The unfortunate mountain girl
page: (TitlePage) [View Page (TitlePage) ] THE UNFORTUNATE MOUNTAIN GIRL: A COLLECTION OF MISCELLANIES IN PROSE AND VERSE. BY L. J. PRATT. 1864. :* AffIDDLEBtB RY i MNTED AT THEE REGISTER BOOK AbD lonB OipC. ! page: [View Page ] PREFACE. IN presenting this little work to the public, the writer would beg leave to say that she does Dot make special claims to erudition, or a style of writing, which shall at- tract for its novelty. Having been nearly deprived of the use of her eyes since the age of eleven years, she has made such use of her mental faculties as her kind Heav- enly Parent has permitted; and, through the aid of her friends, presents in this little volume some of those medi- tations which have occupied her mind while the external world in all its beauty and splendor has in a great mea- sure been shut out from her vision. She can only hope that her readers will throw the mantle- of charity over the many imperfections, which, she is aware, exist in these humble efforts to give form and expression to a few strag- gling thoughts. She would respectfully ask that the Golden Rule might be the rule by which her cause might be tried, and then she may confidently expect that the "UNFORTUNATE MOUNTAIN GIRL' I will meet with a kind reception from an indulgent public. West Berkshire, Vt. page: [View Page ] TIE IIIBTINATE MOGITAI GRIL. THE- GIPSY GIRL. "ZZA, the heroine of our story, was the daugh- ter of a Gipsy. Her mother died when she was about six years of age, and from that time she had mingled in the society of none save that of her father, who then left his tribe and betook him- self to a secluded spot near the banks of the riv- er D., where he hoped to spend the remainder of his days in the society of his beautiful and gentle. hearted Lizza, and resolved to seclude her from the gaze of the gossipping world for fear that her beauty would deprive him of his only- treasure. Here they spent several years in happiness, un- molested by the intrusion of any. She was ever by her father's side, save when he went to market, and during his absence she usually a sed her- page: 6-7[View Page 6-7] 6 THE UNFORTUNATE self by singing the wild Gipsy songs which her father had learned her, which were, the most of them, favorite pieces of her mother's. One beautiful evening in September, Lizza and her father were seated under their favorite tree, singing their wild song, which they usually sang at the close of the day, when the sun was shed- ding its last rays over the earth. They had scarcely finished their song, when a stranger step- ped from beneath a thicket, where he had been listening to the bird-like voice of Tizsa. He ap. proached the spot where sat the old man, and his beautiful daughter, resting her head upon his shoulder, and very politely accosted them. The old man was much disturbed at his approach, and by no means gave him a hearty welcome. The stranger looked at the fair girl with astonish- ment. He had often seen the old man in the market but had never dreamed of his having so beautiful a daughter. After a short interview, the stranger, perceiving that he was an unwelcome guest to the old man, took his leave. "I am thankful he has gone," MOUNTAIN GIRL. 7 said the old man, placing his hand upon Lizza's shoulder. "Why, father? why did the presence of that gentleman give you so much pain?" "I have my reasons; but it would not be prop. er for you to know. Come child," said he, start. ing from his seat, "let us go to our tent." Lizza asked many questions concerning the stranger, but could gain no satisfactory answer. In a few days after, the old man was again obliged to visit the market. As soon as he entered the market, the stranger saw him, and knowing that he usually stopped there some time, resolved that he would seek an interview with the fair Gipsy during her father's absence, and immediately set out for her tent. Lizza, as soon as her father had gone, seated herself beneath the shade of her favorite tree and commenced singing her wild songs. Looking up she saw some one at a distance; whom she rev cognized as the stranger who had accosted them but a few evenings before. He approached, and taking her warmly by the hand, seated himself page: 8-9[View Page 8-9] 8 THE UNFORTUNATE by her side. iLizza seemed much alarmed on find. ing herself alone with the stranger, and begged him to be gone, telling him that her father would be very angry should he find him there on his re- turn. "Do not be frightened, my dear girl," said he. c; I came here to converse awhile with you during your father's absence, and will leave ere he re- turns. But tell me, I entreat you, why a being so fair as yourself should spend her days here- in this secluded spot." "Secluded spot!" said she, with an air of con- tempt. "We are Gipsies--we have our mode of living and you have yours. I am happy in the society of my father, and you, perhaps, in the so- ciety of a wife or a mother." "Wife," murmured he, "I have no wife, but had I one as beautiful as yourself, true enougll, I should be happy in her society." -' But," said Lizza, " say no more. You must leave, for my father will soon return." He reluctantly rose, and, taking her by the hand, said: '( We part now, but not forever." MOUNTAIN GIRL. 9 These words rung in the ears of Lizza. "But," said she, " it will never do for me to even think of him, for he is a stranger. Besides, my father will never consent for me to receive calls from any one." Time passed on, and Lizza thought more and more of the stranger, and, at times, almost wished that she coul4 see him again. At length, her father was obliged to go to market. Edward (as that was the stranger's name) saw the old man there as soon as he entered, for he had watched each day for his approach. Immediately he set out to renew his visit with the fair Gipsy. As he reached the spot, he found the fair girl under her favorite tree, but she seemed thoughtful and melancholy. He took her by the hand, saying, "my dear Lizza., I came here this afternoon to declare to you the love which I have had for you since first we met, and to offer you my heart and band, and seek yours in return." "But stop," interrupted Lizza. "You are too hasty. You would never marry a Gipsy." "Marry a Gipsy! to be sure I would, and page: 10-11[View Page 10-11] 10 THE UNFORTUNATE shall consider myself one of the happiest beings in the world if I can but obtain iou." "Oh no, that can never be, for I have ever been taught to love none but my father, and he would never consent to our union. Why, Ed- ward, would you not. feel mortified to introduce me to your friends as your bride?" "Mortified, dear Lizza, no, indeed. I should feel proud to call so fair a being as yourself my own. It is truest you know nothing of my cir- cumstances; but one thing is certain, I have enough to place you beyond the reach of want, unless misfortune's hand is laid heavily upon me. If that should be our lot, we will share ittogether." "' Oh Edward, how could I be so ungrateful to my father, who has always been so kind to me, as to leave him without a friend on earth to comfort him in his declining years. Oh Edward, I could never act so rashy," said she, while the tears fell from her dark eyes. Edward drew her closely to his side, saying: "Dear Lizza, you need not leave your father alone. He shall always have a home with us. ! " W MOUNTAIN GIRL. " Only say that you will be mine. Say, dear Lizza, could you not be happy with me; or should you sigh for your wild home?" ; Lizza, leaning her head upon his shoulder, said; "I could be happy in your society, but my father will forbid our union." "kever fear, dear Lizza, I will obtain his con- sent if you will allow me to remain here until he returns." ' You can do as you like, but I fear he will be very angry, and immediately remove me from this part of the world; and if we are married, it must be done privately." . "Well, Lizza, then say the next time your fa- ther goes to market that I may come here with a carriage, aud that you will accompany me to the village where we will have the marriage cere- mony performed." "But," said she, what will my poor father think on returning and finding me absent?" "We will leave a letter here which will explain all." Lizza consented, and Edward took his leave, I page: 12-13[View Page 12-13] 12 , 'TTE UNFORTUNATE feeling that he had the promise of the fairest be" ing in the world. Lizza, on her father's return, did not meet him with the same cheerful smile that she was wont to do; and the sadness of her countenance attracted her father's notice. "Lizza," said her father, "why are you so sad? Are you not well?" "Oh yes," said Lizza, -throwing her arms around his neck, and warmly imprinting a kiss on his cheek. She strove to resume her usual cheer- fulness, but still her heart was sad. As the time at length arrived for her father to again visit the market, Lizza could not refrain from tears. The old man saw the tears as they fell from her eyes, and drawing her to his side said: "My child, what is the cause of your weeping?" "Oh, I was thinking how lonely I should be were I to be deprived of your company." "Do not allow yourself to think upon that sub- ject," said her father, ' for we will never be sep- arated until by the ruthless hand of death." On saying this, he imprinted a kiss on her cheek, and said, " be cheerful, my child," and left her. MOUNTAIN GIRL. 13 As soon as he had gone, she gave vent to a flood of tears. She called to mind the many happy hours that she had spent with her father, and the thought of leaving her childhood Home forever, to go she knew not where, was more than her poor heart could bear. She soon heard the carriage wheels as they ap. proached, She sat motionless as Edward entered the tent. "Dear Lizza, why are you weeping? You do not regret the promise you made, do you? You shall never want for the comforts of life, and you shall ever find in me a kind and affectionate husband; and as for your father, he shall ever be a welcome guest with us, And here," said he, "is a letter for your father. Come, we must be in haste, for we have no time to spare." Lizza, then, with as much composure as possi- ble, took leave, of her home, where sorrow had ever been a stranger until now, and was soon roll. ing rapidly away. Lizza's father returned sooner than usual, and entering the tent, found his child o page: 14-15[View Page 14-15] " THE UNFORTUNATE gone and a letter lying upon the table. On open- ing it he read as follows: "Dear Sir: I. know that you will feel much surprised at the absence of your daughter, but be calm, and I will tell you all; Sir, the first time I saw your daughter, seated by your side, I re- solved that she should be mine, if I could obtain her consent. Accordingly, I availed myself of the opportunity to talk with her during your ab- sence, and to-day, ere the sun shall set, Lizza will be my lawful and wedded bride. But in three davs she shall return to you. She was very un- willing to leave you, as she said she was all that you had' to care for in this world. But let me say that you need never be separated, for you shall ever have a home with us. And believe me to be your dutiful and affectionate son. EDWARD BLAKELY." As he closed the letter, he, sank back in his chair, saying, I shall never see another happy moment, for my only child is torn from me, and for me to leave my old home and go to that of an- other, I can never bear the thought. No, I will * / MOUNTAIN GIRL. 15 live like a hermit, and when the Lord sees fit to call me from earth, I will die alone, without on? friend to bathe my throbbing brow, or shed the farewell tear. For twelve years it has been my constant care to supply the wants of my only treasure. I have denied myself of every com- fort for her sake. And is this the, reward?" The old man spent the days in walking around the solitary paths that he used to traverse with so much delight when his darling child was at his side. And at night he would lie down upon his couch, but he could not rest, for sleep'had de- parted from his eyes. At length, the time arriyed for the return of his child. As Lizza and Edward entered the tent, they found their father weeping. , . "Oh. my dear father,"' said Lizza, "I have come to ask your pardon and, if possible, to per- suade you to go home with me." ; "( My dear child, I grant you my pardon, but I can never leave my home. Since here,is the man of your choice, go and be happy. But for me, I shall never again be happy." page: 16-17[View Page 16-17] ;16 THE UNFORTUNATE "Say not so," interrupted Edward, " for we will ever be all that a parent carn desire." "Now," said Lizza, "' I hope I shall be enabled to repay your kindness to me. Come, say that you will go home with us. Come, say you will go at least and see our home." After much persuasion, the old man consented. They were soon seated in the carriage, and rolled rapidly along, until they reached their mansion, where they alighted and were shown into a parlor nicely furnished, where they spent the evening very pleasantly, and the old man quite forgot his sorrow. Here he spent many happy years with his affectionate and happy children. And he never regretted leaving his old home. Lizza ever found Edward a kind and affectionate husband, and stood high in society. She was ever ready to lend a helping hand to the needy, and was be- loved by all who knew her. ' l^b MOURTAaIN aIRL. 17 THE PEACEFUL COTTAGE. IN a small village, in the eastern part of Maine, lived, some years since, an old woman, who was known by the name of Industrious Mary. Her cottage was built -with logs and covered with slabs, but from the air of neatness which every thing about it exhibited, could not fail of attract- ing the notice of the passing stranger. Soon af- ter the death of the old lady, two friends hap- pened in their travels to meet at this place, and being invited by the beauty of the scenery ana the desire of discoursing with freedom upon past events, to a walk in the fields, they found them- selves unexpectedly at the humble cottage, which a tall hedge had at first hindered them from see- , ing. While they stood admiring its neatness and simplicity, and anxious to know something of its occupant, they were joined by a villager, who in- formed them that it was then uninhabited and at their request proceeded to give the character of page: 18-19[View Page 18-19] t 8 THR UNFORTUNATE its late owner, the substance of which was as fol: - lows: She was a native of this village, and lived all her life here without any loose desire of seeking her fortune or fancy expectation of meeting with advancement in distant places. Being always a- verse to society, she had no borrowed vices rIor imitated follies. She was unacquainted with the false pleasures of luxury, and what she knew nothing of, she neither desired nor envied. Her wants were the swants of nature ; she had not habituated herself to falsehood by flattering the vanity of a gaudy mistress, nor borrowed the art of shedding tears for trifles, or bearing inso- ' ence with an affected submission; but having thus escaped the general source :of corruption, and, at the same time, excluded herself from all hopes of any assistance, but that of Providence, she maintained herself by an honest and unweariy ed inaustry, free from distress and above depen- dence. It is the right of every cottager to graze a cow on the adjoining common. This privilege was Mary's estate. She had many years ago MOUNTAIN GIL. 19 purchased a cow with the money she had saved from wages of her daily labor. From her she was supplied with milk and butter and cheese, part of which she lived upon, and part she car- ried to the market. In a little garden close to the house she had a row of apple trees, under which,. when no other business called her away,' she sat sewing with a contented heart and a smil- ing face. Thus, what would have been wretch- edness and poverty in the estimation of those who have been accustomed to fashionable life, was easy affluence in the natural condition of hu- anity. The neatness and regularity of her house made me often frequent it; her furniture and utensils of the cheapest sort were always clean, and always in order, and every thing about her seemed to be under the direction of Provi- deuce and the smiles of heaven. When she rose in the morning her devotions were her first ems ployment, her earliest and purest thoughts were given to her Creator in a form of humble adora- tion. She then read a short portion of the holy scriptures with a sincere and earnest attention, page: 20-21[View Page 20-21] i0 TUB UNPORTUNATB not; with a view of reconciling them to vice, or of. interpreting. them in her or-n favor; but of regu*4 lating her behavior by their unerring rules, nor till those duties were performed-did she'suffer her mind to fix upon the business of the day. She then milked her cow and made her cheese, after whbich she sat down to her sewing, and except the little time spent at her meals, worked till evening. She never went far from home, her longest jour- niey was to the next market where she- sold the produce of her little dairv, received the price of her sewing, and bougliA what her own cow and garden did not afford her. At the close of day, she again milked her cow, and concluded the day - at [waith reading and devotions. Thus was her life one uniform scene of innocence and piety, not ,addened by misfortune, nor varied by caprice. She: -enjoyed almost uninterrupted health till the age of sixty, and then dying of a short illness, was found possessed of seventy-five pounds which she had laid up, that when she should be able to -work no longer, she might not subsist upon the labor' of others. Such was the history of Mary, 1, - M OUNTA IN OI L. ' 21 the inhabitant of the little cottage, a place Which by her industry and virtue she rendered far more venerable than the elegant mansions of sloth and luxury. When we sit in solitude out of the sight of man' and unbiassed by their customs, when we are not afraid of being ridiculed by wit, or wondered at by folly, is it possible -to doubt a moment which to prefer? Can rational beings put weeks, months and years, trifled away in ununiproving discourse, idle visits and empty amusements, in competition with Mary's useful labor? But if we look far- ther into the conduct of those ho stand in higher life, and add their vices to their follies, if with the time lost in thoughtless diversion, we think of that which is wasted by unlawful passions in ambi- tious pursuits, or criminal indulgences, if we re- fleet on the allurements'to wickedness and dis. couragement from virtue, we shall be still more convinced of the happiness of obscurity. The i devotions of Mary, so far as we may presume to judge, were not disregarded, since they' were of- fered by one, who lived in the-practice of all the page: 22-23[View Page 22-23] THE UNFORTUNATE duties that fall within the compass of action. They, no doubt, drew upon her the eyes of those angelic beings who look with contempt on pom- pous greatness, and turn with abhorrence from prosperous wickedness, and opened to her those regions of eternal happiness, whither many, who now boast their noble, ample fortunes and exten- tensive capacities, will never arrive. When we are led to repine at our station and to envy the rich and the great, let us look at their vices,their cares and their troubles, and we may learn to hush every murmur by contrasting them with the happy life and peaceful death of the contented, the industrious, the pious Mary. i i IMOUNTAIN GIRL. 23 THE ORPHAN'S SOLILOQUY. I love to sit at dewy eve, Beside some rippling rill, When nought but silence reigns around, And birds their quiet nests have found. And in that silent, lone retreat, Where nought save God's own eye can see, I love to raise my voice in prayer-- My Savior ever meets me there. I love to think on early days, When blest with a mother's prayersand praise, When this heart was soothed from every grief. By a mother's sighs, and kind relief Those golden links of memory ne'er By time can be erased, And while the vital spark remains, I'll think and whisper oft her name. And when this active form shall lie Low mouldering in the ground, Oh! may my happy spirit rise, To greet her spirit in the skies. page: 24-25[View Page 24-25] ,94 - B UNO, BTUNATS r THNK OF THEE. 1 think of thee when -morning dawns, And sheds o'er earth her gentle rays, Then my thoughts they rest on thee ; When thinkest thou of me? , I think of thee through all the day, Whether employed in workE or play, Still my thoughts they rest on thee; When thinkest thou of me? I think of thee at the close. of day, And gladly would I wish thee to stay, Yet we must separated be,- When thinkest thou of me , And in my dreams thy form I view, Though I am far away from you, Still my thoughts they rest on thee-- When thinkest thou of me t MOUNTAIN GIRL. 25 THE YOUNG HEIRESS. CHAPTER FIRST. IT, was the close of a