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 1767. 

 
 WAY-MARKS 
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 
 
 THE INCIDENTS TAKEN FROM REAL LIFE. 
 
 u 
 t 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 ROBERT MORTON, THE DEW-DROP OF THE SUNNt SODTH, ETC. ETC. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 PUBLISHED FOR THE AUTHOR BY CRISSY & MAKKLEY, 
 GOLDSMITH'S HALL, LIBRARY STREET.
 
 
 CKISSY * MAKKLET, PRINTERS.
 
 7 
 
 TO 
 MY BELOVED AND DEARLY CHERISHED FRIEND 
 
 Bits. a. 36. 
 
 I DEDICATE THIS LITTLE VOLUME 
 AS A SLIGHT TOKEN OF ESTEEM, 
 
 AND TRUST SHE WILL EVER HOLD IN KIND REMEMBRANCE, ITS 
 
 AUTHOR. 
 
 2O510O2
 
 
 P 11 E F A C E . 
 
 A FEW years ago I visited some friends in Georgia, 
 and there gleaned the incidents upon which I based 
 the contents of this little volume. If I have some 
 times mingled the experiences of my own life with 
 the Wanderings of the fair Marcia, the reader will 
 please forgive me, and admit that a certain degree 
 of fiction must be allowed in names of persons and 
 places. 
 
 Of the religious tendency of my work I would only 
 say, to read it will be to convince you that I have 
 written, praying as I wrote, that God's Spirit might 
 descend upon me, and teach me how to benefit my fel 
 low creatures. 
 
 Not quite two years have elapsed since, left in des 
 titute circumstances, with two small children entirely
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 dependent upon my exertions for their support and 
 
 *? 
 education, I embarked in a literary career, and in the 
 
 fullness of a grateful heart must I say, that God has 
 bounteously strewn my way with blessings. In New 
 York, Boston and Philadelphia ; in the noble cities of 
 the Far West, and in the genial cities of the Sunny 
 South, troops of friends have surrounded me; and 
 every where I have met with the encouragement and 
 sympathy which have made my sorrowful lot support 
 able. 
 
 I think I should acknowledge that the first element 
 of my success has been the favor and kindness I have 
 received from the editors. From the hurry of busi 
 ness, the discussion of politics, the perusal of foreign 
 intelligence, they have come to see me, listened to my 
 simple story, read my book, and announced to the 
 public my design in such glowing terms, that the 
 whole public heart seemed to beat with sympathy, and 
 the entire number of the rich and favored would come 
 forward with words of encouragement to subscribe for 
 my book. I can never hope to thank them sufficiently 
 for all they have done, but I feel confident God will 
 bless and reward those who have scattered upon the 
 Wanderer's way, the flowers of life and hope.
 
 PREFACE. VU 
 
 To the kindly attention of the noble-hearted and 
 the good, I submit this little volume, feeling that 
 though it has many faults, it has more to recommend 
 it than any thing hitherto laid before them by its 
 grateful 
 
 ' t 
 * . AUTHOR.

 
 LIFE OF A/WANDERER 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I received a letter, turned it over and over, read 
 and re-read it, and said, " Dear Mother, he has sent 
 for me ; I am going : are you not glad ?" 
 
 The next thing was to get ready. I had many 
 little things to make and mend. I set myself heartily 
 to work, for I remembered that the doctor had said 
 to my mother, " This winter in a southern climate is 
 her only chance of life." 
 
 Mother packed my trunk. She took care I should 
 have a plentiful supply of ginger-bread for my carpet 
 bag. She laid in one corner of my trunk, a bible, 
 in another, some flannel vests. She then locked it up, 
 and dropped the key in the pocket of my traveling 
 dress which hung over the back of a chair. 
 
 The hour of departure came at last. *My mother 
 kissed me, and bade God bless me. I stooped down 
 2
 
 10 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 and embraced my little brother, and said good-bye to 
 him, whereupon his tears burst forth and he clung to 
 me tightly. 
 
 "Dear, dear sister," said he, "you will not go 
 away and leave me?" 
 
 " Only for a little while, darling," was my reply. 
 
 I passed my hand over the golden curls that shaded 
 his infant brow. I pressed him to my heart, and 
 kissed his rosy lips. My traveling companion handed 
 me into the carriage ; the driver cracked his whip, 
 and we were gone. I looked back at the dear home 
 of my childhood ; my mother stood waving her last 
 adieu, and my little brother was weeping bitterly. I 
 wept too can you wonder ? 
 
 Oh ! that dear little brother of mine, sweet Benny ; 
 how often, when afar from the home of affection, shall 
 I recall his attachment for me, his only sister. Shall 
 I not remember, too, his gentle voice pleading with 
 me not to leave him ? Oh yes, many times. 
 
 Did you ever travel by the mail route, from New 
 York to Georgia? Oh, you did. Well, then, I need 
 not describe to you its fatiguing and monotonous char 
 acteristics. I will only tell you of some of my own 
 experiences. 
 
 My traveling companion was an old bachelor, who 
 if not positively cross and ill-natured, was, to say the 
 least of it, very stern. He made me sit next to the 
 open window to keep the cold off from him. He took 
 up two-thirds of the seat, saying in the most don't
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 11 
 
 speak to me kind of manner; "if I incommode 
 you in the least, Miss Walton, let me know." Now, 
 as I happened to be gather small, and very timid, I 
 did not dare to complain, but squeezing myself into 
 the smallest possible compass, assured him there was 
 plenty of room, and so there was in truth, only he 
 kept it all for himself. 
 
 I peeped out from under my bonnet, and inspected 
 the parties who sat in front of me. A gentleman and 
 lady sat in the next seat. They had turned over the- 
 back of another seat, upon which they deposited, with 
 an air of perfect non-chalance, a carpet-bag and 
 numerous shawls; conversing together at the same 
 time, with great indifference to an old lady, who re 
 mained standing in the end of the car, unable to get 
 a seat, till the conductor forced the passengers to be 
 civil. 
 
 From looking at surrounding objects, and becoming 
 wearied of their sameness, I at length turned my at 
 tention inward and devoted my thoughts to myself. 
 I had been educated in such a manner as to fit me for 
 the arduous duties of teaching, and had been but 
 three weeks emancipated from the school room. I 
 was now on my way to a distant place, to which I had 
 been called in the capacity of governess in the family 
 of a rich lady, widow of a southern planter. My 
 spirit yearned for the home I was leaving behind me, 
 and my fond, devoted mother, and darling brother, 
 whose winning ways had engendered in my heart the
 
 12 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 
 
 tenderest affection. I knew that I was setting out in 
 the great world alone, and as a woman, I felt all my 
 own weakness of mind and body. I had studied to 
 make myself competent to teach others, until my 
 health had been seriously undermined, and a settled 
 cough fastened itself upon me, and stole the roses 
 from my cheeks. My anxious mother called in the 
 doctor, and he bade her send me instantly to the 
 South. 
 
