idly with the fringe of the cur
tain, with the moonlight sontening his usually
stern features, and the stm-s peeping out fros
tily but friendly from their quiet homes. Tihen
came the painful reflection, "1I can not enter
tain him for one short hour, and we have been
parted so long."
She entered the brilliantly lighted room
leaning on his arm, just as refreshments were
being served ; and taking a sofa by ani open
widowv they sipped their cordials, arid ate
t-i.h nf cake.
"The best part of the entertainment, eh
Cora? But I suppose you have not enough
of the animal in your spiritual organization to
appreciate the luxuries of earth. I guess you
find breakfast in a Novel-dine on History,
and 'take tea' from Poems."
She colored, painfully as she always did un.
der his jesting badinage, good-bumoured as
it was, but rallied sufficiently to reply:
. "No, Eustace, I rise too late for breakfast
-for dinner I take a boiled ham, and for sup
" Baked beens " whispered Lizzie Leigh in
"The essence of a rose leaf," suggested
" Those whist players look very merry
suppose we move nearer, and watch them."
Another painful jar, but she assented. And
y et when he moved onward, she stopped un
der pretext of talking to a friend.
He missed her, and came back-" I can't
:ave you slipping off, Cora. I have placed
a chair for you by mine."
He took her hand, and led her to the seat.
1ut while he was bending over Miss May, who,
excited with the- game, waq at he-r liveliest,
nd while he whispered in her ear those deli.
dons nothings which he knew so well how to
*tter, Cora stole noiselessly away. He looked
around but her chair was vacant.
"Where is Miss Cora Harvy?"
"Oh ! she has gone off with one of her ev
rlasting headaches," sneered Miss May.
"Such a strange nervous girl-cau't stand a
drowd-she makes me fidgetty-whose play is
And Cora, strange indeed, was in her old
haunt the bbrary alone, weeping silently but
litterly-she knew not why.
-An hour afterwards when a portion of the
revellers had departed, Eustace found her at
the same old window gazing earnestly on the
af+rs as though she had no other aim on earth.
1" It strikes me you are very restless, Cora
.v--you disappear like the memory of the magi.
eian.. Have you turned astrologer? I guess
we'll have you predicting future events before
long; won't you tell my fortune, little sooth
.sayer; what do the planets say of your hum.
ble servant? But honestly, Cora, you must
be more social-society demands it-these
q ueer ways of yours come of so much reading
and writing. Get out of it, Cora, as speedily
% possible; and now, lady fair, good night."
411e bowed himself away.
And Cora sat down by the dying embers
ifeeling that life was very dark. She had pic
:tured this meeting so ditiereitly; she had al
glance-it was that which unfitted her for
everyday life. Woe to those who build castles
-some day or other they themselves will be
wrecked Umid the beautiful ruins.
The meeting was over I Her reality had
not equalled her anticipations; the realities
of dreamers seldom do.
Yet must her brow b., paler, sba has vowed
To erown it witthe cro,'wn that cannot t'iu,
When it is faided.
E. B. IauMOr4Y.
And as thy young tipa sunag, they 'aught
So beautiful a ray,
Thtm, as I gazed, I atmuost thought
Thu spirit of the hay
Hlad left while nelting in the air
Its own expression painmted there.
With a portfolio on her ktnee-with a pen
in her hand, and any quantity of' loose papers
scattered around, sat Cora irvy, with a
kindling cheek and flashing ey o, engaged in a
web of' brain-work, and as perf'ctly eblivius
of the world without and its petty tminaths, as
though she had plunged in the wateirs of'
TIhe room was the picture of comnf'ort ; and
was covered with a rich velvet carpet so soft.
that it echoed no footfiall. Sever'al rich pain
tings encased in eleganat gilt frames adornied
the walls. A massive chandtelier was suspen
ded from the ceiling andl gave a brilliant but
subdued light-a costly mahogany rocking
chair was wheeled in front of the fireside, and
there Cora reclined. Cura enjoyed a real
winter evening-but she loved to spend it
alone in her room-and although from earli
est infancy cradled in the lap of luxury she
yet appreciated the cemforts by which she
was surrounded, for she contrasted them with
the hovels of the poor which she often visited.