glorious, summer. Old Mr. Morton's small white house, on the banks of X the Illinois, embosomed in a rich profusion of liv- ing green, adorned by flowers of deep luxury, and h canopied by a sky of sunny and gorgeous hues, had been that summer the abode of as happy a party as ever gathered around a cottage-door, on a summers evening. Charles Eltham and his sister had spent several months there. Arthur's health, which had been seriously impaired by se- vere suffering, was now so far restored as to ad- mit of active exertion, for which the state of his finances was calling loudly. And it was agred that the party, on the morrow, should leave the undisturbed repose of the country for New York. been a happy and interesting one. The old gen- tleman had been a soldier in the army of the rea. page: 26-27[View Page 26-27] 26 THE UNFORTUNATEI olution; and the young people were as fond of listening to his long and minute stories of those ever-interesting days, as he was of. relating them; and among the listeners, none dwelt with more individual attention on every word, than Marcia. And then the long, long romantic walks on tho ocean-like prairie, and amid the masses of the never-ending forest. They gathered wild flowers, they listened to the music ot morning's earliest birds, they traced the course of the wayward brook, they drank in the influence of nature to, gether. Marcia had been happy, most happy, even while she had been nursing a hopeless passion. But to her it was not then hopeless. Sanguine in all her expectations, unused to the blandish- ments of polite society, unskilled in reading hu- man hearts, and too conversant with novels and romances, she imagined that the fondness which Eltham manifested for her society was love. De- luded girl! ..... He did, indeed, regard her as a beautiful and-rather interesting, but withal a way- ward and faulty child. And the attention with MOUNTAIN GIRL. 27 which he treated her was more the effect of grati- tude and friendship for the brother, than tribute to any qualities possessed by the sister. And had he even looked on her with more partiality, he would not have aspired Ato her hand, for she had now become an heiress. Eltham admired the firmness with which she bore her good fortune, and very justly considered it an indication of a strong mind. But sometimes he thought of what she would be, when experience should have cor- rected her faults, education refined her manners, and time matured her beauty. Had he known the sacrifice she had been will- ing to make for his sake, his feelings toward her might, perhaps, have been more ardent. He never dreamed of thne existence of that foolish passion which his slightest attention, his most un- meaning compliment, was nursing. If he had, his manner towards her would have been cold. Willingly he would not have blighted one rose in her future path; little did he think he was strew,- ing it, with thorns! Little did he think, while he twined wild flowers amid her flowing tresses, and page: 28-29[View Page 28-29] f28 THE UNFORTUNATE praised the fresh bloom of her cheek, how many bitter tears would be shed over the memory of these careless actions, and idle words! Little did he think, as he playfully kissed her forehead, while in all the artlessness and innocence of early childhood she clung around his neck, that he was mingling anguish in her cup of bliss! And were Arthur Morton and Lucy all this time unmindful-of each other's charms? O no, inquisitive reader. The germs of affection, nour- ished at first in secret, had expanded into full and beautiful bloom. The course of true love had for once flowed smoothly. And now they stood together before the marriage altar. Lucy had never looked so beautiful before. Her health, which intense anxiety had impaired, was now per- fectly renovated. A faint, retiring red was just perceptible on her cheek; her soft eyes were red. olent of bliss, and there was a devoted look of fond confidence in the most pensive smile that, played around her beautiful lips. Arthur's aps pearance was a perfect, and happy contrast to Lucy's. He was tall, his form manly and stri, MOUNTAIN GIRL. 29 king, his forehead was noble; and its clear, pure white was shaded by hair of the deepest black. His lips curled haughtily, but his eyes were the most striking of his features ; it would have been difficult for the careless observer to have told their color, but their expression wmas never sur- passed. Whether they kindled with anger, flashed with delight, or melted in tenderness, thev were alike unrivalled. There was a remnant of boys hood's roses on his cheek, which, in moments of animation, would gradually change to a deep, burning red; yet his countenance was manly in the extreme, and had nothing of the round, smi. ling plumpness usually associated with red cheeks. But though the personal appearance of that youth. ful pair was interesting, it was nobility of mind that shed an unearthly glory around them. They were, indeed, redeeming spirits among common page: 30-31[View Page 30-31] 30 THE UNFORTUNATE CHAPTER SECOND. A few short years, Ah! who call tell. MARCIA MORTON was left to weep over the pre. sumption of unfounded hopes-to lament vanished dreams, But she was a proud girl; her pride was lofty as her affections were constant, and though in the de rth of her heart was buried an- guish, yet her's were not the eyes to quench their fires in unavailing grief, nor her's the cheek to grow pale of unrequited love. But she had soon other sorrows than those of 'disappointed love, over -which to grieve. :Her parents, ere the return of spring, were both laid in the same grave. Marcia, for a long time, was involved in the deepest anguish. She had been a wayward, and sometimes a disobedient child, bit she had loved her parents with a depth and fervency of feeling of which common minds never dreamed ; and so, now the bitterness of her reget was proportional to the intenseness of her love, and made, a thousand times more bitter by every EH MOUNTAIN GIRL. 81 Ms( recollection of her former unkindness towards those who were now alike insensible to her love, and her repentance. There was, however, one consoling reflection; for, during months of their illness, she had been to them a ministering angel., Yet her reflections were sufficiently bitter to steal the color for a while from those blooming cheeks; which nothing else could have paled. Marcia spent several years at a boarding school, and then went in company with her brother and his angel wife, to spend a few weeks at the Springs. The beautiful orphan, and rich heiress, did not escape admiration and flattery. But she was no coquette: she treated all her admirers and suitors with the same cold, calm, hardly' re- spectful, indifference. Years had passed. Charles Eltham and Ar- thur Morton had met as old friends at the Springs, to again renew the early friendship, which had ever glowed in their hearts since their first ac- quaintance in Illinois, "Who was that queen-like beauty by your side to-day, Mrs. Morton?" said Eltham, as they sat page: 32-33[View Page 32-33] 32 TB UINORTUNATH together in a private apartment, that evening. "And is it possible that you have really for- gotten your little favorite amid thd wild haunts of the Illinois?" "Was that really Marcia Morton? Impossi- ble! She cannot be so splendidly beautiful-and such expression in her looks i" "Certainly, Mr. El]tham; six years have pros duced some change." At that instant, the young ladv in question en* tered the apartment, along with her brother. There was a slight embarrassment in her manner, as she returned Eltham's salutation ; but it passed away, and Eitham found her conversation bril- liant, rich and refined. She was' no longer the fond, wild girl of fifteen, who had innocently re. turned his caresses-no longer the wayward, pas- sionate child, but a dignified, graceful, and rather reserved young Woman.' A slight paleness shad- owed her brilliant features, as the conversation turned on long-past days, old familiar, scenes. One long-buried, but not forgotten, dream of her girlhood, rushed obstinately to her mind, and she MOUNTAIN GIRL. 33 was silent. She moved as in her brilliant sphere, of indifference, her heart untouched, and her mind weary of this homage. There was one, who remained apparently indifferent to her peerless charms. Charles Eltham treated her in company with a cold, distant respect. In the private fam- ily circle, at Morton's, he conversed familiarly with her, and seemed happy in her society, but never betrayed any other regard for her than mere common friendship. Another year had gone by, and wrought its full share of changes. Mary Huntington was a widow. She had long been an orphan, and her brothers Were in foreign climes. She resided in the family of-her sister Matilda, who was mar- ried, and mistress of a hotel at the Springs. Mor- ton and Eltham were again at the Springs. Lucy and Marcia were at home--the home of Marcia's childhood, by the side of the Illinois. Marcia had positively and rather obstinately refused to accompany her brother to the Springs, and Mrs. Morton's presence was required at home a few. weeks, at the end of which period she intended joining her husband at the Springs. page: 34-35[View Page 34-35] 34 THE UNFORTUNATE Eltham was thrown constantly into the society of-Mrs. Huntington. Indeed, he was always among the invited guests at Paterson's; for Ma- tilda, though she had seldom met him during their long separation, still regarded him as a very par- ticular friend. He and Morton, who was a cousin of hers, were invited to join, as often as it should be convenient, in their private family circle. Eltham, who was much fonder of joining a social circle of friends, than of mixing in promiscuous society, soon became almost an inmate of the family. His presence at first inspired bitter thoughts in the blighted heart of Mary ; but as they had met as friends during herhusband's lite, so they met now. Eltham remembered his early love only as a bright dream, and he often smiled when he thought of his waking disappointment. All resentment had long been dead, and he re- garded Mrs. Huntington'as an early and dear friend. She was changed, entirely changed; and in. the melancholy widow, with her white, marble cheeks, and smileless lips, none would have recognized the blooming and happy Mary Enfield. Yet she was still an interesting woman? / MOUNTAIN GIRL. 35 and still beautiful. In mixed company, he treated her with marked attention; she was his partner in the dance; he listened with rapture when she sung, and his delicate attentions to her were re- marked by all observers. Did he love her? No. Neither did he dream, that in her bosom--cold, passionless as she seemed -there could possibly linger a single smothered spark of young affection, to be kindled to a flame. , CHAPTER THRD. IT was summer, proud,gorgeous summer-El- tham's health had suffered severely from close ap- plication to business, and he was now trying leis- ure amid the beautiful scenery of Illinois, as a restorative. He and Mrs. Morton were sitting together, one evening, when a letter, directed in a delicate female hand, was brought to him. He gazed at the superscription, in evident surprise, broke the seal hastily, and glanced' at the signa- ture. He changed color, and immediately left page: 36-37[View Page 36-37] 86 H TRE UNBORTUNATE the room. When he was alone, he read as fol- lows: "MY EARLY FRIEND: You will be surprised, perhaps displeased, at the. reception of a Jetter from me. I know too well that I am transgess- ing the received laws of female delicacy in ad- dressing you on the subject I am about'to intro- duce. But when I recollect how much haDpi- ness-I oncee recklessly threw taway, I would, if possible, regain some small portion of it. You recollect too well my foolish coquetry, my heart- less falsehood. I saw you were suspicious of my constancy, and-fool that I was-I resolved to sport with your feelings. Yet, shall I say it? I loved you well * - and the thoughts of a final sepa- ration, at that time, would have been anguish. I did not know your spirit; you treated me with a degree of indifference, which, in return, roused my resentment. I avoided you, and spent my tjme with Huntington. I will not now speak par- ticularly of his attenti6n ; but at last he taught me to believe I loved 'him better than I had ever loved you. I married him. I will pass slightly over the events of long, long years. I would not, for all sublunary happiness, pluck one green leaf from his laurel wreath of fame. I would -not shadow the unsullied reputation of his name. But had suffering power to atone for crime, then had my perfidy long since been expiated. I had )BY , MOUNTAIN' IRL. 87 learned to think of my love for you as something for ever past. But, shall I own it, in spite of *what the world would call indelicacy-in spite of my own burning pride *. that your presence, your conversation, revived all my young affection? Yet would I have smothered and concealed it in my own bosom, had not your delicate attention to me, and some expressions (perhaps they were un- guarded) led me to believe my love was re- turned. Why should we sacrifice a life of happi. ness to pride or resentment? Do not despise me for what I have written, and I will say adieu. MARY HUNTINGTON." He sat alone, with this effusion in his hand, from one he had once warmly, confidingly and absorbingly loved. What memories rushed thick and fast upon his mind!-The hopes, the fears, the bliss, the agonies of youth seemed all present. That fatal evening, when he had rushed from the presence of Mary, his hopes blighted, his fond af- fections thrown back, pride, scorn, resentment in his heart-then, even then, at that bitter moment, his wild projects of ambition had, for the first time, taken a definite form. They had grown, at once, into a mixed and immovable resolve to stand one day high on the ladder of ambition, where the page: 38-39[View Page 38-39] 38 THE UNFORTUNATE proud girl who had just (contemptuously as he thought) discarded the poorj friendless and un- known youth, should look up to the station occu- pied by the successful youth, and-remember her folly. His resolve was partly fulfilled-and that same girl now sued for his favor-offered the hand he once so dearly prized! , Letter ffrom the Hon. Mr. Eltham. ' To MRS. MARY HUNTINGTON-I was, in- deed, my fair friend, surprised and even pained, at the reception of your letter. You say, wlhy should we sacrifice a life of happiness to pride or resentment? Believe me, I am not influenced by either of those motives. As for- pride, I might well be proud of a union with you, and resentment has long, long ago passed from mind-and with it passed my early dream of love. True, I did love you, love you deeply, fervently, and too con. fidingly. But it became necessary for me to con- quer that love :tI struggled long and painfully to banish it from my pind. At last I succeeded. I crushed, I trampled it in the dust-utterly ex- L tinguished its last spark! It can never revive! ! If any of my expressions have implied a continue I ation of that love, they were indeed unguarded ! expressions, and I deeply regret them. My par- MOUNTAIN GIRL. 39 ticular attentions to you, you Should have imr, parted to friendship. I am very- sorry if they have been the cause of unhappiness. I have in- deed felt for you, and do still feel, a tender, an uncommon regard; but it is friendship, pure and passionless. As such I sincerely hope it mav be returned. Write me; tell me you have aban- doned your wild dream of love, and will be my friend, and I shall be happy. CHARLES ELTHAM. Mrs. Mary Huntington. Mary read this letter with all the bitterness of wounded pride, and blighted hope. Her last dream of earthly bliss was over. Miss Morton went one day into Eltham's room, to return a book she had borrowed of him. He was not in the room. As she glanced over some papers on his table, she observed a folded and sealed letter, directed to Mrs. Mary Huntington. She gazed at it some time as if to assure herself that she read aright. "It is then true," she exclaimed, "he is to be married to my proud cousin." And rushing from the apartment she sought her own room. A golden sunset, and a long, long ramble on page: 40-41[View Page 40-41] 40 THE UNFORTUNATE the prairie, had filled the minds of Eltham and the lovely being at his side, with poetry and dreams. "This is wrong-it is foolish," thought Miss Morton, as she stood close by the side of him whose image had, for long years, mingled in her dreams. "These solitary walks, delightful as they are, are only strengthening affection, it will now be crime to indulge. And do I indeed love one who will soon be the husband of another? I love him still, in spite of all my better resolu- tions!" "' A glorious view," said EItham. "One may be proud of his country, when he looks on a scene like this." Here he paused. Then turning to Marcia he said : "C I have never talked to you of love. Per- haps you have never dreamed how deeply and hopelessly I have loved you." "Mr. Eltham," said Marcia, with a cold and indignant look of pride, "I have always consid- ered you a friend, and treated you as such; if tH, MOUNTAIN GIRL. 41 you value my friendship, you will not renew this trifling. I cannot tolerate insult." "If my professions of love are insults, I will certainly never again trouble you with the sub- ject. But I think if you felt one particle of that friendship which you profess for me, you would at least repress your anger, and treat me with com- mon respect. I am not aware of deserving your contempt," "A man deserves contempt the moment he stoops to- She paused abruptly, as they reached the house and glanced towards him a look of indigna- tion. "To what? Miss Morton." She hesitated, .and then turned towards the door, as if to enter. "I have a right to demand an explanation," he said, in a low, compressed tone. "It is un- generous to leave your meaning unexplained." And he caught hold of her burning and trem- bling hand to detain her. She suddenly and with some effort withdrew page: 42-43[View Page 42-43] 4Z THE UNFORTUNATE her hand, and with one more glance, in which love, pride, resentment and scorn were mingled, entered the house, followed by Eltham. In the parlor they found several of their young acquaintances, all in high spirits. Marcia joined in the mirth with more than natural animation and wild gaiety. There was a deep, unusually deep and burning glow upon her cheeks; while her lips and brow were deadly pale, and there was almost a maniac wildness in her eyes. The wild flowers the playful Eltham had twined amid her hair, on the prairie, were allowed to remain, and she took no pains to arrange the beautiful but dishevelled tresses. Eltham was reserved and gloomy. Marcia retired as soon as the company were gone, and she wept' as wildly as she had laughed and sung. The next evening Miss Morthn sat on a sofa, alone, in a richly furnished apartment. The po. ems of Julian were in her hand, but she was not reading. She was startled from-a long, deep reverie, by the abrupt entrance of Eltham. I beg pardon, Miss Morton, for this intru MOUNTAIN "GIRL. 43 sion," said Eltham. i I thought you attended Mrs. P-- 's splendid'party to-night." "And I too believed you there," she replied. An awkward silence. "And so you read Julian's poems sometimes," said Eltham, as he sat down by Marcia's side. She made no reply, but dashed away the gath- ering tear. "You are sad to-night, Marcia. May I be permitted to inquire the cause?" "The cause, certainly, is nothing which can possibly interest you, but I am indeed sad, and in no humor to enjoy company; forgive me-but I beg you would leave me."' "Yes, I will retire immediately; but first give me leaye to say that your conduct towards me has been ungenerous-unworthy a woman of sense and refinement-and to me it has been, and still is, inexplicable. Whatever may be your re- maining faults, I think you have entirely con- quered your propensity to flatter. Miss Morton. is quite as innocent of that crime as I am. Per- haps, however, I spoke severely-but remirtmer lo #* page: 44-45[View Page 44-45] " THE UNFORTqNATE you have used language to me, which, if used by a gentleman, would have justified me in demanding an explanation. Now, Miss Morton, if you have one particle of the generosity or frankness I once imputed to you, you will not leave your conduct unexplained. You told me last evening I de- servel contempt, and you have been paying it off profusely. Will you now condescend to inform me in what manner I had deserved it?" "Yes, I will. Your declaration of love was either insult to me, or perfidy to another. As either, I have a right to resent it." "Perfidy to another! Is it possible, Miss Morton, that you believe the common report, that I was engaged to be married to Mrs. Hunting- ton?" "I did. And were you not so engaged?" "Certainly not. Bu't what reasons had you for believing this foolish story?" "A variety of'reasons. In the first place, your very particular attentions, which I presume you will not deny, implied an engagement. And then your sister believed it; or at least I have t MOUNTAIN GIRL.' 45 reason to suppose she believed it, and then Miss -- , who, you know is the intimate friend, and bosom confidant of my cousin, told me in confi- dence yon, were so engaged. She, you must have discovered, is an artful and unprincipled girl. But there was another reason, stronger with me than all the rest." "And pray what was that?" "You certainly will not deny corresponding with Mrs. Huntington?" "No, I will not; but there -was nothing in that correspondence, which, as your professed lover, I would be unwilling you should read. As for what you are pleased to call my very particular attentions to that lady, they were dictated entire- ly by friendship-and so she understands them, whatever the world may say to the contrary. But why so very positive about the correspondence?" "Because I saw on your table a letter directed in your handwriting, to Mrs. Mary Huntington." "And may# I ask if this belief that I was engaged to another, influenced'materially your conduct to. wards me?" page: 46-47[View Page 46-47] " THE UNFORTUNATE "It did very materially.'" "And are you now convinced that such an en- gagement never existed?" l "I have certainly no right or inclination to dis- pute your candor."