 But here arose a great difficulty how was this to 
 be accomplished ? My mother was a poor widow ; her 
 income was barely sufficient for our maintenance, and 
 she was obliged to eke it out by constant and diligent 
 application to her needle. Indeed, she had denied 
 herself many comforts in order to have me receive the 
 benefits of a first rate education. 
 
 One morning as she glanced over the paper, an ex 
 pression of delight escaped her. Ah, what an inesti 
 mable blessing is that same morning paper. In yonder 
 spacious mansion there is joy and gladness. A son 
 has been expected home from sea. There have been 
 mighty storms agitating the surface of the great deep ; 
 fear and terror have filled the hearts of father, mother, 
 brothers and sisters. But now dawns a glorious morn 
 ing ; the ship has arrived at quarantine ; the news is 
 telegraphed, and with joy-beaming eyes the delighted 
 family read the morning paper. 
 
 Again, in the home of poverty, a lonely widow sits, 
 not moodily, not sorrow-stricken, but gay, bright, and
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 13 
 
 happy. She has a son, an only son. He was walk 
 ing the day before on the bank of the river. A little 
 boy was playing there. He fell in the deep, dark 
 water. Not one of all the crowd stept forth to save 
 him but her own noble boy. He threw off his jacket, 
 plunged beneath the tide, and rising again to the sur 
 face with his helpless burden, swam proudly to the 
 shore. He waited for no thanks; he desired none. 
 They looked for him, but he was gone. The rich 
 father was determined to reward him ; he wrote a full 
 account of the accident, and spoke in glowing terms 
 of the brave boy who had periled his life to save that 
 of his child. Oh, sweet to that fond mother's heart 
 was the eulogium contained in the morning's paper. 
 And the paper of this morning, to which I refer, con 
 tained that which made my heart beat high with 
 hope. "Listen, Marcia," said my mother, "Hear 
 what a kind Providence throws in our way, 
 ' Wanted, a young lady well versed in all the branches 
 of a sound English education, and au fait in all its 
 graces and accomplishments, to teach a family of four 
 children. A handsome salary will be paid, and also 
 all traveling expenses from any part of the United 
 States. The situation is in Georgia, twelve miles 
 from the city of D. Address a note to J. H. Wood- 
 ville, Irving House, New York.'" 
 
 As my mother finished reading this advertisement, 
 I sat back in my chair, so very happy that I could 
 not speak. I did not wait to be told twice to answer 
 2*
 
 14 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 it ; I opened my desk, and wrote a list of my accom 
 plishments. I spoke very timidly of my ill health, 
 but warmly declared my desire to please, and the 
 hope that amongst the numerous replies the adver 
 tisement would call forth, mine might meet with a 
 favorable reception. I mentioned my references, 
 and having sent my letter, returned to my sewing, 
 believing I should never hear from it again. A week 
 passed away, and no word of intelligence reached me 
 relative to the matter. One day we sat as usual 
 busily employed in needle work ; my cough had been 
 very troublesome all day, and I felt unusually weak 
 and dispirited. I have no doubt I was paler than 
 common, for I saw my mother's gentle eyes resting 
 upon me with a look of anxious solicitude. The bell 
 rang, and in a few moments a stranger was ushered 
 in, who handed a card to my mother, and bowing 
 politely, took a seat, and eyed me closely from beneath 
 his heavy lashes. 
 
 The stranger was a tall, large man, about sixty 
 years old. His hair was black, and slightly inter 
 mingled with gray. His eyes were black, large, and 
 piercing, and seemed to have lost none of the fire of 
 early youth. His wide mouth was filled with hand 
 some teeth, and there was something in the expres 
 sion of this feature that betrayed to the eye of the 
 beholder a hardness of feeling which was in reality 
 assumed, and not the native emotion of the heart. 
 It was only when interested in conversation you
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 
 
 would have pronounced him handsome. His face was 
 sunburnt and swarthy; and before my mother an 
 nounced the fact, I was aware that Mr. Woodville, 
 the Georgian, stood before me. 
 
 A mutual introduction now took place, to which I 
 replied by a joyous inclination of the head, for hope 
 was bright within me. The stranger bowed politely 
 as before. He asked me many questions, to which I 
 replied modestly enough, for I was abashed in the 
 presence of the stern Georgian, who I looked upon, in 
 the childishness of my heart, as the arbiter of my 
 fate. At length he seemed to have asked me all he 
 wished, and he leaned down over his cane, the golden 
 head of which appeared to be to him a source of 
 infinite delight. Bfe grumbled something which I 
 did not understand. 
 
 " Sir?" said my mother. 
 
 "It is a pity," he replied, "that the girl is so 
 pretty." 
 
 "Pretty!" exclaimed my mother, "I am sure I 
 never thought so." 
 
 Of course, my cheeks were rosy enough, now. 
 
 "Well," continued Mr. Woodville, "it cannot be 
 helped now. I will think about it. I shall send you 
 an answer to-morrow." 
 
 The next day, sure enough, the answer came. It 
 was the letter I received at the commencement of 
 this chapter. All these things passed in review 
 before me. I came once more to the final parting ;
 
 16 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 my mother's farewell kiss; my brother's tears; all 
 the dear associations of childhood thus suddenly sun 
 dered, and I could bear it no longer, but forgetting 
 where I was, the stern Mr. Woodville every thing, 
 in fact, but my own loneliness and desolation I 
 broke down then and there, and buried my face in 
 my handkerchief. 
 
 " How now, what's all this?" said a stern voice in 
 my ear. I tried to answer, but the choking sobs 
 prevented me. " Come, come, this will never do," 
 said Mr. Woodville. "It is all nonsense, perfect 
 nonsense pooh, pooh." 
 
 Mr. Woodville coughed. I cried harder than ever, 
 though heartily ashamed of myself. 
 
 " Well, well, this is too bad. Come, Miss, this is 
 very silly excessively silly." 
 
 I felt convinced of the truth of this, but still I 
 cried on. Mr. Woodville continued 
 
 " I can't bear to see a woman cry. If you don't 
 stop, I'll go where I can't see you indeed I will. 
 I'll go in the forward car I'll leave you by yourself; 
 if I was a Sultan, I'd order the sack for every woman 
 that cried in my dominions." 
 
 I made a desperate effort to be calm, and indeed 
 the expression of Mr. Woodville's face, at any other 
 time, would have excited a fit of uncontrollable merri 
 ment. He tried so hard to look mad and stern, and 
 all the time I could see 'he was just as sorry as I was. 
 