With a rustle and sweep of silken garments
Mrs. Leigh, the aunt with whom Cora Harvy
(for she was an ophan) resided, entered the
room. With a slightly contemptuos curl of
the lip she glanced around at -he evidences of
her niece's literary accomplishments and said:
" The veriesi slave labors less hard than
you, Miss Harvy ; One would think you were
working for the dear taily bread ; from morn
ing till night, and from night till morning, (for
Jane tells me that the lights burn in your room
all night) that pen is in your hand."
"Be seated, Aunt Margaret" said Cora,
" No, my dear, I haven't time ; I have an
elaborate toilette to get up which will occupy
me for some hours. I camne in to beg you to
dress for the evening, knowing that if I sent a
servant you would disregard the sutmmons."
"Dress for the evening I oh I lam too much
at home in this wrapper-see how thickly it
is wadded, and then you know this velvet
sacque makes me perfectly comfortable-I
can't think of a change."
" But you must; there is to be a new opera
to night, so Eustace writes me, and our box
must not b)e empty. Eustace particularly
charged me to bring you out. He fears too
strict conihinment will injure your health and
" Did he ?" and Cora's pale face brightened.
"Ahm, but I forgot. I promised poor Mrs.
Browvn to sit up with her baby to night--the
little creature is dying as fast as it can. She
needs help and the pmoor you know have not
" And you actually sit up of nights with a
Mrs. Brown ? Edmund tiarvy's daughter!i
Weall, I bklieve yon are somathing worse thman
roiantie,-insLn. And I suppose bhe intro
duces you to all her companions, the Smiths,
the Joneses' and the Iobinsons'l Bah ! I won
der your nerve would l.:t you pass through
the ordeal. Lizzie tells rue that on last eve
ning you took a beggar woman in the carriage
with you, and drove down the most fashiona
ble part of Broadway-then turned to some
filthy alley, and deposited her in some hut."
" Well Aunt, the old creature was tottering
with age, and shivering with cold; and my
respectability does not stand on so insecure a
foundation that I fear to lose it, by being seen
in company with the poor. My father was a
poor man ; his mother took in sewing and
educated him ; he has told me often how he
used to make the lightwood fires, and his
mother would sit in one corner with sewing
in her lap and he in the other with an alge
" Al well, I never inquired into your fath
er's lineage-he belonged to sociey when I
knew him, and was LhP first lawyer of the day.
But your mother was a Walcot; no parvenu,
but the real old aristocracy. We can trace
our ancestry in a direct line to royalty. It is
not poverty I despise, it is low blood. I would
assist a lady in ditiiculties, I could feel for her
distress. But to go about, and become famil
iar with every Mrs. Brown-ugh ! It is more
than my pride would allow.'
" But about the Opera ?" smiled Cora, who
saw that Mrs. Leigh had mounted her hobby,
and was riding it furiously. "I believe I will
go, but I must send Jane to sit up with the
sick baby. Yes, and I must prepare some
niceties to send, so dear aunt excuse me, for
I must pay a visit to the pantry."
Cora selected a large basket, and with her
own hand-i put in first some ham and biscuit,
then several large slices of turkey, and a host
of sweetmeats, for the family of which she
spoke was supported almost entirely by her
This over, she repaired to her dressing-room
and arrayed herself in an elegant evening.
dress; one which the fastidious taste of Eu
stace had condescended to admire. She ar
ranged her hair in narrow braids around her
clssical forehead, and when the task was
ended, glanced in the mirror with a fceling al
mott of ,fatixjectiun.
When her party entered that night, there
was what the vulgar call "a sensation"-and
many a voice whispered, " %rs. Leigh, her
daughter and niece, what a lovely trio: What
a disingue air Mrs. Leigh has; and what an
intellectual face is Miss Hfarvy's
"They say Miss Harvy is engaged to Eu
What a shy timid little thing it is off the
stage-why when I assail her with compli
ments she stares at me so innocently that I
forget what I was going to say. Mrs. Leigh
is bowing to me, and I must be oif. Meet
me below stairs when the performance is
over, and we will go to my rooms and have
an oyster supper."