*' The conversation now took a somewhat gentler ? - turn. We will not stay to repeat it, But there was a wedding at Morton's the next fall. The proud beauty, the rich heiress, gave her hand, confidingly, to the poor but noble-hearted Eltham. Six years from that time Charles Eltham, with his still beautiful and dovoted wife, were pleass antly situated on the lovely banks of the Illinois. '. X1 - 11 * - S1 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 47 THE YOUNG TUTOR. ZELIA was an only and idolized child. Since her mother's death, every wish, every feeling of her youthful heart had been indulged. She was the image, of his lost, his loved one, and her fa- ther cherished her as the only flower of his lonely parterre. On her he expended all the fervency, al1 the earnestness of his love. She was dearer to him than life itself; and when he witnessed iler childish delight at Walter's visits, he cheer- fully broke through his established rules, and told him in a few words, that his presence would be as light to his dwelling. Her father had been too jealous of his beauti- 'ul child to suffer her to seek instruction away 'rom home; but he was delighted at Walter Du- 'and's proposal to become her tutor. She showed Iecided taients for music and painting; and, un-:* page: 48-49[View Page 48-49] 48 THE UNFORTUNATE der the instruction of the young tutor, Zelia made rapid progress. And each day her love grew stronger, yet hard she strove to smother it in her own bosom. We all know the power of love in subduing preju- dices, and overcoming difficulties. Constantly with Walter, her thoughts, her feelings were im- bibed from, or colored by his. Did Walter re, ciprocate this love? Deeply, passionately. Her beauty and child-like sweetness had at first at-: tracted his notice, and now, added to these charms, he had as it were moulded her mind and heart, and almost worshipped the being who had been committed to his charge; but honor kept her plate firmly in his heart. He felt that great would be his sin to gain the love of that young happy heart, which could never, by her father's will, be his; and that father had received him and trusted him as a friend. No! never would he be. tray the precious trust which had been-socon-, fidingly reposed in him. His mind was soon de- termined; he .would fly from Zelia, fly from her sweet friendship, which had been to him such hap. MOUNTAIN GIRL. 4 piness. No longer would his evenings be passed in listening to the songs he had taught her-no longer would he guide that little hand whose slightest touch caused a thrill through his very heart; no longer would he sit and gaze on her dark eyes, forgetting earth, heaven, all but her sweet self. But, in denying himself this happi- ness, he would at least be gaining that of an ap- proving conscience. The evening preceding that fixed upon for his departure, he entered the house of Mr. Hartland to visit Zelia, for the last time. He paused at the half opened door of Zelia's room. He en- tered, and seating himself by her side, clasped her hand in his. Ihe turned her full gaze upon him, with such a look of confidence, holy, confi- ding feeling, that for the first time the thrilling thought ' She loves me!' rose in his heart, and almost overcame his fortitude. Could he deters mine now, when he first felt assured that his love was returned, to dash from his lips the brimming. cup? Could he resolve to destroy the beaming glance of those eyes so full of deep feeling! 4 page: 50-51[View Page 50-51] 50 THE UNFORTUNATE His resolution lingered, his lips faltered, the tempter was fast weaving his net around him: but with a firm, a strong effort, he threw from him the weakness, and in a low but calm voice told Zelia of business that called him far fromn her. In an instant she was transformed; those eyes, but late revealing the depths of her pure loving heart, now sank beneath his glance; tears gathered and fell over her pale and agitated face; and her whole frame quivered with excess of emotion. Durand could bear it no longer; and drawing her head unresistirgly to his bosom, he mingled his tears with hers. "Zelia, dearest love, I can no longer endure the burden of silence-silence that, like a moun- tain, has weighed down my very heart. I loved, nay. idolized you, but I dare not ask you to love me in return. Your father-who has received me as a son-in whose house I have enjoyed more happiness than I ever thought or dreamed of.... Can I then ask you to love me? Can I wish to take from him his beloved child-her on whom his very life rests. Can I deceive him who has MOUNTAIN OIRL. 51 trusted me and be worthy of your love? No, Zelia,his dear heart shall never be saddened by me -by me on whom he has lavished so much love." "But you mistake if you think that Zelia, who has loved you, can ever be the bride of another. I know what you are going to say, that I am young; but, believe me, this poor heart can nev- er know change until death." Mr. Hartland, who had been listening for the last half hour, to the conversation that passed be- tween the two lovers, now entered the room, and taking Zelia by the hand, he said, while a tear trickled down his pallid cheek: "My dear, my only child, you have ever been. all to me that a child could be; but ere long I feel that I must be an inhabitant of the spirit land, and leave you to share the friendship of a cold-hearted world. Zelia, dear child, you know not how long I have read your young heart, and that of Walter's. Nay, tremble not, my chil- dren; I heard your last conversation and find that you are worthy of my love and each other. For months I have watched your growing love, page: 52-53[View Page 52-53] 42 THE UNFORTUNATE and could not wish to check it. Guard her, Wal- ter, guard her young, pure heart. I now give her to you." We will not stay to repeat the conversation which followed; but will say that Mr. Hartland had the pleasure of seeing his beautiful daughter married to Walter Durand, ere the autumn winds withered the summer's rich bloom. Three years passed away and left Zelia a poor and broken-hearted orphan. Walter, by degrees, became neglectful of her, and at parties, he would chat, laugh and dance with the trifling and vain, while the more sensible portion of the com- pany would gather around her, delighted by her fine manners and polished conversation. But what to her was the admiration of the multitude, when she, was suffering for the want of the sunny beams of affection? Her heart was like a sensi- tive plant, and shrank as instinctively from the s! ightest breath of unkindness as does the Mimosa from an uncongenial atmosphere. She became feeble and melancholy; and when he demanded her reason for refusing to attend parties, she ! . - ' MOUNTAIN GIRL. 53 gave him to understand that she thought her presence would be little missed by him, and she preferred remaining at home. One evening, Walter returned' home at a late hour and found Zelia lying upon a bed, the ser- vants weeping, and a physician in attendance, who said she was suffering from a spasm on the heart, which he attributed to fatigue. She soon revived, and greeted him with a smile of unut- terable sadness, but no more of reproach escaped her lips. She then sank into a stupor, and rev mained some days, in a state of unconsciousness. During this time, he was unremitting in his at- tentions, and as soon as her strength was suffi- ciently restored to hear him with safety, he fell on his knees and most earnestly implored her for- giveness. She replied: "My dear Walter, may God forgive you as freely, as fully as I do." But in vain were all his cares to restore her to health. She wasted away, like a flower of earth. Eminent physicians were consulted, but to no ef- fect. Her disease was one which no medicine could remove. page: 54-55[View Page 54-55] THE UNFORTUNATE It was a beautiful evening in September. Ze. lia awoke from a sweet slumber and desired to speak with her husband. He entered and ap- proached the bed, where Zelia took him by the hand saying: "My dear Walter, I have much that I wish to say before I leave this world. I blame myself that I did not make sufficient exer- tion to win you back, and, render your home the most attractive place on earth. I yielded top soon to gloom and -despair; and it was but nat. ural that you, in health and cheerfulness, should seek society more congenial with your feelings. For this, my great mistake, I beg your forgive- ness. Let your future life, as far as may be, atone for the errors of the past. Seek to do good, and prepare to meet our dear parents in that world where parting will be no more. Dear Walter, farewell." She gave him 3er hand, they exchanged a parting kiss; an both remained silent. He watched her in grief, and after a few moments of apparent slumber, she once more roused herself, and a smile of heavenly peace rested on her counn JLJVJ LJo .as LJI VA UBLKLU I tenance, and, giving him a look of forgiving ten- derness, her spirit departed. For Zelia now poor Walter weeps, And o'er her grave his vigil keeps, Nor does he leave her grassy mound But lies upon the cold, damp ground. 'GCI(C * / " page: 56-57[View Page 56-57] vi,}, ALA. am. s.: Y.&. *.A. . i... A CHEERING THOUGHT. My trials now on earth are o'er, And I can suffer here no more, Calmly I now resign my breath, And welcome thou messenger of death. Joyfully I leave all things below And gladly to my Savior go, Angels will waft my soul away, Forever with the blest to stay. Friends, whom I leave behind awhile, Soon you shall share my Savior's smile If faithful while on earth you roam, Angels shall waft your spirits home. Farewell, my friends, weep not for me, Since Christ hath set my spirit free, No troubles cross my peaceful breast, For in my Savior's arms I rest. ,lV UJ. XlL U11 . * THE ORPHAN CHLD. I soon must close my eyes in death, And who will receive my parting kiss? And who will shed the farewell tear, When the last rays of life disappear? Who will make the shroud for me? And who will my pall-bearers be? And who shall standin the sacred desk, When my soul hath reached a heaven of rest? 4nd who'll prepare my narrow bed? And who will close the coffin-lid? Wqho will lower me in the narrow cell. Wen my spirit doth with Jesus dwell? And who shall watch the fragrant rose Th t decks the grave where I repose? And who will cull the rose that blooms Upoi my meek and early tomb? Who will raise the marble stone At mj head when I am gone? And eho shall read, as they pass by, They tlo, like me, must faint and die? ' * *'!, Xt page: 58-59[View Page 58-59] 58 THE UNFORTUNATE THE ORPHAN'S BENEFACTRESS. "GOOD morning, my dear; why do you weep?" said Virginia, as she placed her hand upon the shoulder of a little girl, who stood at her door. She replied as she wiped away the falling tear: "It is not for myself, but for my mother." "Your mother, child; what is the matter?" said'Virginia, drawing her to her side. "Be- lieve me your friend and tell me all." "My mother," said the trembling gisl, "is very sick and has nothing for her comfort." "What? have you no father?" said Virginia, anxious to know more of the little stranger's his, tory. "And what is your name?" i ' My name is Julia Mason, whose father died some years ago." - "Well, my dear, do not weep. I( will assist you." Julia's heart swelled with emotion as she ace * ,i r* MOUNTAIN GIRL. 59 companied her kind benefactress to the lonely dwelling of her afflicted mother. On reaching the house, Virginia entered, finding Mrs. Masonr lying upon a pile of straw, in one corner of the desolate room, apparently asleep. Julia ap-t proached the spot,. and kneeling by her side, whispered in a soft tone: "Dear mother, here is a kind lady who has promised to be our friend, and we may again be happy." At that moment Virginia approached, and tab king the invalid by the hand said: "My friend, you are certainly afflicted ;" while a tear stole down her blooming cheek. Mrs. Mason only an. swered by tears. "But," said Virginia, "the Lord is able to do great things for you yet, and I trust that I may be an instrument in his hand of doing something for you." Mrs. Mason thanked the lady for her kindness, and Virginia took her leave, promising to call again the next morning. The next day dawned brightly, and Virginia arose with a glad lheart, and preparing the morn. ing's meal in haste, she sallied forth in pursuit of I 4K page: 60-61[View Page 60-61] 60 THE UNFORTUNATE her benevolent purpose. She thought the sun had never shone so sweetly before, and the beams that strayed through the shrubbery, as she crossed a little stream on her way, seemed dancing gaily on the grass plot, as if playing at be-peep among the beautiful flowers., and the brook itself had never rung its chimes so musically before. She did not know that the wires which gave forth all this melody were vibrating in her own heart; and that gratified benevolence was the seraph-min- strel whose magic touch was thrilling the silvery cords, whose mysterious music tones are but stray notes--detached -chimes of that anthem, whose full harmonial symphonies roll ever from the an- gelic harps that surround the throne of Eternal Majesty, whose eye of love is never clouded or dim; but surveys with equal care the vast and ponderous globes which wheel their circling marches through the unknown realms of trackless space, and the frail children of his bounty who bloom, and fade, and die, in this diminutive por- tion of his domains. Virginia rapped lightly at the door, and was Av MOUNTAIN GIRL. 61 admitted by Julia, on whose features rested a shade of sadness; but it seemed so blended with unmurmuring patience, that the beholder could not fail to perceive the young spirit had been moulded under the influences of those principles that kindled the undying flame upon the inner-. ^ most shrine. of the heart; the pure altar-fire of ^, love and devotion, which, purging the soul from a the dross of false pride and undue ambition, - : teaches it to look for happiness where alone it can be found, namely, in the paths of virtue and piety. The poor woman had passed a restless Light, and was much exhausted, and it would seem that Vir- ginia had anticipated this, for she had brought some cordial and refreshments. After partaking of some nourishment, the sick one was able to sit e up a little, and thanked her visitor for her kind attention. "Heaven has bestowed upon you a kind heart," said she, "may you never feel its warm . affections crushed by the heartlessness of al. fish world, or blighted by the chill blast of pepwy and desolation." . , .de \ page: 62-63[View Page 62-63] 62 THN UNFOKTUNATB Mrs. Mason informed Virginia that they had formerly possessed a good property, but her hus- band had sold all, and gone to the far West, where he purchased a large tract of land, and had commenced improvements preparatory to moving his family there, when he became a victim to the fevers of the climate. Mrs. Mason wrote frequent- ly, but could learn nothing satisfactory, and final- ly received a letter informing her that the title under which her husband purchased was not good; so she was left penniless to struggle alone life's thorny way, with none to protect her, save Him who is the orphan's father, and widow's God." I am now alone in the world save this poor orphan," said the mother, as she put back the tresses from the fair brow of Julia who was kneeling by her side. Tears of joy glistened on Virginia's face, as she bestowed her gifts, and saw the expressions of gratitude enliven her pallid features. "You are an angel of mercy," said th uffering one, as the warm blood rose even to h Jmarble brow. "Language is too poor to speak the emotions of the grateful heart. I ca. 'o MOUNTAIN GIRL. 63 never repay you but He who planted in your heart the principles of active benevolence, will be ever near you to shed upon your spirit the ra- diance of love." Having arranged a comfortable bed, and other things as far as her circumstances would admit, Virginia returned home promising to call again soon. A few evenings after this scene a joyous party assembled at Mr. Wilton's, in honor of his daugh- ter's birth-day. We need not stay to describe the decorations or illuminations of the house, for at the time of which we are speaking, the rage for display and maintaining the just rank in osten. tatious luxuries had not attained its medium height. But as every one loved Virginia for her } unpretending goodness, they were not the less i happy to tender theirhomage to her this evening, - as queen of the festivities. The Misses Nealands were there, splendidly attired in white satin, and turning to Virginia, asked if Mr. Elmer were not to be of her party. "I do not know," said se, "is he not here? I presume father invited him." page: 64-65[View Page 64-65] " THB UNFORTUNATE The dance had been some time begun when a plain, but elegantly dressed gentleman entered the room, and after the usual ceremonies took a proffered seat beside Mrs. Neuland, with whom he was slightly acquainted, she having managed to procure herself an introduction to him, since his recent abode in the village. "Who is that beautiful girl in the dance," in- quired Mr. Elmer, after a pause in conversation, "that one, so simply attired in plain muslin, with the white rose in her hair? She seems the per- sonification of cheerful goodness." "That is Miss Wilton," said the superfine lady, biting her lip with vexation. "Amelia, my love, will you take the fan? The heat is op- pressive. I do not wonder you decline dancing." The tutored damsel bowed apd smiled languidly and by mere chance raised her beautiful eyes with deliberate timidity to the gaze of the stran- ger. It was plain from Mrs. N.'s satisfied look, that he regarded her with admiration, for she was really a lovely girl. But his gaze was soon care- lessly withdrawn, as if those features lacked some MOUNTAIN GIRL. 65 lustre of expression that might radiate upon the mirror he carried in his heart. He was a noble looking man, in the prime of manhood. The ex- pansive brow was finely marked, and his eye was the mirror of all the noble qualities that dwelt in his breast. Calm, clear, and discriminating, it looked to the face divine for the delineation of the soul. A shade, approaching to sadness, rested on his features. He had returned to his native land after a long absence, to find the household hearth deserted, dead, or dispersed he knew not where. He was now in search of a wife, even as Mrs. Nealand had divined; but he sought not wealth or superficial accomplishments, but a true, kind heart, on which his own might repose its cares, and lavish its wealth of affection. Just as the self-satisfied Mrs. N. had begun to congratulate herself upon the certainty of Ame- lia's producing an impression upon the rich stran- ger, he remarked: "It is long since I have danced, but I have a great mind to join the fan- tastic measure. May I presume upon your favor for an introduction to Miss Wilton?" i 5 t I page: 66-67[View Page 66-67] " . THE UNFORTUNATE It was with illconcealed chagrin that she pre- sented-him to Virginia, and saw him lead the dance with her, plainly clad as she was, while her own petted idol was left to languish in her well worn;delicacy of appearance. The evening passed in mirth and hilarity, and an early hour saw all parties quietly seeking that repose which is as necessary after enjoyment as labor., I wonder where Virginia can be going?" said Mrs. Turner, as she was fanning herself in Mrs. Nealand's parlor, at sunset, a few days after the party, "I see her passing every day, at 'about the same hour," replied Mrs.. . I should hardly think sh9 could find time to leave work every day to ramble, being so penurious as she is." "Penurious?" said Mrs. S., "I thought her a generous hearted girl. I believe she is the only one who could fulfil the arduous duties of her sta- tion. I know she is sadly tied to drudgery, poor thing; pperlhaps that may be an excuse for- her miserly turn." I / ,d -.. MOUNTAIN GIRL. 67 It so happened that Mr. Elmer was enjoying a social chat with. Mr. Nealand at the farther part of the room, yet he evidently heard the, conversa- tion, as it was intended he should. A shade of painful dissatisfaction passed over his fine features for a moment, for he could not but perceive that malice dictated her speech. And it produced a contrary effect from what she intended, for it awakened in him a slight interest in behalf of Vir- ginia, as he wished to know what secret cause ex- isted for this display of unkind feeling. He was, however, a stranger, and could not hope to learn the secret at present. "I am toldl there is a desolate lady near the village," said a -gentleman, one day, as he en- tered a store, "who is suffering severely from want and disease. Indeed, it is thought she is near death." "And are there none to relieve her *ants?" asked Mr. Elmer with surpriset^ "She has no friends that I know of," said the gentleman, "but Miss Wilton, I am told, has : . page: 68-69[View Page 68-69] 68 THE UNFORTUNATE been very charitable to her indeed, and visits her every day, though she is no relative of hers." "No friends!" exclaimed Mr. Elmer; " will you please to direct me to her residence i" Mr. Turner, as this was the gentleman's name, with a somewhat mortified air, gave him the di' rection, and he started in pursuit of the victims of poverty. He rapped at the miserable abode, and was' admitted by a lovely girl upon whom he gazed with more than ordinary interest for a mo- ment, and then took a proffered seat. The little girl retired to another room, and soon Miss Vir- ginia Wilton came out and passed the compli- 7 ments of the morning. "I am glad to find myself preceded by an an- gel of mercy to:this place. Will you be so kind as to make use of this, for the benefit of the poor woman?" said Mr. Elmer, as he handed her his purse. I fear, sir," said the lady, ( that money can avail little with her. We had the advice of a physician this morning, and he thinks she can sur- vive but a short time." ***'-- ' . ^I MOUNTAIN QIRL. . 