 "Ah," said I, " it is so hard to leave mother, and
 
 LIFE OP A WANDERER. 17 
 
 dear little Benny;" and at this mention of the cause 
 of my sorrow, I again lost all self-control, and burst 
 forth afresh. Mr. Woodville said 
 
 " Yes, yes, it's hard, I suppose but then you are 
 not going to leave them for ever, you know. I have 
 no doubt you feel lonely and sad at the idea of 
 leaving them for the first time, but you must not 
 expect to have every thing just as you wish it ; that 
 is impossible ; and I doubt if it would be a blessing, 
 even if permitted. Learn to meet the decrees of 
 Providence with an abiding trust that He will temper 
 the wind to the shorn lamb. Who is this little 
 Benny, of whom you speak?" 
 
 " He is my only darling brother." 
 
 " What, that pretty, little, pale child, with the bright 
 blue eyes and golden curls?" 
 
 " The same, the very same," I replied. 
 
 " Then I don't wonder you dislike to leave him. 
 He is certainly one of the sweetest children I ever 
 saw. I should judge him to be uncommonly smart 
 too is he not ?" 
 
 " Ah, that he is, Sir," said I, completely won 
 over by his praise of my brother. " He has always 
 been very delicate, but he has an intellect far above 
 his years; and then he is so thoughtful, so full of 
 pity for any body who is in distress. Mr. Staunton 
 calls him a complete Paul Dombey. He never wants 
 to play with other children, but always joins us in 
 our conversations, not boldly, and like a froward,
 
 18 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 petted child, but with the delicacy and good taste of 
 older years; and many times 'he asks questions which 
 would puzzle the wisest heads to answer. You should 
 hear him talk of heaven ; it has often seemed to me 
 that there was implanted in his heart undying long 
 ings for another world, as if he thought this was not 
 his home. He often tells mother, when he is sick, 
 that he wants to die, so that he may see God and all 
 his angels; but he always adds, 'I don't want to 
 leave you, dear mamma I don't want to go to heaven 
 without you ;' and then he will twine his arms affec 
 tionately about her neck, and kiss her." 
 
 I came to a dead stop, for I perceived that I had 
 been talking to a stranger, who certainly could not- feel 
 any interest in the subject, dear as it was to me; and 
 I could see, too, that his object in getting me to talk 
 was to make me forget the cause of my tears, and I 
 felt half vexed to think he had succeeded: but the 
 cars had arrived at the depot in Tacony, and we 
 went aboard the steamboat, and were told that dinner 
 awaited us below.
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 19 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " Onward ! Hath earth's ceaseless change 
 
 Trampled on thy heart? 
 Faint not, for that restless range 
 Soon will heal the smart." 
 
 Let me pause awhile at this period of my life, and 
 reflect. Ah! how little of sorrow, of the world's 
 bitter experience, knew I then. The virgin page of 
 life was just opened ; as yet there was nothing written 
 upon it but the sweet counsels of an affectionate and 
 pious mother. I knew nothing of the wickedness in 
 the world around me. By nature trusting and con 
 fiding, nothing had ever occurred to make me feel 
 suspicious of any one. Oh ! let me, like the immortal 
 Dickens, stand aside and see the shadows of those 
 days go by me. That happy childhood that well 
 remembered school-room my kind and faithful 
 teacher my school-mates, many of whom were dear 
 to me my only sister, who laid in the quiet grave 
 beside my father, and my little darling brother, who 
 was born two months after my mother was a widow. 
 How vividly memory brings them all before me 
 every trivial circumstance, every little nothing that 
 makes up the sum of human existence. Yes, I recall 
 them all, and a halo of happiness seems to surround
 
 20 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 them, for they all speak of the home I have left. 
 There is no bitterness in the recollection, and if I 
 did not think it was -wicked, I would wish in my heart 
 I had died then, upon the commencement of that jour 
 ney, before I had learned the sad, sad lessons, which 
 have embittered my life, which have irrevocably 
 
 doomed me to an , but I will not anticipate. 
 
 At ten o'clock, P. M., we took the cars, and rode 
 on towards Baltimore. Every one seemed fixing for 
 a nap, and I thought I could do no better than follow 
 the example. Most unfortunately, however, sleep 
 will not always come for the wooing, but like a 
 coquetish girl, draws only near enough to you to 
 elude your grasp. The long and lonely night drew 
 at length to a close, and we changed cars, and con 
 tinued our journey, passing through Washington, 
 Richmond, Petersburg, Weldon, and arriving at Wil 
 mington, where we took a filthy little steamer, (a dis 
 grace to the company,) for Charleston. I know of 
 nothing to compare to these boats, save the immense 
 packets seen daily moving along the numerous canals 
 which intersect our country. I spent a night on 
 one of these canal boats, which I shall never forget ; 
 and when I mention the date to be the sixth of 
 August, I doubt not many of my friends will recall 
 the time. In a little box of a place called the Ladies' 
 Cabin, were stowed sixteen unfortunate ladies, and 
 six children. I was furnished with a bed on the supper 
 table, and a thin curtain was all that divided the crown 

 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 21 
 
 of iny head from that of a gentleman in the outer cabin. 
 If I threw my hand over my head, (a habit to which 
 I am addicted, by the way,) it was instantly seized 
 from the other side, and a violent struggle was neces 
 sary for the rescue. The musquetoes weighed in the 
 neighborhood of a quarter of a pound eateh, and the 
 way they annoyed us was a caution to all' invalids. 
 We had a merry party on board, however, who sang 
 "Hail, Columbia!" and "Lord Lovel rode up to. the 
 Castle gate;" and altogether we tried to make the 
 best of a bad bargain, and were as merry as the cir 
 cumstances would possibly admit. 
 
 But, to go back to the Charleston steamer. Safely 
 seated on it, Mr. Woodville asked me how I liked it, 
 so far ? I told him I was delighted with all I saw 
 and heard. 
 
 "But you are very tired, are you not?" 
 
 "Not much. There are many things to see, and I 
 have no time to think about fatigue." 
 
 " In two days more we shall have arrived at our 
 place of destination. You will not know how wearied 
 you have been till you get into the quiet of the 
 country. Now, Miss Walton, permit me to offer you 
 some advice will you not ?" 
 
 " Certainly, Sir. I shall not .only take it in kind 
 ness, but I shall be most grateful for the interest you 
 display." 
 
 " That's right ; never refuse to take advice from 
 those who are older and wiser than yourself. I want 
 3
 
 22 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 you to try to please my sister. I believe you can do * 
 it. She has her little odd ways, but she is a good 
 woman upon the main. Her heart is in the right 
 place after all ; and for my own part, I can only see 
 two faults that you have got." 
 
 " Pray tell me what they are, that I may try to 
 remedy them." 
 
