The home journal., October 14, 1858, Image 1

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THE
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Volume II.
V. J. SliATTliH, Editor.
''PlrdKrd to no Parly's arbitrary sway,
We fullvw TruCta where'er she leads llie way.'
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will be invariably charged.
gJsf" Hereafter no club subscriptions
nt loss than the regular price ($2) will
Ajo received.
.8S?"Single copies sold at 10 cents,
AGENTS 1'Olt Til 10 JOlJltNAL.
S. M. PETTING ILL & CO New York.
JOHN P. HEFNER Winchester.
GEO. E. rim Vis WcMinnviHe
T J. Crj.MMINGS : . . rullnlioma,
JOHN B, RHODES fciholbyvillo-
A HEART IIISTOllY.
CONTINUED.
Nom A reward of J '.0 wok offered some time since
Intlie Home Journal fur the best Oiifdnnl stiry willlcn
lor Its columns, Several were written, und utter a peru
slor each, ".Madai.eixk a IIkvit llivronv," wnscon
idei'ed the most drsei vins. Its stylo ii simple yet beau
Mill, and that oil will be highly Interested we have not a
Ingle duubt. Kuriuu.
MADELEINE
Madeleine hud perused this last
epistle. Sho had pondered deeply and
anxiously over its contents'. The past
hours of their school-day associa
tions, their saddened parting on the
deck of the puffing steamer, all the
affectionate words of his letters were
reviewed, but all could not enlighten
her mind as to his intentions and wish
es towards herself.
The Autumn came. The leaves
Were stained and faded with the tear
drops of the dying year. The forcst
t songsters had sought more genial
climes. The crops were gathered
from the cultivated fields, and Utile
pools of Autumn rain had collected
between the tiny mounds, where grew
the ripened corn.
Autumn faded into Winter Win
ter melted into Spring, and still lie
came not, but as before, now and
then, a letter like those he had ever
written, full of warm and cordial feel
ting, and expressing the deepest inter
est in her welfare and the most ear
nest desire to see her, gladdened her
loneliness.
"Business had detained him busi
ness of the most urgent nature," so he
wrote. "He should try to be there in
the latter part of Summer or the ear
ly Autumn, without fail. Don't forget
the friend of your girl-hood."
Surely, said she, he regards me on
ly as a dear friend. He has never
done otherwise, I will never think of
him in any other light. It would be
disrespect to myself, to consider his
expressions of interest otherwise than
as they are intended.
Madeleine's life had hitherto been
a happy and a peaceful one. No cloud
had ever darkened her sky, no great
grief sadened her enjoyment. Even
the winds of summer had scarcely
been allowed to visit her too roughly.
Cut as sometimes in a clear and love
ly summer day, the heavens gather
blackness, the storm-clouds darken the
before azure sky and the winged tem
pest howls and rages with unmitiga
ted fury so now with Madeleine's
fair young life.
"0! they do say," said one gossiping
neighbor to another, "that there's
ir dreadful doings up to 'Squire Crans-
toun's. They say he drinks like evcry
? thing and 'buses his wife and poor
Miss Madeleine awfully. Toor, dear,
' old lady she's not long for this world,
'anyhow. She's as palo as a curpsc
now, and Miss Madeleine's not much
f ' letter, for that matter.
They try to keep things as close
''ps they can, but somehow or other it
will get out"
That was the bitterest drop in the
cup of those two refined and delicate
minded women, that others should
know of tho degradation of the once
honored husband and revered father,
and of the recklessly unkind and bru-
. tal treatment they were receiving at
his hands. "Squire Cranstoun had
, been a public man for many years, al
most from his youth. He bad come
to that country in its early settlement,
- was a young lawyer of great promise
". and readily acquired, by a courteous
manner and legal ability, a great in
fluence in the surrounding regions.
He had warmly engaged in the differ
ent political struggles, and being al-
,, ways successful served his constitu
ents faithfully lot many years, first in
. the Legislature of his own state and J
afterwards in Congress, till in time ho
became the great man of all that por
tion of country. Politicians have
many .temptations to encounter and
few, at all times, come off victorious
and unscathed. Most of them come
from the fiery furnace, with, at least,
the smell of fire on their garments.
'Squire Cranstoun was no exception.