69 Is the sick woman a friend of yours?" asked' Mr. Elmer. "I have never seen her, sir, till within a few days, except at church." Mr. Elmer took his leave, saying, "I there is not enough to supply her wants I will leave more." ," Thank you," said Virginia, "this will do for the present." Just then a low moan from the inner room caught their ear, and Virginia hastened to the bed side of the sufferer, where she found her in the agonies of death. She smiled, but it was chilled by a fearful pang; a shudder, a faint gasp for breath, and all was over. Julia held the hand of her mother's corpse. The neighbors were im- mediately summoned and the last sad offices for the dead performed. ' The poor little orphmn's grief was assuaged by the kind hearted Miss Wil- ton, who took her home and cared for her as a sister. This act of benevolence awakened the warmest affection in the heart of Mr. Elmer, who from this time paid his addresses entirely to Miss Wilton, ,jt page: 70-71[View Page 70-71] 70 THE UNFORTUNATE and in less than one year she was made the happy bride of George Tlmer. With them the little or. phan ever found a welcome home. MOUNTAIN GIRL. 71 THE REWARD OF A DUTIFUL SON. MR. LEWIS had, by industry and economy, ac- cumulated a large property, and was considered immensely rich. But riches take to themselves wings, and fly away; and so it was with Mr. Lewis's riches at the time of his death. He was greatly involved in debt, and each of his credit- ors, eager to secure their full amount, crowded heavily Mrs. Lewis. She was a very intelligent woman. proud spirited, and would have parted with-every cent rather than one of his creditors should remain unpaid. At length his estate was settled, leaving but a small sum for the support of Mrs. Lewis, an aged father, and one child, who was about twelve years of age. Mrs. Lewis soon left her splendid mansion, with walks, gardens, yards, and all that was pleasant within and with- out. She purchased a small cottage in a more page: 72-73[View Page 72-73] 72 THEE UFORTUNATE retired part of the village, where she was enabled, by her industry and economy, to keep Charles at school until his eighteenth year; and, during this period, he had made, great proficiency in his istudies. Charles was a very bright, intelligent, and in- teresting fellow, and a gentleman in every respect. It was a beautiful evening in September-the moon poured forth its gentle rays through the windows of-Mrs. L.'s cottage, as she and her son sat by the fire which was blazing upon the hearth, un the village clock had toned the hour of ten. Charles did not like to commence the, subject, wMch haid rested with such weight upon his mind * through the day; but he had resolved thathe would not retire too rest until he had consulted his mother concerning his departure to the village of ST-. At length he said- with a tremulous voice, "Mother, our litle bank is nearly expended, and I thimk I had better try to secure a situation in omeshop, where m ry will be sufficient to provide you and grandfather with the comforts of life. As I was looking over a paper yesterday,. MOUNTAIN GIRLB. 78 , my eyes rested on an advertisement, which stated that Mr. C----, wholesale merchant in the vil- lage of T--, was in want of a clerk, and if both liked, he would pay a liberal supt. Now, mother, if you think best, I will prepare to leave here on Monday, and perhaps he will give me a situation." There was a profound silence for some minutes. At length she replied, while the tears stole down her cheeks, "Charles, we should feel very lonely if vou were to leave us." Charles, perceiving the emotion of his mother, t said, with a cheerful voice, "Yes; but then it is only about' seventy miles, and I shall visit you quite often-besides, I shall write every now and then.' Mrs. Lewis was not prepared for this dilemma, although she well knew that Charles must ere long leave home, to act for himself, and share the friendship of a cold-heartedworld; yet she looked upon it at a distance. , "Charles," said Mrs. Lewis, 'I am not pre. pared to give you an answer to-night; I will pare t giv page: 74-75[View Page 74-75] 74 THE UNFORTUNATE 'think of it, and talk more with you in the morn-. ing." Charles saw that his mother was too much af- fected to press the question further, and getting up, he bid her good night, and left the room. On reaching his room, he knelt beside his bed, and poured out his soul in praver to God, and ear- nestly besought Him that He would guide and protect them through all the varied scenes of life: that their souls might -be prepared for an eternal rest in heaven. Charles spent that night in med. itation, and anxiously looked for the coming morn. 'At length the tardy morn appeared, and Charles arose to hear the decision of his -mother. Charles, 1 feeling so much anxiety upon the subject, could not wait for his mother to commence the conver- sation. , "Well, mother, how have you decided? Do you think I had better try my fortune?" "Charles," said his mother, "I know that it is very essential that you should do something for a livelihood. The thought of your leaving home, is heart-rending to me." / MOUNTAIN GIRL. 75 Yes, mother, it will be very unpleasant to be separated; but I trust that in a few years I shall be enabled to save enough of my wages to secure- a comfortable home for you and grandfather; and then we will enjoy each other's society until we j are separated by the icy hand of death." I At length the time for his departure arrived. X The carriage-wheels were seen rolling rapidly to : the dock, and Charles, after taking his leave, seated himself in the coach, leaving his afflicted i mother standing in the door of her cottage. Charles felt that this was the most trying scene that he had ever experienced;1 and covering his face with his hands, gave vent to a flood of tears. On reaching the mansion of Mr. C--, he im- mediately sought' an interview with him, and readily informed him of the object of his visit. i Mr. C---- was much pleased with his appear- ance, and informed him that he would give him employ as long as they were both suited. Charles felt that Providence had opened a door whereby , ho might, by industry and economy, prepare a home for his bereft mother and grandfather. page: 76-77[View Page 76-77] 76 THE UNFORTUNATB At length the night approached, and Charles was conducted into an upper room, which was allotted him. Charles, after looking around the apartment, sat down to read a chapter in the Bi- ble which had been given him by his mother on the day of his departure, After he had finished the chapter, he knelt down in the presence of Him who hath pledged Himself that He will not turn them away empty who. ask in faith. The next morning, Charles arose with a light heart, to perform the duties which devolved upon him. In a few days he wrote a letter to his mother, in- forming her that he had been successful in getting a situation with Mr. C-- , and promised to write again at the end of the month. Days and weeks passed pleasantly with Charles, and at the end of the month he wrote a long and affectionate letter to his mother, enclosing twenty dollars. He said, "Here, mother, is a little money, which will be of some use to you;, and, before this is gone, I hope, by the blessing of God, that I shall be enabled to send you more.'" Mr. C-- was one of the first in society, and MOUNTAIN GIRL. " wished to have all around him bear an aristocratic appearance. Month after month passed on, and Mr. C-- often looked at Charles, and wondered what could bathe cause of his being so poorly clad. One day, on entering the counting-room, he found Charles alone, and then resolved to as- certain the real cause. He said, in a mild tone, "Charles, if your salary is not sufficient to supply you with fashionable apparel, I will increase it." Charles seemed greatly embarrassed, and said, "O yes, sir-amply sufficient." Mr. C-- saw that Charles was somewhat embarrassed, and left the room. Some few weeks after, Mr. C-- was obliged to leave home for the space of eight or ten days on business, leaving his affairs in charge of Charles Lewis. It was a very warm day in July, and Mr. C-- had rode many miles beneath the scorching rays of the sun, and on reaching a very respectable hotel, he called to rest awhile in the heat of the day. Mr. C- knew that Mrs. Lewis resided in this village, and after taking some refreshment, feeling a great anxiety to learn page: 78-79[View Page 78-79] 78 THE UNFORTUNATE her situ:ion, he inquired of the landlord where Mrs. Lewis resided. The landlord soon informed him, and soon he was on his way to her cottage, 'under the pretence of wishing to purchase it. On reaching the cottage, he;knocked at the door, and was accostedby amiddle aged woman, who very politelyinmvitedhium to walk in. He soon informed her of his business, and asked her if she wished to dispose of her cottago. Mrs. Lewis hesitated a moment, and then said--"I cannot give you an answer until I have consulted my son." "Your son-where is he?" "Hes a clerk for a wholesale merchant in the village :of T-- --." "What is his name?' inquired Mr. C--l "Charles Lewis," said the old woman, " and a worthy lad he is. He is all that we have to de. pend upon for our support, and I am quite sure that he send us all, or nearly all of his wages." "Charles Lewis!" said Mr. C--, appearing much surprised, ' he is my clerk." "Your clerk?'rejoined Mrs. Lewis, while her heart beat with jo at the thought of hearing, so MOUNTAIN GIRL. 79 directly from her long absent son. After a long conversation, Mr. C arose, and plning a well-filled purse into the old man's hand, said- "Here is a small sum, which may be of some use to you, if you will accept it."* The old man raising his head from his staff, while the tears stole down his withered cheek, uttered, in a tremulous tone, "May God bless you!" Mr. C---, bidding them good afternoon, re- traced his steps to the Inn, and proceeded on his journey. On reaching his home, he found that Charles had faithfully performed the duties which had been entrusted to his care. Charles had been gone from home a long time, and wishing to visit his mother, said- "Mr. C----, if it would be convenient, I should like to be absent a week or ten days." "O yes, or longer if you wish." Mr.- C--'- left the store, and on entering the room where Julia and her mother sat sewing, he' said- "So Charles is about to leave us." , , s page: 80-81[View Page 80-81] 80 THE UNFORTUNATE "' About to leave us!-Charles about to leave us!' rejoined Julia, dropping the work she had in her hands. "Yes, child; and what is there wonderful in that?" "O nothing, father, only I thought we should be rather lonesome-that's all," while her heart swelled at the thought of being separated from the object of her affection* She arose and left the room. Mr. C--- saw her emotion, and soon followed her to her room, and thus addressed -her-- "' Tell me, my child, do you love Charles?" - I never kept anything hid from you, neither will I now-I do love him sincerely ; but do not tell him for the world, for he has never told me that his love was returned." "Never mind, I will see to that," said Mr. C----, leaving the room. Soon after he re-en- tered the store, and found Charles alone. "Charles," said he, s' could you not defer your journey a week or ten days?" o O0 yes," replied Charles, or longer if you wish." MOUNTAIN GIRL. 81 "It would oblige me very much-as Julia is ' about to be married, we wish you to attend the wedding*" -"Married!-Julia to be married!" said Charles, rising from his seat, and walking the floor with rapid strides. "Yes; and what is there surprising in that?" "Nothing-O nothing, sir: rather sudden-- that is all. But indeed, sir, I cannot stay." "Why, you just said that you would." / 4 "Well, indeed, sir, I cannot. Command me in anything else, and I will obey." "' Charles," said Mr. C----," tell me frankly, do you love my daughter?" Charles was sensible that his agitation had be- trayed him, and said-- "Had I the fortune that she is worthy of, I should' think myself the happiest being on earth could I obtain her." i; Say nothing about riches, Charles-you shall have her." "Sir, I scorn to deceive you: I am poorer than you are aware: I have a mother "- ;' I know it--I know it all," interrupted Mr. 6 page: 82-83[View Page 82-83] 82 THE UNFORTUNATEJ C---.-. , I have enough to place you both be- yond want. But, as your business is so urgent, we shall have to defer the wedding, for you can- not stay." X "Beg your pardon," said Charles, daughing,) "my business .can easily be deferred, and that with pleasure." Mr. C-- soon returned to inform Julia of the conversation which had passed between him- self and Charles. At length the evening ap- peared. Charles and Julia, for the first time, confessed their love to each other, which they had so longcherished ; and speedy preparations were then made for their marriages Mr. C-a-- soon ordered a carriage to be sent for Mrs. Lewis and her aged father to attend the wedding. Mr. C--'s mansion was furnished .with the nicest and richest of everything, and that regardless of cost. At length the day for their nuptials arrived-- the aristocratic guests were assembled, and all seemed to rejoice with the happy couple. After- the marriage ceremony was performed, they par- ! MOUNTAIN ,OIRL. 83 took of the luxuries which had, been prepared for the occasion, with great satisfaction. The time passed pleasantly on, until the hour arrived for their departure, leaving the happy group to en- joy the blessings which God had bestowed upon them. Mrs. Lewis and her aged father spent the remainder of their days in the enjoyment of the society of their affectionate children. Charles and Julia proved a blessing to Mr. and Mrs. C----, and were instrumental, in the hands of God, of leading them to the fold of Christ. Reader, remember, that the Scripture says, "Seek first the kingdom of heaven and its rightl eousness, and all things shall be added unto you." Vi'l. page: 84-85[View Page 84-85] 84 THE UNFORTUNATE EVA, THE LITTLE CHRISTIAN. CHAPTER FIRST. IT was a fine morning in December, and people were going to and fro, carrying baskets of ever- greens, to dress out their windows, and to adorns their chimney pieces for the approaching Christ- mas day; others were buying or selling these in- nocent decorations, and either walking abroad for recreation and amusement, or hurrying on to their respective mansions; while not a few, of common place character, and more ordinary pursuits, were intent on their respective business, or hastening homeward to plain fireside enjoyments, in the bo- som of their less elegant, but ofttimes more happy families. Each and all of them seemed intent on some object connected with the present hour. Few or none appeared to be ruminating on the "** MOUNTAIN GIRL. ' 85 shortness of time, or the vanities of this world! Few seemed to have eternity before them, or to be aware of the interesting life and approaching death of little Eva; they entered not into her joys, nor did they partake of her sorrows. The greater part of them had never heard her name pronounced, much less did they know how the Lord was conducting her through this vale of trib- ulation toward the kingdom of heaven. But this was of no consequence. He who clothes the grass of the field, and profides for the fowls of the air, had given this child food and raiment; and having these, she was therewith content and happy; her young, but enlightened mind had been enabled to discover the pearl of great price; and her soul had grasped it as her own inestima- ble treasure. The Lord -Jesus had given unto her his peace, and the world could not increase or take it away. Hence she could well forego all the attentions and sympathies of the vain and busy tribes of men , of that world which know not God, nor love his Son Jesus Christ. After awhile we reached the dwelling of little page: 86-87[View Page 86-87] 86 THE UNFORTUNATE Eva. On entering the first room from the streeti the couch of; the sick child immediately presented itself. It had been brought into that apartment, and placed in one corner not far from the grate that she might enjoy the warmth of the fire, and the constant presence and assistance of some of the family. So far all was well. On entering the room where little Eva lay for sometime, I felt myself unable to do more than silently to gaze on the emaciated, but still sweet looking child's countenance. I could not request the family to withdraw, and while they were present, I, for a while, could say nothing. Her father at length broke in on our unprofitable silence, by saying, "Well, Eva, I have brought -a kind lady to talk to you about heaven, and about your soul and about Jesus Christ. She loves children who love their Savior." She turned her bright black eyes upon me, and smiled, and, moved her lips; but the sounds fell short, they were too faint to reach my ear. "She can only speak in ,a whisper," said her father. "You must go nearer..' MOUNTAIN GIRL. 87 I did so, and while the mother was reaching a chair, the repeated smile of little Eva's counte- nance, and the pleasing look she first cast on her father, and then on myself, spoke plain enough to this effect: "Lady, you are welcome here; I am glad of one more opportunity to hear of my dear Savior, and to tell to others that I love him." In- deed, there was not one symptom of confusion or fear about her. Her whole manner was calcua lated to do away all my hesitations and to lead me on at once to a familiar conversation. - Nor did I leave her without having cause to say to myself, "It is good for me that I have both seen and conversed with thee, thou happy and inter- esting stranger!" In the course of my conversation with this child, I learned that it was a considerable while ago since the Lord had more especially convinced her of her lost and fallen condition, as a child of Adam. She had, indeed, been a considerable time in a well-conducted Sunday School, and had received one of the first prizes, a copy of an ele- gant edition of Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, as l ' j page: 88-89[View Page 88-89] 88 THE 'UNFORTUNATE a reward for diligence and good behavior; but she did not note any particular stage of her chris- tian experience from what she read or heard there, nor did it appear that her teachers were -acquainted with what was passing within her bos som. After the Lord