 " That, perhaps, would not be so easily done. 
 However, I will name them, that you may try to cor 
 rect the one ; the other, I fear, is irreparable. First 
 of all, Miss Walton, you are very proud. I do not 
 wish to censure you for this, because I believe it to 
 be an honest pride ; but I would that you were less 
 so, for my sister's greatest fault is her pride, and I 
 fear, that owing to this trait in both your characters, 
 you may have difficulty. Secondly, you are very 
 handsome. Now, for a wealthy heiress, beauty does 
 very well; but I do positively assert it is the worst 
 dower a poor girl can have. If I was a poor man, 
 and had a daughter, I would esteem it as a special 
 favor of Providence, if I found her positively 
 homely." 
 
 " Indeed, Sir, I never thought my beauty was 
 alarming," I replied, with a spiteful smile; but my 
 friend was resolved to be good-natured, and he looked 
 at me with the pitying tenderness of a father, rather 
 than the stern mentor I had taught myself to regard 
 him. He continued in a gentle voice 
 
 " I have your interest at heart, Miss Walton, and
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 23 
 
 as I took you from your mother, I feel in some degree 
 bound to watch over you. Upon these grounds, I 
 know you will permit me to counsel you; and if ever 
 you stand in need of a friend, remember to appeal _,. 
 to me." 
 
 I thanked him, very kindly, for his offers of friend 
 ship ; but now, having left the Cape Fear river, and 
 emerged into the broad ocean, the boat rocked, and 
 a sudden, deathly sickness came over me, and in fact 
 over every body around me. A little boy, pale as 
 death, ran to his mother, and said, " Oh, mamma, what 
 did you take me to the big seas for ?" There was a 
 terrible storm at sea. Thick, murky clouds were 
 drifted along the sky, and the forked lightning played 
 and writhed itself amid the darkness. The waves 
 were rolling and tossing in the madness of their fury, 
 and our little boat at one moment rode the breast of 
 a mighty billow, while at the next, two tremendous 
 waves threatened to engulph her. There was no fear 
 of death came to me then, for in an instant I was 
 so sick that I did not care what became of me. 
 Mr. Woodville lifted me in his arms, carried me into 
 the inner cabin, and gave me into the charge of the 
 chamber-maid ; and so perfectly helpless was I, that 
 he might have thrown me overboard, and I should 
 certainly not have made any effort to prevent him. 
 , All things must have a close, and that long and 
 terrible night at length came to an end, and found us 
 safely anchored in Charleston. We remained here
 
 24 WAT-MARKS IN THE 
 
 but a few hours, and Mr. Woodville procured me a 
 beautiful boquet of roses, which grow in the open air 
 all winter long, and grace the dwellings of these tasty 
 Southern people. We arrived that same day in D., 
 where we found a carriage and fine pair of horses 
 waiting to take us to the plantation of Mrs. Wood 
 ville. What a lovely ride was that which we took, 
 twelve miles through the middle of the State of 
 Georgia. All along the road-side were scattered the 
 most beautiful residences, built in cottage style, and 
 surrounded with luxuriant gardens, large orchards, 
 and verdant lawns. Oh, how sweetly the moon came 
 out and silvered the tree tops, lighting up the bosom 
 of earth with its soft radiance. How gently the mild, 
 balmy air of Georgia, breathed upon my pale cheek, 
 and bade the roses bloom again. How delightful to 
 my senses was the perfume of the lovely flowers that 
 blossomed around me. I was happy ! Oh, so happy ! 
 Now and then there have been moments of such hap 
 piness in my life, but alas, they have always been 
 succeeded by such dark clouds that I have learned 
 to dread them. I was silent, for my heart was com 
 muning with nature. Mr. Woodville broke in upon 
 my reverie, by asking me how I liked the good old 
 State of Georgia? " Very much," I replied. "In 
 deed, it seems to me to be perfectly delightful ; and 
 I think I could be happy here, if only mother and 
 Benny were with me." 
 
 " Cease to pine for them, and I have no doubt you
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 25 
 
 will have no small share of enjoyment, for you will 
 find that every stranger finds a welcome in the homes 
 and hearts of the Southern people." 
 
 At this moment we entered an avenue densely 
 shaded by two long rows of trees. A large gate was 
 swung open, and the carriage rolled over the smooth, 
 velvet-like turf. The tall negro gate-keeper joyously 
 welcomed Mr. Woodville home. 
 
 " How is your mistress ?" he asked. 
 
 " Amazin' well, massa," replied the happy voice of 
 the slave. " She he spectin' you to-night." 
 
 The avenue was a mile in length, and we quickly 
 rode over it and arrived at a second gate, which 
 opened into the garden in front of the house. Here 
 a whole troop of negroes, large and small, crowded 
 around us, with gleaming torches in their hands, not 
 withstanding the moon shone brightly. Some helped 
 us to alight ; one took my shawl, another my carpet 
 bag ; one lifted my trunk from the box, and carried 
 it as if it had been a feather. Mr. Woodville offered 
 me his arm, and we walked through the flowery walks 
 of a garden to the house. Let me pause on the 
 threshold to describe the situation, before I enter it. 
 
 Mrs. Woodville's residence is built on the top of a 
 hill. In front, the declivity is so gradual as scarcely 
 to be perceived, but at the back, it winds suddenly 
 down to a little brook that rolls at its Base. Here is 
 the kitchen garden, well watered by the stream which 
 has been taught to wander throughout the length and 
 3*
 
 26 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 breadth of it, and it is consequently in the highest state 
 of cultivation. On the hill side to the left is a long 
 row of buildings, each with their gardens enclosed. 
 This is the negro quarter. On the right side is a 
 thick, dense forest. The great-'us, as it is called by 
 the blacks, is a frame building, two stories high. A 
 large hall runs through the house, leaving two rooms 
 on either side. The two front rooms are handsomely 
 furnished, and one of them is used as a parlor ; the 
 other as a dining room. The two back rooms are 
 sleeping apartments; the one adjoining the parlor is 
 mine, the other is Mrs. Woodville's. Although the 
 weather is mild and warm, these Georgians shiver 
 with the cold, and a large fire, blazing with pine 
 knots, is burning both in the parlor and dining-room. 
 The curtains are closely drawn, and a richly chased 
 lamp of silver is burning on the table. Every thing 
 betrays the ease and wealth of the owner ; and there 
 is about these country residences a sort of home 
 appearance, often looked for in vain in our large 
 cities. 
 
 Mr. Woodville led me into the parlor, and intro 
 duced me to his sister. She sat in a large arm-chair, 
 covered with green velvet. Her feet rested on a 
 velvet cushion. She was about fifty years old, and 
 her face still bore the impress of matronly beauty. 
 But there was that about the eagle glancing of her 
 large, black eye, and in the firm compression of the 
 mouth, that spoke the imperiousness of which her
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 27 
 
 brother had told me. Her silvery hair was parted in 
 the middle, and combed straight back, leaving to view 
 a fine lofty brow. She was dressed in deep mourn 
 ing, and a snowy cap relieved the darkness of her 
 attire. She rose with all the grace of a high-bred 
 lady as I entered, and received me from her brother's 
 hand with a winning smile ; but when she spoke, the 
 cold and measured tone of her voice struck a chill to 
 my heart, and made me recoil from her in spite of 
 myself. 
 