And so saying Lieutenant Edvard Fitzroy
left his friend to number one of the select
few who were surr-ounding the Leigh party.
Cora, IHarvy had never looked more love
ly. 11er light Opera cloak was thrown care
lessly back revealing a really elegant ligure ;
and excitementt caused by the crowd of smil
ing faces around her, combined with the soul
stirring music, had imparted a rich rose tint
to cheeks usually too pale to be beautiful.
Ihow mxerry they were!- Mrs. Leigh and Liz
zie entertaining between them four 'exquis
ites,' and Lieutenant Fitzroy whispering in
Cora's ear tho~se elegant nothings which made
him such a favorite with the ladics.
But all noises are hushed for the moment
as La Belle Florence appears I-for a moment
only-and then what deafening applause
homage paid to beauty alone, for the first
timec. A wreath of natural flowe~s wvas bound
around the luxuriant curls which waved
around her queenly forehead ; a fewv white
rosebuds were in her bosunm, and the tiniest
of all tiny feet peeped from beneath the rich
white satin robe which enveloped her slender
but graceful figure. She bowed on either
side as the applause died away and then fold
ing her small white hands on her bosom, the
peerless cantatrice poured forth such a flood of
melody as made that audience hold their ve
ry breath to listen, lest one note of that bird
!!ise voIce should escape thetn.
Cora Hlarvy bent forward with patrted lips;
she weas a passionate adorer of human beauty,
and here was beauty of the highest order.
She drank in every linecamnent of the glorious
face before her, and was only aroused from
the spell when Fitzroy touched her hand and
mnade< some careless remark.
" Walcot is not with us to night."
" No," and the face saddened-with all that
sea of human forms around her, Cora missed
one ; and that feeling of loneliness came over
her which comes over us all uometimes even
in the gayest crowd--a vague restlessness
best expressed by that opening line of a beau
" The loved one is not here."
It was soon dispelled-for the friendly voice
of a new-comner saluted her with, "C-an you
find room for me?"
11cr eyes brightened as only eyes can
brighten when they rest upon the breathing
features of that face which love has daguer
reotyped on her heart.
SCertainly, I am so glad you are come,
Eustace. I want you to look at one lovely
enough to drive an artist mad. We have on
ly two more songs from her-fortunately you
arec in time to hear them."
" The queen of the night Isuppose you
" Yes: is she not divinely beautiful ?"
" Possibly" replied he with a. dreamy air as
his eyes were fixed on the stage.
IIe did not remove them on-e.
Cora grew red and pale by turns-she was
not envious-but-the thought twould come
as she watched his intense gaze of admiration,
n Whyr did not natna- snake e uentifl 7"
She scarcely heard Fitzroy..; wmisperei
compliments, and that gentleman noticing
her abstraction, yawned, and touching Wal
cot on the shoulder said:
"I will call for you to-morrow, and present
you to the nightingale-wid you go?"
"Yes. Name the hour."
Cora felt a strange pang at his ready ac
quiescence-he would be introduced-what
The morning dawned clear and cloudless,
and at the appointed hour Eustace and his
friend sought the Hotel of Florence De Vero.
They found her in her private parlor prac
ticing several new pieces of inuic. She re
ceived them with quiet cordiality, but with
a timidity Eustace had not imagined of one
in her position.
Her floating curls were pushed back impa
tieutly, but she looked as lovely :n the dark
colored, neatly-littitig muorning dress as in the
costly array of the stage. ler beauty needed
not the trappings of art-it was given by na
ture and nature alone.
She entered into a light jesting conversa
tion with Fitzroy, and Eustace sat, a litener
I more than once repeating to himself,
. "Gloriously beautiful, but frivolous."
But whet he conver sed with her himself
her whole counteaice underwent a change.
He spoke of musik; dwelt on her glorious
calling, and her whole soul seemed to breatie
from her features ; he wondered lie had ever
thought her frivolous; and this time hi. soul
said, " As intellectual as she i.i beautiful.'
He asked her to sing, and once mnore the
whole world was forgotten in that one voice
of surpa.ing sweetness.