had, himself, convinced her of sin, and directed her soul to Christ Jesus for salvation, she became very earnest in her attend- ance on every public means of grace, and way muoh edified under the preaching of the word. Although so young, and never prompted by any one to attempt Much a thing, she had, for a good while, been in the habit of, writing down the texts and heads of most of the sermons she; heard preached. But such was her humility and her fear of being thought too highly of after her de- cease, that, not long before her death, she took the opportunity of her mother's absence, and pre- vailed on her. sister to burn all these little inters esting papers. The parent came in just time enough to see them consuming, but not in time to rescue any part of them from the devouring flames. i I shall not attempt to give the particulars of my : MOUNTAIN GIRL. 89 conversation with her. Suffice it to say, that through the whole she expressed her conviction that she should soon die--that she was a great sinner, and merited no good thing at the, hand of God :but that she believed Jesus Christ had died for her, and that she loved him, and longed to depart to be with him. I thanked the Lord that 1 had seen her-that I had beenpermitted tr, con- verse and to pray with her-that I had witnessed the power of divine grace in her soul. I was about to leave; and short as our acquaintance had been, it was found sufficiently long -to call forth ; the tear of affectionate sorrow at that moment of separation. As I'turned from her couch, to open the door, I said to myself, "Farewell, my young sister, farewell, -until we meet in an undying world, and hail each other in a kingdom-- . Unstain'd by wo, -tnchang'd by years Unlike this gloomy vale of tears." In the full assurance that she would soon be be- yond the reach of e ery pain and conflict, I felt all that is expressed in the following hymn, and I wish to express the whole as referring to little Eva: page: 90-91[View Page 90-91] 90 THE UNFORTUNATE Happy soul, thy days near ended, All thy mourning days below; Go, by angel guards attended, To the sight of Jesus go! Waiting to receive thy spirit, Lo! the Savior stands above, Show s the purchase of his merit Reaches out the crown of love. Struggle through the latest passion To thy Redeemer's breast, To his uttermost salvation, To his everlasting rest; For the joy he sets befor6 thee Bear a momentary pain, Die, to live the life of glory, Suffer. with thy Lord $o reign. CHAPTER SECOND. A FEW days after, I again called for little Eva, whom I found in the embrace of death. The family had gathered around the couch of the dy- ing christian, to receive her last and final adieu until they should meet her beyond the shores of time, to part no more. As I approached her couch, she extended her hand and said, with a smile, "My good lady, I am about to leave this MOUNTAIN GIRL. 91 world: my spirit must soon depart." I then asked her if Christ was still precious to her soul. "O yes,' she replied," I long to be with Him." She then requested all her books and trinkets to be brought down stairs; these she divided and gave to different members of the family, as to- kens of affectionate love. Her bible she now gave to her mother, with particular orders that it should never be parted with. She then gave directions about her funeral, naming the young people she wished to carry her corpse, and those she should like to attend the ceremony as pall- bearers. All this was done with as much compo- sure as any person would have made arrange, ments for a journey, or any common event of life. For many months past, her mind had been im- pressed with the conviction that she should not long continue to be an inhabitant of this lower world; and anxious, if possible, when dead, to benefit her surviving relatives, and to proclaim to the world her love to, and confidence in, Christ, she wishedto be buried in such a spot, as that her relatives might, every time they went to and i 4 page: 92-93[View Page 92-93] U THE UNFORTUNATE. from church, behold her resting place, and be re, minded of their own approaching end. ,From the same pious motive of benefitting survivors, she wished that a monumental inscription, expressive of her faith, and of the desires and feelings of her mind, might be placed overer r mouldering dust, to admonish and encourage others to seek the Lord for themselves. With this view she fi- nally chose the following lines for her epitaph: While thou, my Jesus, still art nigh, Cheerful I live, and joyful die; Secure, when mortal comforts flee, To find ten thousand worlds in thee. This done, she told those about her, that her time was drawing near-that she should soon be gone, but that she had no fear of dying. She then made several attempts to speak, but was un- able. 'After watching her some time, I then said, "My dear Eva, if you are happy-if you are satisfied that Jesus loves you, lift .up your hand." No sooner was this request made, than she raised her poor, emaciated arm in' token that she .was happy in the assurance of the love of Christ. From that- moment she lay in the arms of her gentle and good Shepherd, who carried her, in * /MOUNTAIN GIRL. 93 sweet composure, through those waters which have alarmed many an older christian than little Eva; nor did he leave her until her happy spirit had clean escaped the prison of the body, and fled to the assembly of angels, and mingled with those who compose the church triumphant above. On the Sabbath following, her body was consigned to the grave, as near as possible to the chancel door of her parish church, the spot she herself had previously fixed upon, as being the most likely to present her grave to the eyes of her brothers and sisters as they approached the house of God. The young people, whom she had cho- sen for that purpose, carried and attended her corpse to its long home, agreeably 'to her wish; and then the mourners returned to their respec- tive homes. - Thus ended the brief pilgrimage of little Eva. In the short period of thirteen years, she had run the race appointed for her; and at its conclusion we doubt not but she obtained the crown of vie, tory . , i . page: 94-95[View Page 94-95] " THE UNFORTUNATE EMMA, THE BELLE OF THE VILLAGE. I PEN the following in the language of the phy- sician who witnessed the scene: In 1832, there resided in the village of P. a very respectable farmer by the name of Hall, who had by his industry and economy accumulated a large portion of this world's goods, and in addi- tion to this he had been blessed with a family of enterp!sing children, consisting of four sons and one beautiful daughter, on whom they doted and almost idolized, which completed the happy group. Years glided pleasantly away, unattended by the ruthless hand of affliction, until Emma had bloomed into womanhood, a mild and lovely being. She was considered the belle of our village and was universally beloved for her amiable dispo- sition. Emma was now eighteen years of age, and was MOUNTAIN GIRL. 95 beloved by Eghert Cornwell, the son of a wealthy merchant, to whom her vows were plighted when but a child. Mr. Hall was much displeased with the choice of her affections, and resolved that he would use such means as he thought proper to prevent their'union. Mr. Hall, as he returned from a walk one afternoon, entered the parlor, and finding Emma alone, he seated himself upon the sofa, and after some conversation concerning Eghert, he rose from his seat in an agitated man- ner and addressed her as follows: "Emma, has Eghert been here this afternoon?'" "Yes, father, and has but just left," was the firm reply. ' ' Well, my child, let this be the last hour that you ever mingle in his society." "Why, father;" exclaimed the astounded girl, dropping the work which she held in her hand; "you are not in earnest?" Yes, my dear, and from this time I strictly forbid your corresponding with him in any way or admitting him into your comprny at any time, or under any circumstance whatever." ' \ - , page: 96-97[View Page 96-97] 9fi THE UNFORTUNATE So saying, he left the room. Emma felt that this was more than her poor heart could bear. All her future prospects of happiness were in a moment cut off, and rising from her seat, she threw herself upon the sofa, giving full vent to her feelings. From this time she secluded herself fromn all society save that of her mother, in whose presence she ever strove to assume her usual cheerfulness, but in spite of her efforts, the quick discerning eye of her mother saw and felt that the wound which had been in- flicted was fast hastening her child to an untimely grave, Emma spent many a long and sleepless night alone in her chamber, in deep meditation, now, and then giving vent to a flood of tears, un- til three months had passed heavily away. One night, after the family had retired to rest, lrs. Hall unbosomed her feyrs to her husband concern- ing the rapid change which time had wrought in Emma during the last three months. "The change ,is very great indeed," mur- mured he. "t I think we had better spend a few weeks with her at the Springs. The journey may MOUNTAIN' GIRL. 97 plove a benefit to her at least. You can mentiop the subject to her, and make such arrangements as you think proper for our departure on Tuesday next. The next morning Mrs. Hall informed her daughter of their intended journey, and desired her to be in readiness to accompany them thither, and Fmnma, resting her eyes upon her mother, said, with a tremulous voice: "I have no desire to visit the springs, and I would rather remain at home." "' Why, my child," said her mother, '"I think we could, spend a few weeks at the springs very pleasantly. Besides it is for your special benefit that your father proposed the journey." "O mother!" said Emma, while a tear glis- tened in her eye, " there are no springs that can remove the disease of my heart." "O say not so my child," interrupted her mother. "Your disease will not prove fatal, I trust, and you may again be happy." Emma could not conceal her emotion, and arose to leave the room, but was prevented by 7 page: 98-99[View Page 98-99] -98 - THE TUNFORTUNATS ter father, who at that moment opened the door, and plaoing his hand upon her shoulder he said, in an affectionate manner: "What is the cause of your weeping, my child? Are you not as well as usual?' " Yes, father," said Emma, gazing intently in her father's face. "But I have one request to make, before we visit the Springs," What is it?" asked her father anxiously. "That I may converse with Eghert but for one hour." ' "No, my child," said he, ",it would only be inflicting a wound still deeper. I can'never consent." - - Emma replied not, and with a hurried step left the room, and glided noiselessly to her chamber where ehe seated herself by an open window, to weep over her hopeless condition. The next morning, I was called to visit the daughter of Mr, and Mrs. -all, who had fallen upon the floor in a sort of fainting fit, which was tot followed by an zt h $Ore, -at the time. Owing t a preternar ity of-the nervous. -sys MOUNTATIN OItL. 99 tem,and perhaps the existence of disease which had not yet manifested itself, she had a very rest- less night. The want of sleep was followed by delirium, and in, a short time very unfavorable symptoms were developed. As is not unfrequent when the system is laboring under diseased ac- tion, even before it is discoverable by the ordi- nary indications, the mind seems to participate in the lurking mischief and is. conscious of what is about to take place. In this instance my ps& tient requested that the family should be sum- moned to her bed side, and gave me to under- stand that she thought she would not recover, be- fore I was aware of approaching danger. At the time I really had,not been able to detect anything serious in the case, and believing all that she wanted was sleep, I advised her to posts pone calling the family together until morning, with a view of preventing mental agitation, so that she might be:beneftted by the medicines giv- en to promote rest. So strong, however, was the conviction, in her owL miiidnthat she would not recover, that the ,family ir summoned to he, page: 100-101[View Page 100-101] 100 THE UTNORTUNATE bedside,where she addressed them in an affec- tionate manner, in the presence of myself and others. Then, taking each by the hand, she im- printed a long and farewell kiss upon their cheek, warning them to flee from the wrath to come, to seek the Savior with all their hearts, that they might meet her in peace. Here she paused, in- terrupted 'by her parents' lamentations, which were painful beyond description. Emma raised her eyes to her parents and said: "a My dear parents, you must not murmur, nor complain. It is the will of God that I should leave this vorld of affliction, and you must be'recon- ciled. I have nothing to hope for, and death it- self is a pleasure to me." Those words were like daggers to Mr. Hall, and falling upon his knees he earnestly begged forgiveness of his daughter for his rashness, which he sensibly felt was the cause from whence her disease first originated. His pardon was freely granted by Emma, who pointed him to the TLamb of God who taketh away the sins of the world, and earnestly besought him to seek his grace that MOUNTAIN GIRL. 101 they might yet be an unbroken family in the world to come. Then putting'her hands together, she said; "At other times, the certainty of dy- ing would fill my eyes with tears, but, now I have not a tear to shed. The uncertainty of our fu- ture condition is very awful: no one returns from the grave to tell us what is to take place hereaf- ter." An expression of regret for misspent time with a promise of improvement in the fature, closed her conversation with the family. A sup- plication to the Almighty occupied the remainder of a lucid interval. Recovering from temporary exhaustion, she proceeded in a familiar manner, but,with great earnestness;"My dear brothers, to look back eighteen years, seems a very short time indeed, but eighteen years to come seems a little eternity! But it will come round, and you and all my ac- quaintances sooner or later will arrive at the same condition I am now in. And whatever may be' the realities of the future, the Christian is als ways secure." Words ,and declarations like these from a dying page: 102-103[View Page 102-103] 102 THE UNFORTUNATE youth of eighteen years came like a thunderbolt to the heart. It was like the voice of the spirit of God upon the ear. To me it was a moment of profound tIoughtfulness and solemnity. I noted down the substance of her prayer, which followed these portentous expressions. "And now, O God, we commend ourselves to thy care, relying on the mercies and promises of Jesus Christ, to deliver us from that state of sufs fering and torment, of which we have heard, and that flame of which we have read; and to thy care and protection we commend our spirit through the merits of Jesus Christ our Savior. Amen." She then bid us all a long and final adieu, and her spirit soared to the regions of bliss. From the history of this case, we are admon- ished of the certainty of death to all living, in a manner calculated to arouse the feelings of our nature, and excite in us an enquiry as to our own condition. We are warned by it to prepare for the final issue of all created beings. Why be led away by ambition, by the love of fame, by the allurements of riches? Will wealth purchase a b MOUNTAIN GIRL.' 103 long existence, will it smoothe our passage to the grave, or 1make our repose sweet? These, are considerations which become of vital importance to every man, and if I have by this narrative con- tributed in the smallest degree to start a serious thought, or agitate a pious enquiry, my object will be attained. 'I page: 104-105[View Page 104-105] 104 THE UNFORTUNATU THE BERRY BOY. I/Ii IN the summer of 1838, Mr. Benton, on his way home from the Springs, where he had spent several weeks with- his daughter, stopped at a ho- tel in a small village to rest a while in the heat of the day. He had not been there long, when a lad about ten years of age camel up with a basket of berries, whose countenance bespoke poverty and distress. M r. Benton looked at him with an eye of compassion, and with a sort of interest, and thinking that he would lighten his load, he said: "What will you take for your berries, my little fellow?" "our cents a quart," replied the boy, while his keen black eye sparkled with joy at the thought of finding a purchaser. Mr. Benton had great'curiosity to learn ome- MOUNTAIN GIRL. 105 thing of the young stranger's history, and said inquiringly, "Do you go to school?" "No sir," said the boy. "I used to go before my mother died, but now it is all I can do to sup- port my poor blind grandfather." "Have you no father?" "O no, he died some years before my mother," said the boy, while the tears ran down his cheeks. "What do you do for a livelihood?" asked Mr. Benton, while his heart moved with sympathy for him. "I saw wood, pick berries, go on errands, or anything else I can get to do." "You are' a fine fellow," said Mr. Benton, "but I will not take your berries, for you can sell them to some one else, and here is five dollars which will lighten your burden a little. The boy looked at him with amazement, for he had never before in his possession that amount of money, and he hardly knew how to express his gratitude, but after thanking him over and over . . . page: 106-107[View Page 106-107] 106 THE UNFORTUNATE again, he went Lounding away like a dancing feather. Mr. Benton watched the movements of the lad aud sooi saw him enter a small cottage where sat his grandfather, leaning upon his staff, and after carefully depositing his treasure in the hands of the old veteran, he immediately set out with his berries, Mr. Benton then resolved to befriend the poor orphan, and assist him in getting an ed. ucation. In a few days after he reached home he put his resolution into practice, and immedie ately prepared a subscription paper for the benefit of the poor orphan boy. He signed ten dollars, and being a man who exerted great influence in society, in a few days he had enough signed to accomplish his design. Mr. Benton accord. ingly enclosed the money in a letter addressing it to Simon Powell, for this was the name of the or- phan. I will not pretend to describe the joy , which the 'reception of that letter occasioned the poverty stricken heart, although his affectionate grandfather had but a few' days since been con. veyed to the silent tomb. I will only say that MOUNTAIN GIRL. 107 the money was carefully managed and Simon ob. tained a liberal education. When he was,about eighteen years of age, he let himself as a clerk to Mr. Saxe, a wholesale merchant. By his in- dustry, hdnesty and uprightness, he gained the esteem of both Mr. and Mrs. Saxe, and having no children of their own, he soon became their adopted son, and was now known by the name of Simon P. Saxe. Three years passed pleasantly away, but ere the fourth autumn appeared, Mr. 13axe was numbered with the silent dead. His death was lamented by all, especially by the poorer class, for he was a very charitable man, and no beggar ever left his dwelling without finding some relief. All business was nov left in the hands of Simon P. Saxe, who managed it with such care and prudence, as to add a handsome sum yearly to his now large estate. One evening in September, as Simon was read. ing the advertisements which are always more or less in a paper, his eyes rested upon the' well known name of Mr. Benton stating that his whole establishment was to be sold at auction for debt on the seventh of October. Simon now felt that page: 108-109[View Page 108-109] 108 THE UNIORTUNATE it was in his power to befriend him, and resolved that he would. At length the day appeared, and men of different classes were upon the ground viewing the premises with great interest. Among the rest was Simon P. Saxe. At one o'clock the sale commenced, and to the surprise of all, the whole establishment was struck off to Simon P. Saxe. He then entered the house with Mr. Ben- ton to survey his property. Mr. Benton invited him into the parlor. and in- troducing him to Mrs. and Miss Amelia Benton, said: "This is the gentleman who now owns this es- tablishment." At this, Amelia burst into tears, for she could not conceal her emotion. Simon was much affected by her grief, for he too had tasted the cup of bitter sorrow, and turn- ing to Mr. Benton he said: ' Sir, do you remember the poor orphan boy, whom you befriended some fourteen years ago?" Mr. Benton, hesitated a few moments, and then said, "yes, but I should never have thought of it again." MOUNTAN GIRL.' 109 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 109 ' Well, I am that person, it was by your as- sistance that I obtained an education. I then re- solved by the grace of God, that I would repay you for that act of kindness, and as Providence would have it, I am now enabled to befriend you. I well know your misfortunes. You will not be under the necessity of moving a single article, for I have purchased this stand for the purpose of giving you ample time to redeem it." Mr. Benton and family were overcome with joy, and could not express their gratitude, and all wept convulsively. Simon could but weep with the overjoyed family. As soon as he could collect himself, he sat down and related his history from the time that Mr. Benton met him as a berry boy at the hotel, until the present. After much persuasion, he spent the night with them very pleasantly. From that time he paid his addresses to Miss Amelia Ben- ton, who in less than a year was made the happy bride .of Simon P. Saxer He then removed her to his place of residence, where they passed many years in happiness with the bereft widow. . page: 110-111[View Page 110-111] ;110 THE UNFORTUNATE THE LOVER'S SOLILOQUY. Her form was like the aspen leaf That flutters in the wind, Her presence turned away the grief That preyed upon my mind. Children of happiness were we, Joy from our eyes did gleam, But happiness is not for me, Alas! 