 "I am most happy to welcome you to Georgia, 
 Miss Walton. Permit me to introduce to you my son 
 Octave." 
 
 A young gentleman of five or six and twenty, came 
 forward and took my hand, expressing his delight at 
 seeing me. It seemed to me all like a hoax. I did 
 not believe in the sincerity of his delight. 
 
 " These," continued Mrs. Woodville, summoning to 
 her, four children, who had been sitting in perfect 
 silence on one of the sofas, " are my children, or I 
 should say my grandchildren. Albert, the- eldest, 
 is now fourteen years old, and having been for the 
 last five years in Alabama, with his uncle, his educa 
 tion has been sadly neglected. I trust, however, 
 under your care, soon to see him improve. Flora, 
 the next, is now twelve, and has only to apply herself 
 to be a very smart girl. Gregory is nine years old, 
 and you will understand me when I tell you, that if 
 he is as good as he is smart, he will do very well.
 
 28 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 And now, last and least, comes the youngest of our 
 little family, Laurestina, six years old, who, I regret 
 to say, knows nothing but her letters. Laurie, this is 
 your new teacher. Will you try to learn your lesson 
 from her, like a good girl?" 
 
 " I will, if she don't whip me," was the reply. 
 "And why should I whip you, little Laurie," said I, 
 stretching out my hand to the child, who was indeed 
 one of the most beautiful children I ever beheld ; and 
 she seeing something in my pale and wearied face to 
 call forth her childish sympathy, climbed into my lap, 
 and throwing her white arms about my neck, kissed 
 me over and over again. This movement, so unex 
 pected on my part, so like the darling baby-brother I 
 had left far away, touched me to the heart ; and as 
 the sweet memories of home and a mother's love 
 crowded around me, I could forbear no longer, but 
 broke down again. I knew it was very foolish, but I 
 could not help it. 
 
 "What!" said Laurestina, "haven't you got any 
 mother, either? I have none. They buried her in 
 the church yard. You shall go with me, and I will 
 show you the grave they made her." 
 
 I assured her my mother was living, but far away 
 from me, and that I had never left her before. 
 
 "Well, then, don't cry," she said, coaxingly. 
 What makes you cry ? Oh, I know, now you are 
 hungry. Well, you shall have some nice supper. 
 Mother would not have supper dished up till you
 
 LIFE OF A WANDEREK. 29 
 
 came. Let me take off your bonnet. There, Flora, 
 take that, and put it away. Now, then, your cloak. 
 Oh, I can't get it undone. Come here, Flora, you 
 try." 
 
 Flora, in a few moments, removed my cloak. 
 
 " I think you are a very saucy thing, and if I was 
 Miss Walton, I would not permit you to sit in my lap 
 that way," said Mrs. Woodville, smiling. 
 
 " Oh, I like to have her I love children dearly," I 
 replied. Mrs. Woodville said 
 
 "You have just come off a long, fatiguing jour 
 ney, and we will have supper at once. With your 
 leave, Octave will conduct you out to the dining- 
 room." 
 
 I expressed my entire readiness. Octave said 
 
 " If Miss Walton will permit me, I shall be too 
 happy." 
 
 I expressed my appreciation of his kindness by an 
 inclination of the head. He led me out, and placed 
 me next his mother. Every body around the table 
 seemed to have a good appetite but myself, and as 
 they were all engrossed discussing the merits of the 
 supper, I embraced the opportunity of examining my 
 new acquaintances. 
 
 Albert was tall for his age, but very thin. He had 
 a most sanctimonious expression of countenance, but 
 at the same time he was one of those persons who are 
 continually devising evil, and practising it in such a 
 manner that the blame may fall on the innocent.
 
 30 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 He hated nothing more than his book, because he was 
 idle, and his mind was constantly roving about, with 
 out the power or the will of concentrating it upon 
 any subject. 
 
 Flora was a beautiful girl, but the sweet modesty 
 of her manners, rather than the peerless loveliness 
 of her face, was her greatest attraction. Her com 
 plexion was dark, but perfectly dazzling in its clear 
 ness. Her large, black eyes were soft as those of the 
 gazelle. Indeed, her features were faultless; and 
 one to judge of her head, would have supposed her 
 mental powers to be- of the highest possible order. 
 This was not the case, however. Between herself 
 and the objects of her attainment, there ever seemed 
 to be a veil; but she worked so unceasingly, and 
 so entirely and industriously devoted herself to her 
 studies, that she was sure to gain in the end what 
 more favoured persons took in at a glance. 
 
 Gregory Grayson came next in order, and certainly 
 I have never met a more perfect character. He was 
 nine years old, and owing to a delicate organization, 
 was very small of his age. No one would have called 
 him handsome, but there was an expression of good 
 ness in his face, more felt than seen. His head 
 would have served for a model of classical beauty. 
 His form was lithe and agile, and his eyes were bright 
 with intellect. A love of mischief frequently got him 
 into scrapes, but this was counterbalanced by his 
 desire to please. I never saw a child more sorry for
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 31 
 
 having given offence, or more eager to make every 
 reparation in his power. His retentive powers were 
 excellent, and his comprehension of the dark points 
 of science, was astonishing. The rapid progress he 
 made in Algebra, Philosophy, Chemistry, and Euclid, 
 often filled me with amazement ; and I soon became 
 convinced that he would leave me far behind in the 
 wonderful soarings of his intellect but, I am antici 
 pating. He was very affectionate, and would suffer 
 any punishment rather than "betray his brother Albert, 
 who was often guilty of acts attributed to Gregory. 
 
 Laurestina, sweet little girl, no words of praise, 
 no high-toned description, no face of loveliness, ever 
 eclipsed her. By nature she was beautiful. Her 
 hair was chestnut-brown, and curled over the whitest 
 neck in the world; her eyes were a dark, I might 
 almost say mazarine blue ; her complexion was of the 
 most lily-like transparency, and her rosy cheeks and 
 lips made her the picture of health. Her disposition 
 was amiable, but she had been petted to such a 
 degree that she was the hardest to manage of all my 
 little scholars. Sometimes, when I got vexed with 
 her, I would threaten to send her to her grandmother, 
 but she would throw her arms around me, and caress 
 me till the frown had vanished from my face, and she 
 would welcome the succeeding smile with promises of 
 amendment, and tell me she would positively learn 
 her lesson, but it was so hard. 
 