Convivial meetings, champagne sup
pers, and social gatherings, with party-friends,
to rejoice over their victo
ries, had not been without their effect
on him.
. At first he had not drank to excess,
only a glass or so; but as one election
after another came on, and he found
other aspirants for political honor
springing up here and there and tak
ing the stump aguinsl him, he, like
others, used every means in his power
to ensure the defeat of hjs, competitors,
and treating some and drinking with
others, were- among the measures cm
ployed to accomplish his purposes.
He sometimes found that his brain
was less clear, and his step and hand
less steady, and then he should have
paused and considered the end of these
things. But, like many an other in the
same condition, he did not. The
greater the diflicully, each succeeding
canvass, of retaining his position over
the heads of younger aspirants, the
more determined ho grew to do it, and
the more frequently the whisky bottle
and the wine-glass were called into re
quisition, not for himself, to bo sure,
but to secure tho votes of his friends,
as he called them, then, though at oth
er times ho would have blushed to
have been seen in their company.
Finally he had learned to love the de
basing cup, and the use of it had be
come habitual. At last, speaking du
ring a new canvass with more liquor
in his stomach than his reeling brain
could maintain its sway against, ho
made an entire failure, and his oppo
nent, a gentleman of noble, courtly
bearing and whose language was sin
gularly well-chosen and adapted to
his theme, and whose speech was
made up, alternately, of sound argu
ment, striking comparisons, brilliant
repartee and sparkling wit, won the
cars of tho delighted audience, and
the wind of popular favor veered
completely round, to wat the opposing
candidate successfully into the haven
he desired mileage, tho franking
privilege and eight dollars a day.
'Squire Cranstoun was defeated and
from that hour his course was rapidly
downward.
0! that cup that "bitcth like a ser
pent and stingclh like an adder" he
drank deeply of its deadly mixture
which had blasted all his worldly pros
pects, and its poison was in his burn
ing veins, scorching his brain, blasting
his home comforts, and destroying
Gome-affection.
There is no man more unreasonable
than a disappointed one, if he yield
to his feelings, and add the irritability
of strong drink to that, and all who
come under his sway, muse expect
nothing from hitn but the most exact
ing tyranny.
Upon his patient, uncomplaining
wife and suffering daughter, did
'Squire Cranstoun vent all his spleen,
and day by day his conduct towards
them was more cruel and unendurable.
His property, of course, was wasting
rapidly, and poverty stood hovering
nigh to take at no distant time her seat,
with ruin and disgrace, in the pleasant
cottage.
He grew negligent in providing for
the most common wants of his wife
and daughter, allowed them no lon
ger tho means of procuring what
was necessary to appear according to
their station, while he, himself, cross
and quarrelsome, was spending lavish
ly in all manner of strange nnd un
heard of speculations. Ho had gather
ed round him, at the bar-room of the
village inn, a set of idle, worthless
vagabonds, who had not, in former
days, more than dared to bow to the
honorable Senator, and to whom now
his word was law, who imitated his
manner and language and scored their
liquor at bis expense. He never.e ven
now, descended to any undue famil
iarity with them, but the breath of
praise had becomo necessary to his
nostrils, and the great man must bo a
great man still, if only in the bar-room
of a village inn.
But to return to Madeleine. Slow
ly and sadly did the poor girl's life
wear on, unblest by day and unsus
taincd by night, save only in the con
sciousness of having faithfully dis
charged her duties. Friends began
to stand aloof, admirers to draw away
so that alone and compaionless she
felt must henceforth be her destiny.
So she lived to herself, feeling most
keenly the bitter trials of her lot, and
communed only with God and Na
ture, her own guileless heart, and the
invalid mother who, ihe felt, was fast J
WINCHESTER, TENN, OCTOBKR 14, 1858.
ncaring tho grave. Madeleine's na
ture was altogether too unselfish to
grieve all for herself and tho blight
that fell on her budding Spring
time, but she mourned in spirit, more,
over tho wreck of that onco noble
and honored father tho pleasantest
memory of her childhood, over tho
neglected usefulness and wasted hap
piness that might have been his, and
over the shipwrecked hopes and affec
tions of a ' saint-liko mother whoso
quivering wings Vfere almost lifted
for a flight to the peaceful spirit-land.