'twas but a dream. Her hair in silken ringlets twined Around a brow of pearl; Her manners gentle and refined-- A pleasant happy girl. We played, we roamed together-- So happy did we seem; Oh! shall it be forever? Ah, no! 'tis but a dream. Fair Luna's rays were peeping Through my window shutter, Ah! 1 have been a sleeping, My heart is in a flutter. The dream of life is fleeting, And all will soon be o'er; !But while our hearts are beating, We ask for nothing more. MOUNTAIN GIRL. ll1 THE BROKEN-HEARTED GIRL. THE sun had shed its last rays over the earth, when Edward pressed his lips to the forehead of the beautiful and gentle hearted girl for the last time. "My dear Emily, you will think of me when far away," said he, holding her trembling hand in his, "but then three years will soon pass: and then dear Emily we will meet beneath this shade where we have spent many happy hours in our childhood, and again renew our vows for life." Yes, Edward,"i'said Emily, " bu,t'something whispers in my ear, that your vows will soon be forgotten, and another save me shall be called your bride." "O fie I Emily, away with such maiden fear3 Ere I prove untrue to you, the sun shall cease to page: 112-113[View Page 112-113] "2 THE UNFORTUNATE rise and set. But the boat is in view and I must away." He again pressed her to his bosom, they ex- changed a kiss, and parted as all lovers part. Emily stood in breathless silence as she watched her lover until his form was ldst in the distance. She returned home and sought her chamber, where she spent the night in bitter tears giving way to fear and doubt. A year had passed, and Emily had received three letters-the first a long and affectionate one sealed with a kiss; the second a cold and' ceremo- nial one; and the third blighted poor Emily's hopes forever. Her fears were now realized. His vows were forgotten and again plighted to another. Poor Emily's heart was chilled by the piercing blast; the rose gradually faded from her cheek; and ere the chilling winds of autumn had unrobed the trees of their green foliage, she had fallen a prey to disease. Slowly and painfully the knowledge of her lover's infidelity came over the sensitive heart. She sought for a time to shut out the horrible suspicion from her mind, MOUNTAIN GIRL. 113 she half doubted the evidence of her own senses; she could not believe that he was a traitor, for her memory had treasured every token of his affec- tion, every impassioned word, and every endear- ing smile of his tenderness. But the truth came at last; the doubtful spectre wlich had long haunted her, and from which she had turned away, as if it were sin to look upon it, now stood before her, a dreadful and unspeakable reality. There was one burst of passionate tears, the over- flow of that fountain of affliction which quenches the last ray of hope. As I approached the quiet and secluded dwel- ling of the once happy Emily, I found the door of the little parlor thrown open, and a female voice, of a sweetness that could hardly be said to belong to earth, stole out upon the soft summer air. It was like the breathings of an Eolian lute to the gentlest visitation of the zephyr. Invol- untarily I paused to listen, and these words-I shall never forget them--came upon my ear like the low and melancholy music which we sometimes hear in dreams; 8 \ page: 114-115[View Page 114-115] "4 . THB UNOORTUNAT1O Oh--no--I do not fear to die, For Hope and Truth are bold, And life is but a weariness, And earth is strangely cold-, In view of death's pale solitude, My spirit hath not mourned- 'Tis kinder than forgotten love, Or friendship unreturned! &c. It was the voice of Emily-it was her last song. She was leaning on the sofa as I entered the apartment-her thin white hand rested on her forehead. She rose 'and welcomed me with a melancholy smile. It played over her features for a moment, flushing her cheek with a slight and sudden glow, and then passed away, leaving in its stead the wanness and mournful beauty of the dying. It has been said that death is always terrible to look upn. But to the stricken Emily, the pres- ence of the destroyer was like the ministration of an angel of light and holiness. She was passing off to the land of spirits like the melting of a sunset cloud into the blue of Heaven--stealing from existence like the strain of ocean music, when it dies away slowly and sweetly upon thb moonlight waters. MOUNTAIN OIRL. 115 A few days after I stood by the grave of Emily. The villagers had gathered together, one and all, to pay the tribute of respect and affection to the lovely sleeper. They mourned her loss with a sincere and deep emotion-they marvelled that one so beloved should yield herself up to melan" choly, and perish in the spring time of her exist- ence. But they knew not the hidden arrow that rankled in her bosom-4be slow and secret with- ering of her heart. She had borne the calamity with silence-in the uncomplaining quietude of one, who felt that there are woes which may not ask for sympathy-7afflictions which, like the can. ker concealed in the heart of some fair blossoms, are discovered only by the untimely decay of their victim. I have been this evening to the grave of Emily. And when I kneel above the narrow mansion of one whom I have known and loved in life, I feel a strange assurance that the spirit of the sleeper is near me, a viewless and ministering angel. It is a beautiful philosophy which has found its way, , I page: 116-117[View Page 116-117] "6 THE UNFORTUNAMT unsought for and mysteriously, into the silence of my heart; and if it be only a dream, the unreal imagery of fancy, I pray God that I may never wake from the beautiful delusion. ili.. MOUNTAIN GIRL. 117 ',' THE EARLY GRAVES. . , ! MB. ASHLAND, who resided in the town of P--, was by no means wealthy, but was con- sidered a comfortable liver. He had a daughter, an only child, who was a great favorite with her associates, and was considered by all the belle in the village of P--. No ride, visit or dance could pass pleasantly, unless the gentle-hearted Ella Ashand formed one of the guests. She had, by her mild and amiable disposition, won the heart of James Wilson, a school-mate of hers who had ever cherished the warmest affection for her. Mr. Wilson was a proud, aristocratic man, and was by no means pleased with the growing affec- tion in the hearts of the young people. One beautiful morning in the month of August, Mr. Wilson resolved that he would seek an inter. view with James, and ascertain, if possible,. how page: 118-119[View Page 118-119] "8 T UNFORTUNATE matters stood between him and Ella Ashand. As soon as breakfast was over, he accordingly turned to James and said, "My son, I would like to talk with you awhile." Leading the way to his room, James reluctantly followed, well knowing from what cause this in- terview proceeded. On reaching his room, they seated themselves upon a sofa beside the window, while the cool, fresh breeze gently, played through the rustling vines which twined about the window. "James," said Mr. Wilson, "I have taken this opportunity to conrverse with you upon the subject of matrimony, and learn if possible what peculiarities there are about Miss Ashand that you should pay your addresses entirely to her." Well, father, since you have expressed a de- sire to know, I will tell you. Ella is very indus- trious, possessing a generous heart, a noble mind and a lovely disposition, which has won my affec- tions." "Won your affectiorn!" interrupted his father, "then you really intend to marry a farmer's daughter, do you?" MOUNTAIN GIRL. 119 "I do," said James emphatically. "Well, James, as you regard the wishes of your parents, I wish you would forsake the soci. ety of Ella Ashand, and pay your addresses to Miss Imogen Cornwell, who belongs to an aristo- cratic family. Besides, she will have a fortune with her." "Well, father, I do not think that happiness consists in aristocracy; for my part I had rather have a fortune in a heart than with one." "Well, James," said Mr. Wilson, rising from his seat, while his cheeks flushed with anger, "if you persist in marrying Ella Ashand, you must not expect to find a home with me, for I will en- birely disown you.'? James seemed somewhat puzzled at this denun- ciation, not knowing how Mr. Ashand might feel upon the subject, but resolved that he would know the worst, and immediately set out for his dwell- ing. On reaching his house he found Mr. Aesh land in the garden, who met him as hd approached, with a. cheerful smile, and invited him to take a eat in the arbor. James accordingly sat down, page: 120-121[View Page 120-121] 20 THE UNFORTUNATE and mustering all his courage, commeneed the subject, telling him of the conversation which had passed between him and his father, respecting his marriage. Mr. Ashand remained silent a few moments, then rising from his seat. he said: "Well, James, if this is your choice, you may have a home here, although I am not wealthy like your father, but I have enough to make us all comfortable."' This was more than James had anticipated, and after expressing his gratitude to Mr. Ashand for his kindness, they both entered the house. The day for their nuptials was appointed, and every preparation was made for the occasion which would add to the happiness of the fair couple. Time swiftly glided and the appointed day ar- rived, and found the intended bride on her death bed. * It was a beautiful mnorning in September. About, nine o'clock she revived, and calling her friends around her bed, she addressed them as follows: "My dear friends, I am about to leave'you, MOUNTAIN GIRL. 121 and that in a short time. I have only to regret that I have not set a better example before my friends and associates, but I wish to be forgiven by them all, even as God has for Christ's sake forgiven me. And now let me entreat you to pre- pare to meet your-God in, peace. Life is uncer- tain; but one week ago I was in the bloom of health, and now mv soul will be in the spirit land ore the sun shall set." Then taking her lover by the hand, she placed in it a lock which had been severed from her glossy hair, with a Bible, and said, "O James, may this be a star of light which will guide you to the fold of Christ." ,She then bid them all farewell, until they should meet at the judgment seat of Christ, and in a few moments her spirit was wafted on angels' wings to the realms of eternal bliss. Poor James was not prepared for this heavy and unexpected blow, he had hoped for pleasure; but alas how soon were his hopes blighted,. In one short day-ah! who can tell? James now felt that he had no friend to whom he could * ,", , 11 page: 122-123[View Page 122-123] 122 TEE UMNORTUNATE unbosom his sorrow, but unto Him who heareth in secret, and from that hour he sought an interest in Christ. In a few days after her death, he resolved that he would fit himself for a missionary, and in a short time he left for college. But it seems that this was not the office which he was designed to fill, for he had scarcely been there one month when he was taken with a disease of the heart, which carried him down to the grave. He was then removed to his home, where he lived but two weeks after his return. . During his illness, he talked much about Ella Ashand, and often requested them to read to him in the Bible she gave him. One pleasant evening in November, the family of Mr. Wilson was alarmed by the cry-.; James is dying." They thronged around his bed and wept. James seemed unconscious of what was passing for some time, then opening his glassy eyes, and looking around him, he said, "Do not weep for me, but prepare to meet-me imHeaven." MOUNTAIN GamL. 123 He then gave his favorite Bible to his sister, saying, "' Put your trust in God, and be guided by the precepts which are contained in this precious book." He then imprinted a kiss upon each cheek, and still holding his father by the hand, he said, "Father, I have one request to ask of you, that I may be laid by the side of Ella Ashand, and that my monument may be precisely like hers. Also, I wish you to place at the head of our graves, a weeping willow. Then turning to his afflicted mother, he said, with a smile, "O mother, I am going home," and closed his eyes in death. Mr. Wilson felt that this was the most trying scene he had ever been called to pass through. The funeral sermon of James Wilson and Ella Ashand, were both preached by G. G. White. H There was not one dry eye among the whole con- I gregation, which consisted of over four hundred. As we have said before, they were both great a favorites among their associates, and every, hear;t f, - ' ' * page: 124-125[View Page 124-125] 124 THE UNFORTUNATE was bereft at their loss, and could sympathise with the afflicted families. James was laid, according to his request, by the side of his intended, and the monuments of the two lovers are placed upon the graves, with a weeping willow at the head. Now they are united On Canaan's bright shore, Rejoicing with Saints Who have passed on before. * A - t - l MOUNTAIN GIRL. 125 THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGERS. ABOUT fifty years ago, a post chaise was a sight more novel in the little hamlet of Dresden, than silk gowns in country churches during the maiden. hood of our great-grandmothers; and as onb drew up at the only public house in the village, the inhabitants, old and young, startled by the unusual and merry sound of its wheels, hurried to the street. The landlady, on the first notice of its approach, had hastily bestowed upon her goodly person the additional recommendation of a clean cap and apron; and, still tying the apron strings, ran bustling to the door, smiling, coloring and courtesying and coloring again, to the yet un- opened chaise. Poor soul! she knew not well how to behave-it was an epoch in her annals of inn-keeping. At length, the coachman, opening the door, handed out a lady in widow's weeds; a beautiful * ' .' page: 126-127[View Page 126-127] 126 THE UNFORTUNATE golden-haired child, apparently not exceeding three years of age, was assisted to the ground and grasped her extended hand. "What an image o' beauty!" exclaimed some half dozen of by- standers, as the fair child lifted her lovely face of smiles to the eyes of her mother. The lady stepped feebly towards the inn, and though the landlady's heart continued to practice a sort of fluttering motion, which communicated a portion of its agitation to her hands, she waited upon her unexpected and unusual guests with a kindliness and humility that fully recompensed for the ex- pertness of a practical waiter. About half an hour after the arrival of her vis- itors, she was seen bustling from the door, her face, as the villagers said, bursting with impor- tance. They were still standing in groups about their doors, and in the middle of the little street, discussing the mysterious arrival; and as she hastened on her mission, she was assailed with a dozen such questions as these---"Who is that air body?" "Who brought her here?" "' What's she arter?" But to those and sundry other in^ MoUNTArIN GIRL. 127 terrogatories, the important hostess gave for ans swer: "I have no time to tell you." She stopped at a small, but certainly genteel house in the vili lage, occupied by a Mrs. Dustan, who was a very nice respectable lady, and the widow of a Metho- dist minister. In the summer season, Mrs. Dus- tan lot out her little parlor to lodgers, who visited the village to seek health, or for a few weeks' re- tirement. She was compelled to do this from the narrowness of her circumstances. In a few minutes, Mrs. Dustan, in a clean cap, a muslin handkerchief round her neck, a quilted black bombazine gown, and snow white apron, followed the landlady to the inn. In a short time she returned, the stranger lady leaning upon her arm, and the lovely child leaping like a young lamb before them. Days and weeks passed away, and the good people of Dresden, notwithstanding all their sur- mises and inquiries, were no wiser regarding their new visitor; all they could learn was, that she was the widow of a young general, who was one of the first that fell when Britain interfered with 4 page: 128-129[View Page 128-129] 128 THB UNFORTUNATE the French Revolution: and the mother and her child became known in the village by the designa- tion of "Mrs. Dustan's two pictures "-an appel. lation bestowed on them in reference to their beauty. The beautiful destroyer, however, lay in the mother's heart, now paling her cheeks like the early lily, and again scattering over them the rose and the rainbow. Still dreaming of recovery, about six months after her arrival in Dresden, death stole over her like a sweet sleep. It was only a few moments before the angel hurled the fatal shaft, that the truth fell upon her soul. She was stretching forth her hand to her work-basket, her lovely child was prattling by her knee, and Mrs. Dustan smiling like a parent upon both, striving to conceal a tear while she smiled, when the breathing of her fair guest became difficult, and the rose which a moment before bloomed up- on her countenance, vanished in a fitful streak. She flung her feeble arms around the neck of her child, who now wept upon her bosom, and ex- claimed, "Oh! my Parthena, who will protect you now-my poor, poor orphan '" MOUNTAIN GIRL. 129 Mrs. Dustan sprang to her assistance. She said she had much to tell, and endeavored to speak; but a gurgling sound only was heard in her throat; she panted for breath; the rosy streaks, deepening into blue, came and went'upon her cheeks, like the midnight dances of the nor- thern lights; her eyes flashed with a momentary brightness more than mortal, and the spirit fled. The fair: orphan still clung to the neck, and kissed the yet warm lips of her dead mother. As yet she was too young to see, all the dreari- ness of the desolation around her; but she was indeed an orphan in the most cruel meaning of the word. Her mother had preserved a mystery over her sorrows and the circumstances of her life, which Mrs. Dustan had never endeavored to penetrate. And now she was left to be as a mother to the helpless child, for she knew not if she had another friend; and all she had heard of the mother's history was recorded on the humble stone which she placed over her grave-"Here resteth the lifeless form of Angeline Baker, wid- ow of General Baker: she died amongst us a stranger, but beloved." I 9 page: 130-131[View Page 130-131] 130 THE UNFORTtUNATE The whole property to which the fair orphan became heir by the death of her mother did not amount to fifty pounds, and amongst the property no document'was found which could throw any light upon who were her relatives, or if she had any. But the heart of Mrs. Dustan had already adopted her as a daughter; and, circumscribed as her circumstances were, she trusted that He who provided food for the very birds of heaven would provide the orphan's morsel. Years rolled on, and Paithena Baker grew in stature and in beauty, the pride of her protector, and the joy of her age. But the infirmities of years grew upon her foster mother, and disabling her from following her. habits of industry, stern want entered her happy cottage. Still Parthena appeared only as a thing of joy, contentment and gratitude; and often did her evening song be- guile her aged friend's sigh into a smile. And to better their hard lot, she hired herself to watch a few sheep upon the neighboring hills, to the steward of a gentleman named Comstock, who, about the time of her mother's death, had pure- MOUNTAIN GIRL. " chased the estate of Dresden. He was but little beloved, for he was a hard master, and a bad bus- band; and more than once he had been seen at the hour of midnight, in the silent churchyard, standing over the grave of Mrs. Baker. This gave rise