 Let us leave Laurestina, and spare a few moments
 
 32 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 to Octavo Woodville, the son and heir to an immense 
 estate, comprising five or six plantations, and a large 
 sum of money in bank. He was a good specimen of 
 a southern planter. You would not have pronounced 
 him handsome, and yet his face and form were not 
 without a certain dignity which lent an interest to his 
 society. He was generous and kind, and yet, when 
 you looked in his face, you feared to trust him. 
 Indeed he was altogether one of those persons who 
 are governed by impulses, rather than by any fixed 
 principles of right. His retreating chin proved him 
 to be a man easily moulded by a stronger will than 
 his own ; and a certain sensual expression about his 
 mouth, bade you beware of him. He eyed me very 
 closely, and his manner to me was so marked, that 
 several times I felt the warm blood tingling in my 
 cheek. He was the only son of Mrs. Woodville. 
 The four children were the offspring of her daughter, 
 who had died when Laurestina was a few days old ; 
 and Mrs. Woodville had taken them and adopted 
 them as her own. They were all very fond of their 
 uncle Octave, who indeed returned their affection with 
 interest, and never went to town without coming back 
 laden with presents for them. 
 
 John Henry Woodville was the only brother of 
 Albert Woodville, deceased, and since his brother's 
 death he had left his home in Telfair county, and 
 come to reside with his sister-in-law, whom he admired 
 and loved as a sister.
 
 LIFE OF A WANDEREE. 38 
 
 Such then was the family circle of the Woodvilles, 
 and although in the quiet, peaceful country home to 
 which I have introduced you, there may be none of 
 the high-toned romance so fashionable at the pre 
 sent day, yet believe me, you will find some experien 
 ces which will remind you of home, and may perhaps 
 awaken kindly feelings in the heart. It is ever bet 
 ter to portray the good rather than the evil of human 
 nature, and only those writers can hope to win and 
 keep the noble heart of an American public, who seek 
 to benefit and improve mankind. Shall I not regret, 
 when I lay my head upon a dying pillow, if I have 
 written one line in encouragement of evil ? Oh yes, 
 and that God may make me an instrument of good, is 
 the sincere prayer of my heart. If I can die in the 
 belief that I have made others happy, I shall feel that 
 I have not lived altogether in vain.
 
 34 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The next morning dawned bright and beautiful, and 
 I arose, and having completed my toilet, walked forth 
 to enjoy the fresh sweetness of the morning air. Half 
 way down the avenue I met little Flora, who in an 
 swer to my inquiry of where she had been, told me she 
 had just been carrying her books to the school house, 
 which was about a quarter of a mile from the house. 
 She turned and walked with me, and her artless con 
 versation, and modest sweetness of manner, interested 
 me very much. We wandered along gathering wild 
 flowers as we walked, and forming them into a boquet, 
 when suddenly a horseman passed us at a quick gallop, 
 going in the direction of the house. 
 "How do, cousin John?" said Flora. 
 
 "Quite lively," thank you, was the reply. "Is 
 Uncle Octave up yet?" 
 
 "No, I think not," said Flora, but her words were 
 unheeded, for the new comer had spurred on his horse, 
 and was already up to the inner gate, where he dis 
 mounted. We continued our walk, Flora telling me 
 that cousin John lived thtee miles on the road to D., 
 with his sister, who had been lately married. That 
 he was very wild, and would not pay any attention to 
 his studies, but wa up to all the mischief in the world.
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 35 
 
 At this moment somebody hallooed loudly after us, 
 and as we turned, we saw little Jacob running towards 
 us at full speed, to call us to breakfast. Jacob was a 
 slave, yet he was nearly as white as myself. Of his 
 parents I shall say more hereafter. 
 
 We returned to the house, and found the family 
 seated at breakfast. Mutual inquiries and salutations 
 passed between us. The conversation was then re 
 sumed where it had been dropped upon our entrance. 
 
 "Now, say you will go uncle," said cousin John. 
 
 "There will be rare sport, Sirnms is going, and old 
 man Thompson, who you know to be one of the rarest 
 old larks in the country. Oh, we will have such fun." 
 
 " Octave," said Mrs. Woodville, "don't go one inch, 
 John might better be at his studies." 
 
 " He would'nt do any good there if his mind was'nt 
 in them," interrupted Mr. "Woodville, senior. 
 
 "I think I'll go, boy," said Octavo- "How long 
 shall we be gone ?" 
 
 " Oh, not more than three days, and we can pick up 
 plenty of company on the way-side. There is Jones 
 that wants to go, and also Bill Thomas." 
 
 " "Well, I will go," said Octave, hastily swallowing 
 his coffee, and rising from the table he left the room. 
 The next moment we heard his voice on the porch. 
 
 "April, put Grey Eagle and Bill's "Wife in the 
 buggy. Do you hear?" 
 
 "Yes, massa." 
 
 " Have they been well fed?"
 
 36 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 "Yes, massa." 
 
 " How is Champion's sore foot ?" 
 
 " Most well, massa." 
 
 " See to it, you black rascal, do you hear ?" 
 
 "Yes, massa." 
 
 In a few moments Octave and his nephew were dri 
 ving down the avenue, at a rate that made it a problem, 
 rather difficult of solution, whether he or his harem 
 scarem nephew was the wildest. 
 
 The hour of nine soon approached, and I set out, with 
 my little scholars, for the school house. It was a 
 small, but nicely built cottage, with but one room in it, 
 and windows on every side. Upon a slight elevation at 
 one end of the room was the desk at which I was to 
 sit. One of the children sat at my right hand, another 
 at my left, while two of them were placed immediately 
 in front, and each of them had their separate desk, 
 nicely filled with books, &c. 
 
 I rang a little bell to announce that school had com 
 menced, and I own I felt some slight trepidation, at 
 finding myself, who but a few months before had been a 
 scholar, elevated to the position of a teacher. I opened 
 a large bible that lay before me, and read in a slow, 
 solemn manner, a chapter from the New Testament. 
 After reading it, I asked the children many questions, 
 to ascertain if they had paid attention to what they 
 had heard. 
 
 The lesson I had selected was the thirteenth chapter 
 of Matthew. When I asked the children to repeat
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 37 
 
 to me what I had been reading about, there was a 
 profound silence for about two minutes. 
 
 " What," I exclaimed, " is there no one here who 
 listened to me and can answer my question ?" 
 
 Gregory said, in timid tone, "I can." 
 
 "Let me^hear," I asked, somewhat encouraged. 
 
 " You read the parable of the sower and the seed." 
 
 "And can you remember what else." 
 
 " The parable of the tares that were sowed by the 
 enemy, when the good man slept." 
 
 " I am very much pleased that you were so attentive, 
 Gregory. Can you call any thing else to mind ?" 
 
 " Yes. You said that the Kingdom of Heaven was 
 like to a mustard seed." 
 
 "Children," said I, "what are you thinking about 
 to let this little boy, nine years old, answer all these 
 questions?" 
 