When the song was ended, and her small
fingers were playing idly among the Piano
keys, he bent over her, and said in a low voice:
"I have heard you sing before, Signoritha ?1"
"When and where ?" her look was one of
" Beneath your window on Christmas
"Indeed"-this time the blushing glance
expreised pleasure-" Ah! I was very sad
then. I was thitnking of my far-off home. I
was feeling the exile's feeling of lonelines
when lie sees around him only strange faces
-hears only strange voices. I was longing
so much for one friend."
"Feel so no more-you have found a
His words, simple though they were, sent
a quick thrill through her heart-a feeling
waich the eyee betr-ayed.
etiquette extends to a first visit; and he
caught himself promising to call soon as'ain,
as though they had known each other for
And his calls multiplied until he became a
daily visitor. The world wondered. for it
had given in to Cora IHarvy, and many
tongues began to whisper of fickleness and
inconstancy. Some pitied Cora openly, for
alas! her secret was but too well known,
while others laughed and asked her if she,
had donned " the yellow gown."
Florence De Vere was living an enchanted~
life--the beautiful Italian loved, with all the
fervor and passion of her clime, the wvealthy
Southerner who sought her society so often.
She had told him her simple history, one
evening when they sat alone in the dim twi
"Alh, Signor' you see me now courted and
admired, but 1 havo known a weary life. I
was a lit tle street singer, and [ have wrandered
for whole days weary, hungry, a-:d foot-sore,
singing for the mniseraLble pittance which the
passers by gave me in charity. Once I sang
before the door of a celebrated musician-he
caine out, pattedI me kindly on the head ; and
after discovering my utter poverty and friend.
liness promised to educate me, because he
said nature had niade me for the stage and I
should not walk about with a hand organ any
more. In two years I made moy debut, and
the world found favor in me. I gloried
in my profession, because it brought a com
fortable home for my parents, and the suffer
ings of poverty were over. But alas ! they
are dead now, and I know of not one in the
wide world to whomi I am boundl by ties of
This simple recital condensed as It was,
woa the sympathy of Thustace, and he ceased
to remember the singer in the lonely, suffer
ing woman. His low deep words of kindli
ness cheered her and in this new friendship
Florence was exquisitely happy. One word
of his was more to her than the adulation of
the crowd-one smiile more dearly prized than
the loud applause which greeted her in pub
lie. The outer life brilliant as it was, was
insigniicant in camnparison with the inner
life into which the world could not enter.
And Cora Harvy had heard of this grow
ing intimacy-she had marked the change
which had gradually come over, Eustace
she noticed his absent mindedness--his rest
lessness, and her heart told hcr all too quick
ly the cause. Yet rhe could not accuse him
of faithlessness ; she alone of all the world
knew that his attentions to her had been
those of a tender friendship-nothing more.
Perhaps he did not dream that be had won
her heart unconsciously-that love for him
had made her pale checks paler ; he attributed
her want of the light happiness of youth to
constant study-study only.
But the greatest trial was yet to come. Eu
stace sought her one evening, and his quick
excited manner betokened somethinig un
usual. "ora dear, can you lay aside your
pen one mnoment. I have something for your
private ear." And then he told her the story
of his love for Florence. She heard him
calmly, and he little knew that each passion
ate word went to the heart of his listener
like a keen arrow.
"You, Cora, whose quiet lip has never
narn the insanity of Love must look unon
me as a maIMU, aIr uu - . - - -
never loved, sympathise with me."
I Never loved! she started, but covered her
confusion with a quiet smile.
" And yet madly, passionately as I adore
Florence, knowing as I do -her purity, there
is an odious feeling of family pride which I
cannot get over. I hate the monster. I have
tried to strangle him, but he has a thousand
lives, and although he is silent in her presence,
yet as soon as I am alone, he is resuscitated.