to not a few whisperings respecting the birth of poor Parthena. He had no children, and a nephew who resided in his house was un- derstood to be his heir. Arnold Comstock was about two years older than our fair orphan, and ever as he could escape the eye of his uncle he would fly to the village, and seek out Parthena as a playmate. And now, while she tended the few sheep, he would steal round the hills, and placing himself by her side, teach her the lesson he had that day been taught, while his arm in innocence rested on her neck, their glowing cheeks touched each other, and her golden curls played around them. Often were their peaceful lessons broken by the harsh voice and blows of his uncle. But still Arnold stole to the presence of his playmate and pupil, until he had; completed his sixteenth year; when he was to page: 132-133[View Page 132-133] 132 THE UNFORTUNATE leave Dresden preparatory to entering the army, He was permitted to take a hasty farewell of the villagers, for they all loved the boy ; but he went only to the cottage of Mrs. Dustan. As he en- tered, Parthena wept and he also burst into tears. Their aged friend beheld the yearnings of a young passion that might terminate in sorrow; and ta- king his hand she prayed God to prosper him and bade him farewell. She was leading him to the door, when Parthena raised her tearful eyes; he beheld them and read their meaning, and, leap- ing forward, threw his arms round her neck, and printed the farewell kiss on her forehead! "Do not forget me, Parthena," he cried, and hurried from the house. Five years from this period passed away. The lovely girl was now transformed into the elegant woman, in the summer majesty of her beauty. For two years Parthena had kept a school in the vil- lage, to which her gentleness and winning man- ners drew prosperity ; and her grey-haired bene. factress enjoyed the reward of her benevolence. Preparations were making at Dresden Hall for MOUNTAIN GIRL. 133 the reception of Arnold, who was now returning as Major Comstock. A post chaise in the village had then become a sight less rare; but several cottagers were assembled before the inn to wel- come the young lord. He arrived, and with him a gentleman between fifty and sixty years of age. They had merely become acquainted as travelling companions; and the stranger being on his way northward had accepted his invitation to rest at his uncle's for a few days. The footpath to the Hall lay through the churchyard, about a quarter of a mile from the village. It was a secluded path, and Parthena was won't to retire to it be- tween school hours, and frequently to spend a few moments in silent meditation over her mother's grave. She was gazing upon it, when a voice ar- rested her attention, saying, "Parthena-Miss Baker!" The speaker was Major Comstock, accompanied by his friend. To the meeting of the young lovers we shall' add nothing. But the elder stran. ger gazed on her face and trembled, and looked on her mother's grave and wept. '; Baker!" he page: 134-135[View Page 134-135] 184 THE UNFORTUNATE repeated, and read the inscription on the humble stone, and again gazed on her face, and again weptL "Lady!" he exclaimed, " pardon me-what was the name of your mother?--who the family of your father? Answer me, I implore you!" "Alas! I know neither," said the astonished, and now unhappy Parthena. "My name is Baker," cried the stranger; "I had a wife-I had a daughter once, and my Ans geline's face was thy face!" While he yet spoke, the elder Comstock drew near to meet his nephew. His eyes and the stranger's met. "Comstock!" exclaimed the stranger, starting. "The same," replied the other, his brow, black- ening like thunder, while a trembling passed over his body. He rudely grasped the arm of his nephew, and hurried him awavy. The interesting stranger accompanied Parthena to the house of Mrs. Dustan. Painful were the enquiries; for while they kindled hope and assu- rance, they left all in uncertainty. MOUNTAIN GIRL. 135 "Oh, sir," said Mrs. Dustan, " if you are the father of my blessed child, I do nbt wonder at old Comstock's coloring when he saw you, for, when poverty compelled Parthena to watch his sheep by the hill side, and the dear child would be read. ing in her bible like a little angel, and the sheep were feeding near her, that hard-hearted wretch would creep softly to her side, and grasping the precious book would hurl it from him uttering oaths too terrible to mention. But the nephew was a fine young man and often sought the society of my child." X Eagerly did the stranger, who gave his name as Gen. Baker, watch the fair being who had con- jured up the sunshine of his youth. One by one, he was weeping and tracing every remembered feature of his wife upon her face; when doubt again entered his mind, and he exclaimed in bit- terness- "Merciful Heaven! convince me! 04, convince me that I have found my child!"The ,few articles that had belonged to Mrs. Baker had been parted with in the depth of -her poverty. At that moment Major Comstock hastily en,- page: 136-137[View Page 136-137] 186 THE UNFORTUNATE tered the cottage. He stated that his uncle had left the hall, and delivered a letter from him to Gen. Baker. It was of few words, and as fol- lows: MR. BARER, SIR: We were rivals for Ange- line's love-you were made happy and I misera- ble. But I have not been unrevenged, It was I who betrayed you into the hands of the enemy. It was I who reported you dead--who caused the tidings to be hastened to your widowed wife. It was I who poisoned the ear of her friends, until they cast her off-I dogged her to her obscurity, that I might enjoy my triumph; but death thwarted me asrou had done. Yet I will do one act of mercy--she sleeps beneath the grave where we met yesterday; and the lady before whom you wept-is your own daughter. He threw down the letter, and exclaimed- "My child! my long lost child!"And in speech- less joy, the father and the daughter rushed to each other's arms. Shall we add more? The elder Comstock left his native land, which he never again disgraced with his presence. Arnold and Parthena wan- dered by the hill-side in bliss, catching love and MOUNTAIN GIRL. 137 recollections from the scene. In a few months her father bestowed on him her hand, and Mrs. Dustan, in joy and pride, bestowed upon both her blessings. il page: 138-139[View Page 138-139] 138 THE UNFORTUNATE THE GREAT LEVEE, OR THE UNEXPECTED WEDDING. CHAPTER FIRST* IN a neat, but unpretending parlor of a small o house in one of our villages, was assembled a hap- py family, consisting of father, mother, a lovely daughter of thirteen, and two boys younger than the girl around whom they clustered, as she knit the last stich in the two pairs of mittens, which they were to wear for the first time, on the more row. - - "Well, wife," observed the husband gaily, ;'I b have this day made up the seven hundred dollars, to purchase our wild farm in the West. But, in- deed, although we have earnestly looked forward to this day, I must confess, that I feel my heart shrinking from the many hardships which we must pndure." MOUNTAIN GIRL. 139 a Never heed them for a moment," replied the cheerful wife, "we are well, and full of hope and' resolution. We will not shrink from the few years * of toil and hardship which will secure ease and plenty to ourselves and children, the remainder of our lives." "' But, Hannah," resumed the husband, "I fear that our boys will have no opportunities of acquir- a ing education, for the lack of which, neither lands nor money can be sufficient compensation." "There, you are borrowing trouble again, James; Jane is capable of instructing her broth- ers in all useful learning, until they are old enough to go from home, to some good institution." "Our Jane is 'indeed a treasure "-and the, father's face glowed with pride as he spoke--"and it does seem that knowledge is hers by intuition. To think of all the branches that she hasmastered; % and the French and Greek language, too; and r then her drawings are sh beautiful. O!. she will i be a treasure to us and a wonder in the new set- I tlement, and who knows but that she may become the wife of some great statesman yet?" page: 140-141[View Page 140-141] "O THE UNFORTUNATE At this suggestion, even the hopeful mother looked thoughtful, and sighed as she gazed upon her fair daughter s But it was arranged that they should take up their line of march early in the spring, for that land of promise, the far West. Having suffered them to remain about two years in their new location, we will just look in upon them as we pass through the fertile wastes in the vicinity of the now flourishing town of Newport. Remember, reader, we are reviewing the scenes of the past eight years. Well, here is a little log cabin in the centre of a small stubble field, which has apparently fielded a fine crop of wheat, though it now has its peculiar look of desolation, This is the home of our friend, James Gilbert. We will look in upon him. There seems but lit- tle comfort in this small dwelling, with but two rooms on the ground, and a garret-like chamber; with furniture such as the new settlers substitute for the costly elegance which they could not transport, and which would be sadly out of place in log cabins. We arrived at a very sad crisis. Mr. Gilbert MOUNTAIN GIRL. 141 lay on his humble bed very sick with a fever. Poor Hannah looked weary and care-worn. She was attending to her afflicted husband and cook- i ing dinner. The youngest of the boys they brought with them was sitting listlessly by the fire, pale and emaciated by the fever, from which he was just recovering. Indeed, it would seem that they had already paid a high price for years of independence and honor, if such are really in store for them. The sick man's eyes wandered from the patient wife to the suffering child, and i the tears stole down his burning cheeks. An el- egant carriage stopped in front of the cottage , door, and a lady alighted, in the most showy and expensive dress possible. Mrs. Gilbert meantime prepared to welcome the stranger, who entered with an air of proud condescension, and an- nounced herself as the daughter of Gen. Mayfield. I "I was informed that you have a daughter," !I said the fine lady, addressing Mrs. Gilbert. 1 "(I have," was Mrs. G.'s reply. "Is she at home now?" inquired the lady. "She will be in presently," said Mrs. G*; "would you like to see her?" A+ / i page: 142-143[View Page 142-143] "2 THE UNFORTUNATV "Yes," replied Miss Mayfield. "I would like to see her before I make my proposals. We have found it very difficult to get a good girl. I pre- salme we have had some dozen or fifteen in the past year and were glad to get rid of every one of them. Some were so ignorant, and some so lazy; others careless ; but; the worst fault -of this class of girls is, they are so impudent and assuming. They will behave just as if they thought them- selves quite as good as their employers, and if we do not treat them with the .utmost courtesy, they will leave us, no mat-ter in how -much of a diffi-4 culty.- The girl who left us this morning was highly recommended to me, but she would not stay, unless she couldi sit with us at table, though she said she did not expect to sit down when we had company, but she would not eat in the kitch- en with the colored servants*. But then she is a daughter of a once wealthy gentleman in Boston, and has an elegant education, and is so very fond of reading. Now., servants ought not to read at all. The less book learning they have, the better drudges they are. Educated girls have such lofty notions of themselves, and some of them * * . . MOUNTAIN GIRL. 143 really pretend to romance. Indeed, it is enough to disgust one. But I am informed that your husband was only a poor mechanic before he came here, and so I hopel that your daughter has no important airs and delicate accomplishments." This oration was so volubly delivered, that Mrs. * Gilbert could not interpose a word; and just at , this moment, Jane and her eldest brother entered the house, carrying between them a basket of ' i vegetables, which they had been gathering in the I field. Jane had on a pretty red sun bonnet- and I dark gingham dress, and her sweet, intellectual face was glowing with her over exertion, and she appeared truly beautiful.' Miss M. surveyed her with a disdainful air, as Mrs. G. presented her daughter. , "I am afraid she willmake but an indifferent kitchen maid," observed Miss M. "However, as we are entirely destitute of help, I will give her a trial.; but cannot promise to give her great wages at first. We willIgive her four shilling the first week, and then, if she suits us, we will increase her wages." ', , e page: 144-145[View Page 144-145] "4 THE UNFORTUNATE Indeed, Miss M.," began-Mrs. Gilbert. "Oh, I assure you," interrupted the lady, s I cannot offer her a cent more - She is so very small and delicate looking." 4 "Miss!" exclaimed Mr. Gilbert, raising him- self in bed, "if you will permitlme to speak, I will settle this affair at once.' My daughter is not obliged to work out for a livelihood, and if she was, I will take the liberty to say, that she should never work in your kitchen. People of your way of thinking should- look out for colored servants." "' Indeed!" retorted the lady, rising from her seat with an air of contempt. "Your daughter may yet be glad to work in our kitchen."' And the lady departed with great indignation. "Who ever saw such important creatures? and in such low circumstances, too," ejaculated Miss Mayfield, as the driver turned homeward. ," I hope that girl will be obliged to beg for a liw ing, since she is too good to work,--which she un- doubtedly will before another year rolls round. I think ladies will be compelled to do their own I'H MOUNTAIN GIRL. 145 work soon, poor people are becoming so ilnolentli, and exacting." But was Jane Gilbert compelled to beg before another year? We think not, for six months from that time found the family all well and full of hope. CHAPTER SECOND. "DEAR me," drawled Miss Sophia, as she floated affectedly into Mrs, Mayfield's dashy par- lor, "Would you believe it? Jane Gilbert is now a teacher in' the Academy, of music and drawing, and they say her drawings are beauti- ful." At that moment the door bell rat, and a ser. i vant announced that Mr. Warner and his sister i wished to see Miss Mayfield at the door. A mo- -ment, and Sophia stood before her welcome guests, and after the usual compliments, the gentleman very politely invited her to call with them on Miss page: 146-147[View Page 146-147] "6 ^ THE UNFORTUNATE Gilbert, saying, "I am informed that she is very- beautiful, and plays the piano elegantly." So, phia's eyes flashaecwith indignation, and her lip curled with scorn as these words fell from her lover's lips. "You are really in love before seeing her," ejaculated the jealous-hearted girl. "0 no!" said her lover, laughing; "' but I should like to hear her play. "Yes," rejoined Miss Warner, " "you know Hubert is very fond of music, and they say she has a melodious voice. But come, let us away and judge for ourselves."' Miss Mayfield reluctantly consented and they soon were on their way. Not a word escaped -the lips of Sophia during their walk, but she lis- tened with disgust to the conversation which pasy sed between Mr. Warner and his sister until they had reached' the place of their destination. A rap was heard at the door. A servant appeared and very politely ushered them into a neat little parlor; where sat Miss Gilbert at the piano and Mr, La Roy at her side, Miss Gilbert rose some- MOUNTAIN GIRL. 147 what embarrassed at the unexpected arrival, but, with an air of gentility and refinement, received the aristocratic guests. After some conversation ---"Miss Gilbert," said Mr. Warner, " we would be highly delighted to hear a tune on the piano." She politely declined, but the invitation being re- peated, she assented, and a triumphant smile pas- sed over the features of the preceptor as she ad- vanced to take her seat. Mr. Warner and his sister listened with great satisfaction to her bird- like voice, while Miss Mayfield's heart burned with envy and hatred, as she watched the grace- ful movements of the admirable Miss Gilbert. Time flew rapidly, and when an hour had pas- sed, it seemed but a moment with Hubert. "That is indeed beautiful," said Miss Warner as the music ceased. It was now nine o'clock, and the guests took their departure, leaving Mr. Le Roy and Miss qilbert to themselves. ! page: 148-149[View Page 148-149] "8 THE UNPORTUNATE CHAPTBR TH'RD. "Miss Gilbert is indeed beautiful and plays the piano forte elegantly and her drawings are said to be the nicest in these parts yet! She is only the daughter of a mechanic, and it must be that Mr. Le Roy has uncommon regard for her, or he would not honor her with sa levee;" said M3iss Mayfield, addressing her mother, as she seated herself by a half-open window one beauti- ful May morning. ! "Is it possible that the levee is to be for the benefit of that little upstart?"' said Mrs. Mays field with an air of disdain. "I presume the foolish girl will expend the last cent to decorate her person with finery in hopes she may make a favorable impression on the heart of Mr. Le Roy." "Yes! I dare say the little Miss indulges a hope that she may yet become his bride! but he is too proud-spirited to pay his addresses to a poor girl like Miss GSilbert, I assure you 1" said Miss Mayfield haughtily. N.4 UUNaIL uA L.LN , .I:t1:7 ,At that moment, the door opened, and an aris- tocratic lady was ushered into the room, who pri- ded herself on having the most refined and sen- timental daughter in the village ; for Mrs. Elford had often prefaced her demands for money with the information that Augusta's taste was so re-, fined, and her mind so exceedingly sensitive, that she positively could not bear contradiction. "Good morning Mrs. Elford," said Miss May- field, rising from her seat, "Has Augusta suc, ceeded in obtaining the white satin dress pattern?" "No!" said the lady, while a shade .of dis. appointment passed over her features: "the last pattern had just been purchased by Mr. Warner, as I entered the shop." "Indeed!" said the disappointed girls, "I had congratulated myself on ihaving our dresses pre - cisely alike." "You can both dress in peach-blow satins," said Mrs. Mayfield, gazing intently on her daugh- ter. - "Y Tes, but I left my pattern with the dreas. page: 150-151[View Page 150-151] maker's yesterday; besides, white would be much nicer to wear on such an occasion." "Woel," replied the lady, rising from her seat, "Mr. Elford is going to the Oity to-morrow, and perhaps he can obtain the pattern desired." So saying, she took her leave and hastily re- turned home. The next morning Mr. Elford set out with a light heart for the city, to gratify the wishes of his onlv child, resolved to purchase the pattern so much desired even should he be obliged to pay double the value. Time passed heavily away, and theminutes were almost numbered by Au- gusta, who waited anxiously between hope and fear for the return of her father. It was four o'. clock in the afternoon, when Mr. Elford entered his house, holding in his hand the article which had caused so much anxietyin the bosom of his idolized daughter, who received it with a smile of satisfaction and triumph. "ou were very fortunate," said Augusta, throwing on her hat and shawl; and immediately sot out for the dressmaker's. CHAPTER FOURTH. , "My dear Armenia," said Mr. Hasson, "I have brought you the pattern you wished, but I know not how I shall pay for it."' "Father, father," said the astonished girl, "( what does this all mean? I would never have asked the dress, if I had thought you could not afford it. Indeed, I cannot wear it now, I am sure I should feel very unhappy. Do dear fath. er take it back."o "Oh, no, Armenia, it will perhaps look rath- er odd if I cannot afford you a pew dress to wear on such an occasion. Besides, you told me you thought you had none that would be proper -to wear." "I did," said Armenia, blushing deeply," but I now remember that Aunt Amelia told me so, and said Miss Warner and Miss Mayfield were to have white satin dresses richly trimmed with heavy pointed lace, and were to have pearls in their hair. I did not think of asking so much, page: 152-153[View Page 152-153] but aunt said she thought I ought not, to be out- shone by every one, so I made my request for the dress, which I now feel was dictated by van. ity, perhaps tinctured with envy." "You certainly deserve the pattern, Armenia, for this ingenuous confession, and I shall insist on your keeping it." t"Do not think of it, papa, indeed I cannot wear it." And the utterance of the gentle girl was choked by tears. "' I was desponding when I said that, but times may improve. Heaven will bless my endeavors for the happiness of so good a child. Now dry your tears, dear, and I will send Aunt Amelia to you before