 " Our last teacher never asked us to tell her what 
 she had been reading about," interceded Flora, in a 
 timid voice. 
 
 "Well," said I, "whenever I read to you I want 
 you to pay attention, for I shall always expect you to 
 answer any questions I may think proper to put to 
 you, and then if there is any thing you do not under 
 stand, I will explain it to you." 
 
 I now proceeded to examine my pupils, and found 
 that Albert and Laurestina might very nearly be 
 classed together, notwithstanding the difference in 
 their ages. 
 
 4*
 
 38 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 But I cannot expect to interest you with the mo 
 notonous details of a school room. A month passed by 
 without any event of importance, and all had been 
 peaceful and quiet at school. An unruly spirit had, 
 however, often threatened to give me trouble in the 
 person of Albert. He would not learn iris lessons, 
 although I reasoned with him, and told him^what 
 would be the consequence if he encouraged his habits 
 of idleness. I threatened that I would keep him in 
 after school hours, and thus he would be debarred the 
 pleasure of playing with the children. It was all to 
 no effect. Each day it seemed to grow worse, and 
 at last I felt that to excuse his negligence any longer 
 was dishonorable on my part. I was paid handsome 
 ly to teach him. How could I reconcile it to my con 
 science to take the money if he did not learn ? 
 
 I called him up to me, and opened the atlas. His 
 lesson was in geography, and so little was he versed in 
 that study, that he would have believed me if I had 
 told him that Greenland was at the Equator, and Pata 
 gonia at the North Pole. I commenced to hear him 
 his lesson, but he broke down at the third question. 
 I forgave him that, and passed on to the next. He 
 did not know it. The next, he had forgotten it, and 
 Flora had taken the atlas from him before he had 
 finished his lessson. I told him I would take no excuse. 
 That he should go on and take his writing lesson and 
 then recite his history, and after that he should stay 
 in school till he had learnt his geography, be it early
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 39 
 
 or late. He took the atlas and went back to his seat, 
 laughing. No doubt he thought I was too gentle to 
 put my threat into execution. 
 
 He trifled away his time, and when twelve o'clock 
 came, I dismissed the school, and bade him keep his 
 seat. The children got on their things, and eyeing 
 me very curiously, went out, one after another. They 
 lingered round the door, seemingly indisposed to leave 
 their brother in his trouble. Flora came in, after a 
 little while, with tears in her eyes, and begged me to 
 please forgive Albert, and let him go. I told her it 
 was impossible, and advised her to take the children, 
 and go up to the house with them, that he might have 
 nothing to take his attention from his studies. She 
 obeyed me, instantly, and left us once more alone. 
 
 . I was writing some French exercises. Although 
 apparently deeply engaged in my task, I could see Al 
 bert making faces at me. He would pull down his 
 eyes, stretch his mouth, and apply his finger to his nose. 
 
 There are none so blind as those who will not see, and 
 I was resolved not to notice the little comedy he was 
 playing with himself. At last I looked up and said, 
 calmly : 
 
 "Albert, do you know your lesson?" 
 
 "Not yet," he replied, changing color. 
 
 "You had best learn it at once then, or I fonr ym 
 will get no dinner to-day." 
 
 He began to cry.
 
 40 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 " Please forgive me this once, and I will never come 
 to school again, without knowing my lessons." 
 
 " I cannot do it, Albert. I cannot in justice to you 
 or myself, look over any more neglected lessons." 
 
 He cried, bitterly. I went and sat down by him, 
 and laying my hand on his, I said, gently : 
 
 " Albert, I must insist on your studying your task. 
 I can no longer find an excuse for your remissness. I 
 am placed here by your grandmother to teach you. I 
 feel the responsibility to be a great one, and I am 
 convinced it would be sinful in me to allow you to be 
 confirmed in your habits of idleness. When you grow 
 up to be a man, you will come and thank me for this 
 firmness, for you will then be assured that it was your 
 own lasting benefit that actuated me. Now, you see it 
 in a different light, and you think it cruel in me to 
 detain you here." 
 
 " You hate me. Every body hates me. But you 
 love Gregory. You never keep him in," blubbered 
 Albert. 
 
 " Gregory always knows his lessons perfectly. He 
 never misses a word. He takes pride in having a good 
 mark set down to his name every day." Here I was 
 interrupted by the entrance of Jacob. 
 
 "Misses says, please come to dinner," he said. 
 Albert got up to go. 
 
 "Take your seat," said I, in a quiet tone. Then, 
 turning to Jacob,
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 41 
 
 " Tell your mistress I have been obliged to keep 
 Albert in, and ask her to please send him a biscuit and 
 a cup of water. Tell her that I have a head-ache and 
 don't want any dinner." 
 
 Jacob ran back to the house, and Albert said, sneer- 
 
 " I won't touch the biscuit, and I am glad that you 
 will have to go without your dinner. You got a head 
 ache, any how, tormenting me." 
 
 "For shame, Albert," said Mr. Woodville, who at 
 that moment entered the school room. Albert hung 
 his head. 
 
 " Learn that lesson perfectly, you naughty boy, and 
 don't leave this room till Miss Walton returns to it," 
 said Mr. W. "If you do I will take away the roan 
 filly I gave you. " Come, Miss Walton. Come up to 
 the house and get some dinner. It will never do to let 
 you make a martyr of yourself* for this head-strong 
 boy." 
 
 I was sorry to leave Albert all alone to bear his 
 punishment, but remonstrance was useless, and Mr. 
 Woodville pulled me away, and drawing my arm within 
 his, led me along towards the house, saying, 
 
 " Bad boy, that uncle's fault been away five years 
 
 no sort of management ruined good for nothing 
 
 lazy idle worthless. ' ' 
 
 " Oh, I hope he is not ruined," said I. " I do not 
 despair of seeing him improve, but it is very hard to 
 overcome habits of indolence all at once. When they
 
 42 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 grow so upon one they become second nature. I only 
 regret that I was forced to be so strict with him, for 
 believe me I would far rather win the love than the 
 fear of my little pupils." 
 
 "You are not near strict enough, my child," said 
 the old man, looking down at me in a fatherly way. 
 " You were never formed to buffet with the world. You 
 are slender and delicate, and I fear you are too close 
 ly shut up in that school room. If there is any thing 
 I can do to make your situation more pleasant, I beg 
 you will let me know. They call me cross, and say 
 the old man is dead to all the sympathies of the world, 
 but don't you believe a word of it. There are plenty 
 of young men about, who have harder hearts than I, I 
 can tell you." 
 
 Thus passed away the first month of my residence 
 at the home of the Woodvilles. Gradually I was be 
 coming contented, though I still longed for my mother 
 and darling brother. I had written two letters, and 
 as yet had received no reply. One day, Octave came 
 in, and said he was going to town, and asked who 
 wanted him to bring them a letter ? 
 
 "I do, if you please," said I. 
 