Nothing gave hor so much pain as to
know that she had no power to pro
tect, even her ever failing strength
against the constant unkindness and
reckless abuse of tho very man who
had vowed, when ho led her to tho al
tar, to love and cherish her in sickness
and in health. She shielded her, at
all times, however, and in all ways, as
much as was possible, ministering so
kindly and gently to the comfort of the
sufferer, that she sometimes succeed
ed in calling a faint smile to the wan
and weary face, like a straggling sun
beam lighting the grey clouds of a win
try sky. Many a great grief she
pressed back into her own aching
heart, many an affliction, ormortifying
circumstance, concealed, und many a
brightening hope presented, which
she knew had no foundation in reali
ty only that, for her, she might cheat
the weary hours of a few of their bit
ter reflections and painful forebodings.
Talk of martyrdom ! and all praise
to those that have thus perished daunt
lessdy by fire and sword, but there
have been those to look on, to wonder
at and admire their fortitude, to laud
their constancy and transmit their
names to coming ages; but for the fire
side martyr, whose heart's blood has
been wrung in secret, drop by drop
who has kept their record, or written
their eulogy?
Talk of tho trials of a self-sacrificing
missionary to heathen lands!
There arc often greater trials in the
seeming quiet of the home-circle, be
cause, severe as they are, they must
be borne in secret, apart from human
sympathy, unsolaced by human com
miseration. It was thus with Madeleine. There
was no one to whom she could go for
aid nnd comfort, none to whom she
could make known her trials, no heart
on which she could lean for rest, for
tho clinging tendrils of her dearest
love had either been firmly put away
from where they might have fastened,
or, ruthlessly torn from their grasp by
a father's hand, had been thrown back
to her, crushed and bleeding, to heal
as best she might.
And where, all this time, was the
friend of her school-days the boy-
lover of her girlhood, and the corres
pondent of her after years? A com
munication, worded in the same friend
ly, affectionate style, came now and
then, but they had almost ceased to
give her pleasure.
Her shrinking, sensitive nature, now
the dark clouds of blighting sorrow
had gathered thickly o'er the bright
ness of her summer sky, now that dis
grace had cast his blighting breath
upon her buds of promised hope and
pleasure, wrapped itself in the folds of
maidenly reserve. She no longer dar
ed to reply to his communications,
fearing that something in them might
betray too great a freedom of manner
towards him, now everything for her
was so changed from what it was,
when they had met in other days.
And so she ceased to write.
"Henry will hear all," said she to
herself as she read his last kind words,
"and if he cares forme, he will come,
or write explicitly," and with many a
pang she calmed tho beating of her
weary heart and turned to solace and
sustain her drooping mother.
.
The night had been a long and pain
ful oio to tho pale, meek sufferer,
whose eyes, as morning dawned over
the tearful April landscape, closed in
sleep. It had been no less painful to
the anxious watcher by tho bed-side,
for sho bad felt to her heart's core, ev
ery pain that racked the feeble, wast
ing frame.
But as the dtimson curtains of the
dawning day were drawn aside, and
the glorious sunlight shot over the
Eastern 'sky its slant arrows of gold,
they sunk to rest, Madeleine and her
mother. 0 1 it was refreshing, after
weary hours of suffering, and no less
weary ones of watching the agony no
skill could relieve, no kindness miti
gate, to find ease and rest in slumber.
The breathing of the invalid became
more natural, the pulse less hurried,
tho fever flush had faded from the
cheek, tho nervous twitching of the
muscles of the face subsided, and deep
repose was settling on the relaxing
limbs.
A heavy footstep is in the passage,
and quick as thought Madeleine has
burst her bonds of sleep and has her
hand upon the opening door.
"Please, father, don't vaken her.
She has not slopt a moment before
now, tho whole night." i
As well might sho hav tried to stay
the rushing hurricane it its onward
course. Flinging her Rudely from
him, and muttering something about
his "speaking where ad when he
pleased," he strode forward to the bed
and calling his wife harshly by her
name, shook her roughly jjy the'shoul
der. Tho weary eyes untlosed a mo
ment in seeming bewilderment, sought
the face of anxious love to which she
was accustomed, and seeing it not, but
instead, tho bloated visageof him who
treated her so cruelly, aid who now
held her in his close grasp sho closed
them to shut out the unwjlcomo vis.
ion. A (juicK, spasmodic slucluor pass
ed over her frame, a brigh flush crim
soned neck, nnd cheek, aid brow, for
one brief instant, nnd was succeeded
by the paleness of death.