Somehow this false pride abrinks from the
thought that the world should say Eustace
Walcot tock his wife from the stage-in her
early life she carried a hand -organ about the
strecls. See how my prejudic.es cling to me
-and when in a moment of delirium I would
ask her to share my destiny, this feeling strug
gles into life; and I tirn away from my en.
chantress with vague promises of a future
meeting. I have the highest opinion of your
judgment; the firmest reliance on your friend
ship, and I come to you for your candid ad.
vice. Shall I leave her entirely, or shall I,
bearing all, take her to my heart and home ?
there can be no middle course for me. I
mu.lt claim her as imine, or I must see her
u) more 7"
Cora muwed for a moment; shall we blame
her if she listened to the tempter that whis
pered " one word of yours might influence
him--argue with him-tell him that reason
Mlunbers, and he will regret the step should
it be made. Once free from this attachment
Wis friendship for you might ripen into leve
-improve your chance i"
It was but a moment--and principle tri
umphed o% er the weakness of humanity. Her
voice was low but it was firm: "Eustace, I
acknowledge no aristocracy, but the aristocr -
cy of worth. We are all the descendants cf
a common father-fortune and what is termed
high birth are accidents. I see no distinction
between the child of the patrician and the
child -of the plebian. As for her being a
public performer, I honor the motive which
caused her to adopt the stage. If you lois
her, your love should enable you to brave
the sarcasm of the set in which you move '
and if you know her to be pure and worthy
of your affection, my honest advice is to woo
and win her if possible."
" Thank you Con, dear Cora, that was
spoken like your own true self-you make me
blush for my own false mean sentiments. How
superior you are to every other woman of my
"But one Eustace," she added gaily.
"Yes: but one. You know each lover im
agines that his own particular idotisashioned
with nothing to love but a book."
"Never mind me, Eustace, I shall do very
well; and if human love is denied me, why
when my short life is ended, and the grave
has closed upon me it will make no difference
then. As for my companions here, you know
Wealth may flee, and friends deceive us,
Love may change his sunny leek.;
But these treabures never leave us
Which we garner in from book.."
" Ah, well, so you are contented, I suppose
it is all right, Cora; yet it does seem to me
if you had a little more heard now, it would
be better. Yet we are told that intellc~t
swallows up the affections ogre like, and loie
of fame sometimes destroys 'the grand pa
sion.' God bless you, Cora, and may yos r'
wilest dreams be realised."
She sat in the same position where he haid
lef t her, for many weary hours, murmuiing to
herself almost bitterly, " he wishes Ihad mco e
hear/. Thank heaven he is blind, and at le. at
I amfl apared his pily ; that would kill m<.
Alas ! for me, my young dreams lie far behi, d
me ; life's eup is very bitter, but since love
has left me, oh ! fame be thou my happiness !"
Happiness! the thought jarred upon L.r
soul-her grief was too new for that werd
just yet,--she changed it for content.
Sorrow did not make her selfish-when tL~e
servant admitted .Mrs. Brown, the poor wc
man who subsisted by her charity, Corn wel
comed her kindly, and for one whole hot r'
she listened patiently to a recital of the simr
ple old soul's trials, comforting her alike with
kind words and alms. There was no impa
tience In her tones, although her spirit ached
for solitude1 and she longed to pour in apcret
prayer the feelings of her bursting heart, and
to find in silont petition to Heaven the peace
no hiutan voice could give.
"Oh ! when the heart Is full, whetj bitter thought
Cunm. crowdinag thickly up for uttermne,'
how hard It i to wear a patient face which
does not betray the atruggles within; and
common words seetfi such a very mockery.
" Your lot is far above me,
I dare not be your bride;
To know that you bad loved ma
Would wound yoer father's pride.
Ge woo some high born lady,
And be will bless your choice;
Alas ! too long already
i've listened to your voice."
The Opera season was drawing to a close.
The 'engagement' of La Belle Florence in
the Southern city which we have left name
less was near its termination. How full .of
momentous event had that short season 'bcen
-how it had changed the whole current of
her life ! Truly our destinies sesen to hang
The Prima Donna was taking an ifternoca
drive, when the horses attaehed -to her car
riage became suddenly frightened, and ran
violently down the street. In their headlong
career they rushed over a small child who
was playing near one of the crossings. They
were soon stopped without doing any other
serious injury ; and Florence whose heart
was full of kindly emotions insisted on being
driven back to the spot where the accident
The child's arm was broken I and Florence,
her eyes raining tears of pity, lifted It In her
own arms, and conveyed it to the carriage.
Lee ,1n5 the little oe'spa o zQi Manet