night, and you will be all ready for the levee in good time." "'Nay, but father, that is not necessary for my happiness, and I feel that my heart must be sad. ly put of tune if its serenity could be disturbed by the lack of a little splendor." "Well, keep it, dear, at any rate, I feel a sort of affection for this dress, since it has shown me the character of my child in so lovely a light." t. { iUV UN'Al a W 1J AA. AiJf Mr. Hasson was an industrious merchant whose wife had been dead some three years, and the expense of rearing small children was of course greatly enhanced, yet he had sustained good credit, and had kept up an equal appearance with the world. But the expense of his family in- creased while his health failed by constant labor, and he saw the shadow gathering over his path, now no longer lightened by one who had been as the polar star to the wanderer on the pathless deep. Yet it was very bitter to think of adding to the weight of care that already rested oh the heart of his beloved child ; for since the death of her mother, she had supplied her place in so kind a manner, that they scarcely knew the loss of their maternal guardian. She was nearly eight- een, and it was for the great levee that she had 'sked the dress'. t , page: 154-155[View Page 154-155] 154 THE UNFORTUNATE CHAPTER FIFTH. The anticipated hour at length arrived. We will-not stay to describe the decorations or the il- luminations of Mr. Le Roy's mansion. We will only say that it was as light as the hearts of the gay throng, who had assembled to tender their homage to Miss Gilbert this evening as Queen of the levee. Mr. Le Roy had corresponded with Miss Gilbert for nearly a year, without giving rise to the least suspicion of their intended mar- riage. The guests were now seated; and Mr. Le Roy, with his lady splendidly attired, in white satin, her fine auburn tresses beautifully contrast- ing with the costly gems that sparkled amid their dark glossy luxuriance, entered the hall; and a plain but noble looking gentleman approached the fair couple, and very politely requested the as- sembly to rise; and to the astonishment of the happy guests eloquently performed the marriage ceremony. Each face beamed with joy as they saluted the fair couple; the evening passed in mirth and hilafity; and a suitable hour saw MOUNTAIN GIRL. 165 all parties quietly seeking that repose, which is very necessary after attending such an unexpec- ted wedding. Mr. Le Roy spent his life in happiness with his lovely bride; though somewhat envied by the the Mayfield family. The Gilbert family grew up, respected by all who knew them, acquired' liberal educations, and became useful men; and made their home a little paradise. *l i,( page: 156-157[View Page 156-157] --v "tnlTH uJNFORTUNATE THE FORTUNATE BACIIELOR. THE light of day had faded from the highest snow-clad peak of the Alleghanies. In a small cottage, immediately upon the bank of the river. some few miles .above its junction with the Great Krnawha, blazed a bright fire, by which was seated a gentleman apparently about forty five years of age, engaged in earnest conversation with a young lady who had scarcely seen nine- teen summers. The bloom of health was upon her cheek and her soft blue eyes rested intently upon the speaker at her side. "Well, Annah, suppose I ask your father's consent. His refusal cannot make things- much worse than they are at present. Suspense, An- nah, suspense is the cause of the most miserable of feelings. The captive criminal, who is in doubt --even in reference to his punishment-must cer- MOUNTAIN GIRL. 157 tainly be the most wretched of mortals. I would prefer the guillotine, yes, the guillotine." "Why, Mr. Laurett," said the fair girl gently placing her hand upon his shoulder, "am I to be your executioner?" "No, you are not; but I am afraid your fath* er will be the executioner of us both, and that, too, out of pure affection for his fair daughter, as he was pleased to call you the other day." "You think he loves me, then, do you?" "Oh, yes, dear Annah, I believe he loves you -it never doubted it; and I have reason to sup* pose that he has more good will for me, than for many whom he calls his friends; but, Annah, I F am poor, and he has more than once hinted, that young ladies who have been reared in affluence, can never be happy in marriage unless they are united to men of wealth. O, if he knew how matters stand between us, how he would frown at the idea. I want the effervescence of his wrath to be over, and I will inform him." "We must not be too hasty, Mr. Laurett," said the trembling girl; ' our situation requires page: 158-159[View Page 158-159] 158 THE UNFORTUNATE caution. By a little management we may possif bly succeed, gloomy as the prospect appears to be. Now do not say anything to, papa about it yet-I had much rather you would not. The best possible way to accomplish our wishes is not to advance too soon." ; Too soon-tosoooon, Annah? Have we not waited a year and more? and have you not been pleading the same to me-too soon all the while? Too soon, indeed!" "Well now, don't be angry; throw that frown from your countenance, and look pleasant; and we will immediately decide on some plan, by which we may effect the object you so much de- sire; come, smile away your anger,--the skies of love are sometimes clear, and -- "Annah, if he refuses positively, the only way will be for us to elope. I will introduce the sub- ject." "Do not yet, Mr. Laurett, I entreat you. We'll take a little more time to think,aud then -" "No! Annah, we have thought of it too long MOUNTAIN GIRL. 159 already'; let us know our destiny. I will see you again soon. Good evening." So off went Mr. Laurett, leaving Annah, his betrothed, in a sort of half good-natured pet. Lovers are impatient sometimes, and perhaps not without a cause, for fortune is a fickle dame, and the poor only professed particular fellowship for Cupid and his votaries under certain circum- stances. She it was who first gave rise to the re- mark that the course of true love doth not al- ways run smooth ; and doubtless upon some rough portion of the tide there is sufficient to test the integrity of another such a man as he who held forth in the wilderness of Uz, and perhaps even he would have flinched, and remained wifeless, had he been obliged to, encounter some of the difs Aculties and dangers which have assailed, in these modern times, the sailors upon the seas of love. Many things have been said about lovers' philos- ophy, but the philbsophy of love is another thing, and in many points of peculiar trial, is found to be a scarce article. Annah possessed about as much and may be a little more than most girls of w, page: 160-161[View Page 160-161] :t 160 THE UNORTUNATE nineteen--certainly more than Laurett. She was really-truly, and deeply in love ; but so far from having lost her reason in the matter, she could coolly advise, and that, too, with her im2a- tient suitor teasing at her side. A lover who is crossed in his purpose may be compared to a ship in, a storm with sails all up and no rudder to regulate her course. She is tossed upon the billows like amote upon the wind, but the magiet directs her needle upon her deck with unerring accuracy; no veer of the ship, how- eversudden, can interrupt its range, and its point is ever toward the steady pole. Circumstances are the winds and waves which rave in mad riot around the lover's hopes, his heart is in his com- pass, and while his unfortunate mortality is driven about by tempests which he cannot control, it re- mains fixed upon its fair enchantress. Augustus Laurett had loved Annah wildly, deeply, passionb ately, for nearly three years. One year and more had pass6d since they had pledged them- selves to share the fortunes of a cold-hearted world together. No wonder her lover had become im MOUNTAIN GIRL.. 161 patient; a year would seem a short eternity to wait upon the eve of bliss, and yet delay the hap- py consummation. There is a point of courtship, where, if mat- rimony should not ensue, it were far better for the parties concerned that they never were in love; a millstone about their necks and they east into the depths of the ocean, were preferable, for, then, instead of being driven about upon the sur- face of misfortune,-they would sink to the bottom and be at peace. Who has been delayed in love and not felt the truth of the remark? CHAPTER SECOND. Annah Walton was the daughter of a wealthy Ai shipper. He was an upright and highly honora- ble man, but withal an old school aristocrat, whose ipse dixit was law supreme wherever his powr could be exercised. It was Annah's. miSfortine to lose her mother during her early infancy, and , page: 162-163[View Page 162-163] 162 THE UNFORTUNATEi though she had been carefully reared by a de- voted nurse, yet it must be confessed that un- limited indulgence had not allowed her dis- position to become amiable to that degree which may be styled insipidity, nor was old Aunt Sarah's system of education such as was eminently cal: culated to prepare her young mistress for the or- deal'of modern society . Annah Walton had ac- quired a liberal education at the North, at the age of eighteen, and was beloved by Lawyer Wentworth; who aspired to her hand, which' she obstinately refused, notwithstanding his warm en- treaties, and the threats of her passionate father ; still sheremained unmoved and asserted that she would never consent to become the bride of one whom she did not-love. AAnah was standing alone In her parlor one evening in December; while the soft moonlight streamed over her lovely features; as she folded her, arms across her throbbing bosom and tears of anguish streamed down her burning' cheek as she murmured"aloud: "Shall I consent to become the bride of one whom I detest, and despise?--Or shall I seek a home in the heart of him -"- -MOTNTAIT OIRL4. 168 'Yes, my dear," said Mr. Laurett, who at that moment entered the half opened door and approached the agitated Mirl, t you shall find a home with moe "-gently throwing his arm around her delicate form and drawing her to his side. "Yes, Mr. Laurett, but should :my proud and smiling lover ever become the cold indifferent hus. band! If ever, in consequence of some deficien- cy in my nature, you should feel in your noble heart an aching void that --" "Come! come, dear Annah, away with such misgivings; this world must be an aching void to me without you. Believe me! I will ever be all to you that a devoted husband can be. But now to the point; the '-ship sails for England to-mor- row, and are you ready, and willing, to entrust yourself to my care and accompany me thither?' "To-morrow?" said Annah with surprise. , "Yes, Annah, to-morrow, since your father has strictly forbidden our union, it is necessary that , we should improve the present opportunity for our escape. Annah, if you accept my offers we will I embark for Liverpool to-morrow; if not, this page: 164-165[View Page 164-165] 164 THE UNFORTUNATE must be our last interview; I shall leave you to decide the question alone." So saying he warmly imprinted a kiss upon her marble brow, while a tear stole down his manly cheek--saying as he left the room, , I will call at three o'clock for you." Annah sat motionless and her eyes rested in- tently on the form of her lover as he departed. Here the poor girl was left in a dilemma. She must forever abandon the thought of becoming the bride of Mr. Laurett, or forever bid her early home adieu. "Yet," said she, starting from her seat, "Grd is love! He is able and I trust will make our union a happy one." A smile of hope passed over her countenance as she moved noise- lessly about the apartment arranging the baggage for their embarkation. MOUNTAIN GIRB. 165 CHAPTER THID. Up and down, and sometimes round, But still their course was Hymen bound. i The next morning witnessed Laurett witl his intended bride embarking for Liverpool. Laurett smiled proudly as he gazed on the lovely being who was standing at his side on the deck of the proud vessel which bore her onward. She watched the fast receding shore of her nativity fade away into a blue line upon the horizon's verge, and silently dropped the 'farewell tear as as she murmured, in despair!"For me no more a home; henceforth Annah Walton is indeed an outcast " "No! no! dear Annah," said Laurett, press- ing her to his bosom," I trust our home in L. will be as pleasant as the home of your childhood." We will not pretend to describe the feelings which this rash move occasioned, in the bosom of the devoted parent, when convinced of his daugh- ter's elopement, but will pass lightly over' the heart-rending scene. Mr. Walton, though by heart-'e e Ahof page: 166-167[View Page 166-167] 166 THE UNFORTUNATE birth a Southerner, had been educated at North- ern institutions, where his youthful excesses, and very liberal principles, had gained for him the reputation of a generous and whole-souled asso- ciate, but a wild and uncontrollable student. The most prominent deficiency in his character was a curious 'combination of energy and volatility; which rondered him the abandoned slave of what- ,ever passion for the moment excited, or influence which for the time being surrounded him. This was more especially applicable to his college days, for years of married life had made him a moral and respectable man; especially since the death of his companion, he had been an affectionate and devoted parent and studied only for the happiness of his darling child. From that memorable morning, Mr. Walton, in appearance, became a different man. He strove to banish his grief, and to forgei his sorrows in the hilarity of a fashionav ble world. Four months from the time of which we speak, on a glorious Sabbath morning, Mr. Walton led forth -his, betrothed tothe marriage altar; as it MOUNTAIN OIRL. 167, were to commence life anew. The lady ap- i peared to be about twenty eight years of age, Her attire, though rich, was marked by an elegant neatness ;'and the absence of all superfluous or- nament showed her taste cultivated and refined. Her rich brown haihwasparted and arranged with much simplicity over a high forehead, and her ountenance -bespoke peace and contentment. The Pastor performed the marriage ceremony with great solemnity, and an expression of satiss faction passed over the pallid features of Mr. Walton, as he departed with his adorable bride leaning upon his arm. CHAPTER FOURTH. Reader, we will now take a short voyage to Liverpool, where we find Laurett seated with his. young bride, in a neat little parlor arranged with great taste and simplicity. Mr. Laurett was not wealthy, as we have -said before; but wth hie , Y)* X page: 168-169[View Page 168-169] 100 - THRE UNFORTUNATB small fortune he had managed with such economy as to enable him to purchase a small cottage house, and rent a shop in which he commenced business on, :small scale. He was an honest and upright man, and withal, a devoted christian, who soon gained the confidence and esteem of his fel- low citizens, who conferred on him many offices of honor. Three years had passed pleasantly away and Laurett's efforts in obtaining wealth had evidently been crowned with success. It was Thursday morn- ing, a bright, clear autumnal day, as ever dawned upon the earth. The heat of summer had passed. away, the chilly month of September had followed in its footsteps, and the fading season, as though loth yet to retire to its long sleep, and resign its sceptre to dreary winter, still lingered with a sort of melancholy pleasantness about the scene in which it had loved to dwell. Laurett entered his peaceful cottage, greeted by his affectionate wife, with whom he exchanged a ,kiss, which was their usual custom, and lead her tothe sofa, saying, "My dear, I have news of importance to impart. ,**' xr MOUNTAIN GIRL. 169 We have this day become heirs to an inheritance of thirty thousand dollars, deposited in EnglaLd S bank." "What do you say? You are jesting -" "No, dear Annah," said the husband, exhibit. ing the letter, and reading aloud its contents. "Merciful Heaven!" exclaimed the astonished wife, "is it possible that Providence has conferred upon us unworthy creatures so great a fortune?" After a short conversation, Mrs. Laurett, throwing her arms playfully about her husband's neck, said with a smile: "Now let us return to America, I am sure papa would gladly receive his children and rejoice with us in our prosperity. Will we not?" said Annah, while the hot tears gushed over her still blooming cheek. Laurett remained silent a few moments and then said: "Yes, my dear, if it is your desire to visit your father; as soon as matters can be ar- ranged we will embark for America." His prosperity . was soon rumored abroad, and people of high rank and station dropped in to con. gratulate Mr. Laurett and his young- bride on page: 170-171[View Page 170-171] 170 - THmB NFORMTUAT their good fortune, and expressed feelings of the deepest regret when informed that they *ere so soon to leave Liverpool, with the intention of spending the winter in America. Two weeks had scarcely elapsed and all things being satisfactorily arranged, Laurett, with his lovely bride, went on board the ocean bird, who lay in the stream with her anchor hove short, ready to commence her cruise when the tide should turn. It was a beau. tiful sight, and as the bird bounded on her billowy path, hundreds of spectators gathered on the shores to witness her departure for America. CHAPTER FIFTH. Mr. Walton had pleasantly passed two years and more with his new bride, who was equally well adapted to grace the drawing-room and to superintend the operations of the kitchen, and in either position showed herself perfectly at home. One evening, Mr. Walton returned home with a ^ . - MOUNTAIN GIRL. 1 1 heavy heart, in view of the gloomy prospect be- fore him. "What is the matter?" asked Mrs. Walton, as he entered the diningroom; "you look as discon. certed as if you had lost your last friend." A "It is something, Julia, which you could not remedy, so why need you know? The knowledge of it would only pain you, and will come soon enough." "But I insist on knowing. Have I not a right to share in your sorrows as I have been a parta- ker in your joy?" 1 "Well, then, I will tell you. I have be- friended my friend lawyer Wentworth," (whom our readers will recollect we mentioned in our sec. ond chapter,) "in so much that my whole estate is to be sold at auction on the sixteenth of Novem. ber." "For what amount?" "For twelve thousand!" Mrs. Walton looked disappointed and perplexed for a moment, but again assuming her usual cheer- fulness, she said, with a smile, "This is rather ' * ' * 1, i page: 172-173[View Page 172-173] 172 TARH UNFORTUNATE hard, my dear, but we must trust in in the Lord. He'will'open some door for our escape.' At that moment a coach stopped at the door, from whence a gentleman and lady alighted, who, were very courteously accosted by-the servant who ushered them into an elegant parlor. Mr. and Mrs. Walton soon joined the strangers, in whom the former recognized his darling child. In a moment she was in his arms. This was indeed a happy meeting, and Mr. Walton was now as cheerful and happy, as he had been unhappy, but a moment before. Mr. Laurett and his bride were cordially received by the step-mother, who had once more made Mr. Walton's home indeed a pleasant one. Tea was now ready and the happy family once more surrounded a table, richly spread with the luxuries of life. Mr. and Mrs. Laurett observed with admiration the tasteful and elegant appear- ance of the table and the propriety withwhich every thing was served, sand felt that their mother was indeed a treasure. Tea being over, the merry , , I S , ' ' 1 MOUNTAIN oGaL. 173 guests were again seated in the parlor, pleas- antly recalling past events. Mr. and Mrs. Walton rejoiced in the prosperity of their children, and Laurett was happy to pay the sum required, to redeem his; father's estate. Laurett purchased a splendid establishment whert he spent the remainder of his life in happiness with his lovely bride, and in the enjoyment and society of their affectionate parents. page: 174-175[View Page 174-175] 174 Tal UNFORTUsATB "NES. I love to sit, at dewy eve, Beneath the willow tree; And listen to the night-bird's song, Which seems so wild and free. I love to kneel at close of day Beneath the willow tree, And pour out my soul to God in prayer Who listens when I pray. I love to sing the COristian's hymn, It does my soul relieve ; While angels listen to my glee, Beneath the willow tree. I love to know, that when I die, Beneath the green sod I must lie: I only ask that I may rest, Beneath the tree that I love best. On the marble at my head, Be a weeping willow spread; And sacred to my memory placed Those lines which cannot be erased: Sweetly did she resign her breath-- Her spirit's gone to a world of rest; And peaceful now her dust shall be, Beneath the weeping willow tree. * * 8 \