Madeleine's lips uttcrei no words
of reproach, but cxclainiin;, "0 1 my
mother she's dead," chafd the cold
hands hurriedly and held nl volatile
to her nostrils, then bathci her hands
and face in camphor, but .11 in vain.
There were no signs of ife. She
looked round to ask her fatter to has
ten I'or the nearest physican, but he
had gone. She was alono. She rush
ed wildly to the street doofind called
for aid, hoping some one ixiuld hear
and respond to her ngoniziig cry. A
stranger was passing onp whom she
had never seen, and whosename she
knew not, but it was no tim for cere
mony.
"0 ! sir, " said she, "I amafraid my
mother is dead and 1 am nllalone. If
you would be so kind as l go for a
physician " '
"I am a stranger here," tjid he, "and
know no one, and if yoil mother is
not dead, she might be belc a physi
cian could arrive. ThougUnin not
a regular practitioner, rI live some
skill in medicine, and if yti will not
deem it an intrusion, will oeriny as
sistance." Madeleine was only too lankful.
Restoratives, quick and po'crful, in
judicious and skilful bads, soon
brought back evidence! of cturning
life to the pallid cheek and losed eye
of the apparently inanimaltobject of
their care, and, in less tha half an
hour Madeleine had the elisht of
hearing her name once mce spoken
by lips so inexpressibly deal
Of course Madeleine th liked the
kind and benevolent strancr with a
blushing cheek. Of coursahc stran
ger accepted her thanks askindly as
they were offered, and ofcourse he
asked permission to call an sec after
the welfare of his patient; and, day
after day, from that time forward, saw
him directing his steps ttward the
cottage on tho hill. He wis no lon
ger in the first Hush of youti. A few,
a very few grey hairs weriscattcred
among his jetty locks, and .hough he
could not be called haudsoi.o, he was
a noble, dignified, intcllectul looking
man. There was that aboit hitn that
makes woman feel instinclvely that
he would be a friend in allemergcn
cics. The broad, open irow, tho
clear, truthful eye, and tin full, yet
delicately chiselled mouth, all gave
evidence, to the keen obsirver, of a
character devoid of decet. There
was a look of suffering ui his fea
tures, accompanied with ore of pati
ent endurance and meek resignation,
a calm, gentle, quiet depot men t, al
ways doing just what was proper, just
at the proper time, so thai tho confi
dence of those who were drown into
contact with him, was ton before
they were aware of it, andj '.hey yield
ed tacitly to his influence, livithout en
quiring how, or why, he liid acquired
it. He seldom smiled, ykt when he
did, it was like sunlight breaking from
a cloud, nnd seemed to brighten cvp
rytliing in his presence, no (natter how
desolate nnd gloomy it appeared be
fore. j
Such was the man whom Madeleine
Cranstoun's accents of grief and dc
scrtion had brought to tin bedside of
her mother on that eventful morning;
and such was the man who became a
constant visitor at the Cottage. He
was alone in the world, in comforta
ble, yea, easy circumstances had
been left an orphan with his little sis
ter in their early youth, and had but
one human being to care for, and to
care for him his dead sister's only
son, whom he had just been accompa
nying to college Tossing tbrough the
little town in which Madeleine lived,
on his way there with his nephew, he
had been much impressed with the
quiet, rural beauty of the scene, and
having nothing urging his return Im
mediately to his lone, Southern home,
he determined to stop, at least, a few
days on his return, ?.nd enjoy its peace
ful beauty. Only a day or two after
his arrival, taking his usual morninj,
walk, his acquaintance with Made
leine commenced in the manner above
related.
At first, ho had intended to re.
main but a few days, a week, at mos,
but tho weeks had lengthened into a
month to two, and still he was not
gone. And what a change had his
presence wrought for Madeleine and
her dying mother. Squire Cranstoun
no longer treated his wife and daugh
ter as he had done. There was some
thing in the look and manner of that
man that awed him. Little comforts
and delicacies again found their way
to tho sufferer's room, and all that was
necessary was again provided, for the
Squire was ashamed to have tho tall,
imposing looking stranger, who seem
ed to admire his daughter so much,
see anything of meanness in his eon
duet. The sequel may readily be antici
pated. He had seen all had known
all and seeing all, knowing all, in
the silent hours of night, when he
sometimes shared her watehings by
her mother s couch, he told her of his
desolation nnd loneliness, apart from
woman s love and sympathy, ; Years
ago, said he, "careful investigation
on the part of the most skilful medi
cal men 1 could find, determined that
I was afflicted with an incurable dis
ease of the heart. 1 consulted one
after another, hoping they would disa
gree in their opinions but they did not.
1 hey all coincided in saying that I
might live for years, but that 1 should
at last die suddenly, in a moment.
At first this seemed to me horrible,
and 1 determined that no one uhouhl
share my dreadful fate. I felt that 1
ought not, under such circumstances,
to unite the destiny of any, fond, af-
fectionato being with my own; for, ar
gued I, "if she loves me, how much
must she stiller. I can never leave her,
even for nu hour, but a terrible anxi
ety must take possession of her till I
return; every unusual feeling on my
part, every change in my appearance
will suggest the speedy approach of
the grim messenger, nnd she must
live in a state of perpetual alarm.
No, no, said J, as I had made my res
olution, the shadow of death, which
hath fallen so early on my own heart,
shall never extend its gloom to any
other.
I am thirty-live years old, and 1
have kept my resolve, 1 have seen
many bright and beautiful women,
and 1 have felt that it would be pleas
ant to bask freely in the sunlight of
their smiles, but I dared not. 1 re
membered my vow. But now, Made
leine, that I have seen and known you,
it is different. 1 feel that if you can
care for me, .as I would be cared for;
if you can love the lone man that has
walked so many years, as it were,
with death (or a companion, if your
heart is knitted to my own, as I can-
not but feel it is, we must never more
be sevcrd, for 1 feel that my love, my
care, my devotion to you, will cause
you more happiness than the knowl
edge of that one circumstance will
give you pain. If I cast upon your
life one new shadow, I may remove
many old ones. Madeleine, dearest,
shall it be so? and he drew her to him
very gently, as a little child, and res
ted her fair, young head against his
bosom. She did not withdraw it
how could she? It was so sweet to
nestle there to feel a strong, a loving
arm beneath her, to be thus pressed
to a breast that would shield her from
every coining ill. She lay theic pass
ively as an infant, while tears of joy
were welling up to the half-closed
eyes, and as he kissed them, one after
another, so tenderly away, it seemed
to her, her heart would burst with its
excess of happiness, to bo so fondly,
so entirely loved.
Be Truthful to Ciih.urgn. Some
people tell lies to children with a
view of enjoying a laugh at their cred
ulity. This is to make mock at sin,
and they are fools who do it. The
tendency in a child to believe whatev
er it is told, is of God for good. It is
lovely. It seems a shadow of prime
val innocence glancing by. Wc
should reverence a child simplicity.
Touch tt only with truth. Be not tho
first to quench that lovely truthfulness
by falsehoods.
Keeiiig Cider Suscet. A pint ol
mustard seed put in a barrel of cider
will preserve it sweet for several
months. So says an exchange, and
as it is easily tried, we hope some one
of tho clever subscribers to tho Jour
nal will bring us in a jug full the en
suing winter, that we may test it.
Peterson's Magazine, published
Philadelphia, has come to hand for
November, full of gooJ matter. j
Wrllton for the Winchester Homo Journal.
Sweetest Dearest.
BV MI18. ADKLIA C. UllAVKS.
Come to mo, Lovo, whon tho morning
light
Disperses tho gloom and tho shadows of
t night,
While the dow still hangs on tho Ieofy
spray,
And tho birds aro singing their nuitin
lay,
And the mists aro clearing from bog anil
fen,
0 ! Sweetest, Dearest, como to mo thou.
Come to mo, Lovo, whon the Run is high,
Lighting up th' expanse of tho broad bluo
sky,
And we'll tompor its bonnia, by tho
cooling shado
Of Acacian boughs, or the forest ghulo,
Ami wo It stroll Utr nwny Iroin tho haunts
of men ;
0 ! Cwectost, Dearest, como to mo then.
Como to mo, Lovo, when the roses bloom,
And I'll gather ihco those of tho richest
perfume,
And tlio loveliest hues of their buds
shall spoak
Of tho softoned tint of thy varying
cheek,
That rivals tho bloom of tho flowory train;
U ! aweolcsl, Dearest, como to me then.
Como to mo, Lovo, when thou'rt lone nnd
sail,
Ami I'll steal thy grief, nnd thy heart
shall be glad,
And I'll tell ihee that Hope is still rising
bright
To dill'uso throudi thy soul till its holy
light,
Restoring thy courngo nnd ardor njnin ;
0 ! iSweetust, Dearest, ccino to mo then.
Come to mo, Lovo, in llu; stillness of eve,
Whan tho roys of tho moon-lit founts may
weavo
Their halo of bennly on nil things
'round,
And the slurs look down on tho sleep
ing ground,
To twinu round our hearts a mysterious
chain;
O .' Sweetest, Dearest, contu to mo t'luti.
WiM iii'.srt.ii, Tkn.v.
Written for tlio Wint hestcr llnme Journal.
Oh, Can You Leave Your Native land.
II V FINI.KV JOHNSON.
Oh, can ynu lenvo your native land
An exile's brido to lie,
Vour childhood's pure und happy home,
To tempt tho raging sen?
Kenioiiibcriug ton, that ns our ship
Cleaves ocoau's foaming truck,
I'lio waves that bear us noth' on
Shnll nuvor waft us buck ?
TIujii pause, dent ono, ere yet your lips
My future fate decide;
0, think of all tlio sulltir'm;', which
May trock a wanderer's bride.
Iiut, oh, that smile ihose tearful eyes
My firmerpurpo.su move;
Our hearts are ono and wo will dare
All peri Is thus to love.
nAl.TIM0HE, Mil.
Wtitten for tho Winrhcslor IIomio Journal.
To an Engagod Lady on Presenting hor
with a nan.
I!Y O. II. MARTIN.
Fan yourself, fan yourself, lady fair,
Lady with dark nnd silken hair,
And with every air that tho fan doth send
Think of mo as your nearest friend.
Fan, fan, fun, from morning till night,
Ever to think of him fur from your sight.
And oh, may thu fan furcvor givo air
And health to tho lady with silken hair.
But he, tho writer, has loved too lato,
Has wnitod too long to ask for a mntc
Hut still as a friend he wishes her joy,
Dure, eternal, and without alloy.
1'iiilaoki.fiiia, Pa.
The Dark Eye and the Blue.
DV W. J. M.ATTEU.
I love a girl with bright, black eye,
And ono with i heavenly bluo,
And every day I vainly try
To chooso bctweon the two.
I sometimes think, when with the dark,
I lovo it best ami do,
Rut then when absent fiom its spark
I fall in lovo with tho blue.
And thus 1 live, with mind perplexed
And almost senseless too,
For by tho dark I'm constant vexed,
And also by the blue.
Now, tell me, somo ono, how decide,
Retwitxt iho dark and blue,
Which I shall ask to bo my bride,
Or shall 1 ask the two?
Forllie Winchester Home Journal.
To a Girl I iaw at the Fair.
A void was in my heart, I know not why,
U,ItlI I mot tho gnzo of thy bright black
eye,
Sparkling and sweet, it flashed upon my
soul,
And 1 loved thco fondly without control.
Ah! tho saying is true "Lovo at first
aiKlit
I onco thought it wrong now know it is
right,
For 1 have known then but once from oth
ers apart,
Vet, oh ! I lovo dice with all my heart.
And now all afToclion for others I'll spuru,
And for you alono love'a firo khall Durn,
If in thy wcot smiles 1 may orif bask-
Uh 1 Annie, dear, no greater ooon i
ERA EST.
WlNCIIFtTCR, Oct.U. iSi9.
lines for Albuo
l)ownJifo'''k '
Oft w Jr,ft 88in8t ,ome "iep,,s
Till we reach ita fearful end.
fhen, deaf ono, when the darkest hour
Gathers o er my brtghlost dream,
I'll cheiiih and remember still
The Annie, gentle, I to esteem.
USTumber 39.
tFLOJiLXCE VERNON;
OJI,
1.0 VK STKOXdKIl THAN PEATIT.
HY FINI.RY JOHNSON. &
CHAPTER FIRST.
It was a lovely summer's day such
a clay as poets sing, nnd painters
dream; a day when all nature wears
a smile, and every heart beats with
joy. Tho gentle zephyrs sported with
the branches of the trees, the merry
birds warbled their songs, and the sun
beams playctl over the surfaco of tho
limpid stream. It was indeed such a
a day as might well be fitted to heav
en's clime.
So thought Florenco Vernoji, as,
seated on tho grassy bank that lin
ed the murmuring rivulet, she gazed
on the glorious prospect before her.
She was not alone; one worthy to
share her happiness was by her side,
and though silent, his presence ad
ded to the charm. Walter Harw had
long loved her, nnd now that love was
avowed, was shared; words had been
spoken, vows exchanged, and theso
two loving hearts were bound together
by the ties of affection.
Florence was rich, an only child; her
father was rich, and delighted to be
stow every good result of his posses
sion upon Iter. He was nmlitious
butcautious, and resolved that Florenco
should marry one every way her equal.
Young llarvy was rich, and it was
therefore with her father's sanction
that she returned the attachment.
The time rapidly drew nigh when
tho nuptials were to be consummated.
But, alas! dark clouds were gather
ing above und around them. Thero
came a day of trial; financial diflcul
t it s stalked o'er the land those who
retired in wealth, the morning's sun
rose on their poverty. The Harveys
struggled nobly, but the blast swept
o'er them, and left thnn ruined.
Bereft of all, it now devolved upon
Waller to assist them in their desiitu
tUn. . no situation offering in the
mercantile business, lie in-coj.tnj an
oiler to become a tutor in a village
school. A tutor! Mr. Vernon's rage
was unbounded ai ,is degradation.
and fhunning nil iufercOh, ...j.i (i
family, he bade Florence to--
Tpet
them.
"It is impossible, father you can-
not mean it," she cried:" in ono year
I would have been Walter's bride.
I will not, cannot forsake him."
'Nonsense, and what will you he
doing next? I want you to occupy an
exalted station in society, not to blast
your prospects by wedding a common
schoolmaster."
"Father, father shame; shame on
you."
"Shame is it, because I refuse to
allow you to marry a pauper? How
ever, there is Charles Edwards, ho
was speaking to 'me the other day
about you; ho is wealthy, make up
your mind to have him.
"Talk not so, rather; 1 lovo Walter,
and nothing can alter that love."
I believe, girl, you have lost your
senses. Do you think that I havo
been hoarding up riches to seo you
tho wife of a beggar? I told him not
to show his face here again."
"Oh, father, you could not bo so
cruel."
"Cruel! fiddlesticks it is a good
tiling that every body ain't ns mad us
yourself. But let us drop the subject,
my mind is made up, you shall many
Edwards, nnd by-t lie-by, ho will bo
here to dinner to-day;" and with which
announcement, Mr. Vernon left tho
room.
Walter's exertions were now indeed
urduous; for his whole family de
pended upon him for support. Vet,
though he sought not Florence, ho
never doubted her word. Ho re
frained from seeing, from writing to
her, though hi3 communion would
have been his sweetest solace; but had
ho a right to cast a gloom over his fu
ture prospects? Pure as hU 'oyo was,
would the world credit his singleness
of purpose? He could not bear tho
imputation of fortune hunting; ho
would not wish it; so despite the con
fidence in tho fai'h of Florence, ho
cruelly assented to her father's com
mands. Ho was wong, their troth
was plighted, ho knew her love for
him what was tho world to him?
what right bad ho to immolate her
nlleclions at its shrine, to sacrifice
them to his own pride? Both were
victims; ho struggled for resignation,
crushing his spirit to tho dust,
tearing up his strong hope he had
so joyously cherished. She was more
unresisting; had he forsaken her, un
bidden, had be been false, her heart
would have broken; no murmur would
have betrayed its hidden grier
she would not submit; he w top"
row, her place was hH-
She resolutel