 'M-Vell, I'll see what I can do for you, but I don't 
 believe there will be any for you. Your mother has 
 foYgotten all about you by this time, depend upon it." 
 
 Octave started upon his ride. It was Saturday, and 
 there was no school. The day was warm ana pleasant 
 and we carried chairs out, and sat upon the porch.
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 43 
 
 Flora and Laurestina had often made me promise I 
 would dress them a doll, and I was now busily engaged 
 redeeming my promise. To see the delight of the chil 
 dren, as one by one I finished their articles of dress, 
 and at last proceeded to dress them, was pleasure enough 
 for me, but my heart was not in my work. I was 
 watching eagerly the return of Octave. I firmly be 
 lieved he would have a letter for me, and I could not 
 repress my impatience, as hour after hour passed by 
 and still he tarried. Night came on, and the bell rang 
 for supper. 
 
 We took our places around the table. Mrs. Wood- 
 ville said to me, kindly, 
 
 " I am afraid our quiet life is not one to make you 
 happy, Miss Walton. You are looking very pale, this 
 evening." 
 
 " Indeed, madam, I cannot complain of any feeling 
 df unhappiness, save only in the necessary separation 
 from my family. I should be indeed ungrateful to you 
 for all your kindness if I displayed a fretful or discon 
 tented spirit." 
 
 " Do you think you could be happy to live always 
 in the country, and never see the city again ?" asked 
 Mr. Woodville. 
 
 " I should, certainly, upon some easy conditions, for 
 indeed I think there is far more real pleasure in the 
 quiet, peaceful life you lead. Oh, I am sick and often 
 have been of the bustle and ceaseless din of the city. 
 There is a something in its changing life that palls upon
 
 44 WAY-MARKS 'IN THE 
 
 the spirit, and I have often felt, when I have only left 
 it for a few hours, and have wandered amid the roman 
 tic and sheltered walks of Greenwood, how sweet and 
 soothing it would be to rest forever in the forest glades 
 of my dear native land, and never more breathe the 
 hot fevered air of New York. I love the flowers, the 
 grass, and the sweet singing birds, and last, but not 
 least, the deep-shaded wildwood." 
 
 "Well, it is a better life, I think, myself, if you are 
 not too far removed from the advantages of education, 
 news of the day, &c." 
 
 " Oh yes, Uncle, you could not get along without 
 your papers every day," said Albert. 
 
 "What can keep Octave so late?" asked Mr. Wood- 
 ville. " He has had plenty of time to go to D. and 
 back. I guess he has fallen in with some gay com 
 pany." 
 
 " There he is, now," said his mother. 
 And in fact, upon the still evening air, his clear voice 
 rang out: 
 
 "April, take my horse." 
 
 In another moment he entered the room. I looked 
 at him eagerly, but did not like to rise to go to him. 
 He said, carelessly, 
 
 " Don't look at me, I have got nothing for you." 
 
 He sat down to his supper. Ah, how my heart sank 
 
 within me. I could not account for my mother's silence. 
 
 I feared she might be ill. I knew better than to believe 
 
 she had forgotten me. I could as soon have doubted
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 45 
 
 an angel, as the tender affection of my beloved mother. 
 
 Octave finished his supper, and laid back in his chair. 
 " How sad Miss Walton looks," said he. 
 
 I sat resting my head on my hand. I felt dispirited. 
 So much so indeed that though I heard what he said, 
 I had no heart to answer. 
 
 " Come, come," said he, " what would you give me 
 for a letter?" 
 
 " You can't make me believe, now, that you have 
 got one." 
 
 " I can't, aye what are those?" 
 
 Saying this, he held up two letters. 
 
 Laurestina stole noiselessly behind him, seized the 
 letters, and brought them to me. They were indeed 
 mine, and you may imagine how fondly I kissed the 
 one directed in my mother's handwriting. It brought 
 me the pleasant tidings that my brother and herself 
 were in excellent health, and as happy as they could 
 be in my absence. It contained much good advice, 
 and wound up with her blessing. The second letter 
 was from my teacher, who having known me from 
 childhood, naturally felt interested in my welfare. 
 After writing me a long letter, she proved that it was 
 written by a woman, by adding a postcript. The 
 contents of said postcript puzzled me not a little. 
 They ran as follows : 
 
 " A certain young gentleman, who often saw you 
 at church, and who had constantly annoyed me for 
 an introduction to you, is in despair at finding you
 
 46 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 gone to the South. He begged me to warn you not 
 to get married out there, without indeed you would 
 insure your own happiness by so doing. If you could 
 hear the way he goes on, I do think, calm as you are, 
 it would move you. He made me get all the letters 
 y^u had written to your mother, and read them to 
 him; and he even insisted on taking copies of them, 
 but to this I objected without you would grant your 
 consent." 
 
 Such was the postscript of my teacher's letter, and 
 I well knew that the gentleman, whoever he might 
 be, must be an excellent man, or her ideas of pro 
 priety would never have suffered her to mention him 
 to me. I could not make out who it could be. and 
 I found myself interested in one who liked me so 
 much. Now, I am not writing a love-sick story, and 
 I think that the trash which is every day dished up 
 for the young girls of the present generation, does 
 more harm in filling their heads with romantic non 
 sense, and unfitting them for the calm, sober and 
 matronly duties of life, than all good common sense 
 writers can hope to improve; yet, it must not be 
 supposed that I shall exclude love from my book. A 
 pure and holy affection is the guiding star of exist 
 ence. Love knits together the whole human family ; 
 holds in golden chains the parent and the child, the 
 wife and the husband; and- more than all beside, 
 unites the poor feeble creature to its maker, God. 
 Marriage is the appointed lot of woman ; and blessed
 
 LIFE OP A WANDERER. 47 
 
 with the holy ties of husband and children, she 
 reaches the perfection of human happiness. You will 
 excuse me, then, when I confess that I was interested 
 in this stranger, whom I had never seen, for I well 
 knew my teacher would have buried forever such a 
 secret, could she have supposed the slightest blame^to 
 be attached to the feeling. I was a young girl of 
 eighteen, and the idea of being fondly remembered, 
 pleased me. Ah, could I have forseen the dark 
 future, I would have crushed the sentiment at its 
 birth ; but like many another before me, I was rush 
 ing thoughtlessly on to the rock that would founder 
 my fragile bark. Oh, could some warning voice have 
 whispered in my ear, ere it was too late ; but there 
 was no voice. Alas ! none. Do you expect that my 
 life has turned out happy that my note-book records 
 joyful events that my way-side is strewn with 
 flowers ? Do not hope it, but profit by the way-marks 
 I point out to you, and rest not your heart and its 
 affections too surely upon earth ; for alas, the gilded 
 bauble will vanish at your touch, the fruit will turn 
 to bitter ashes in your mouth. Would to God I had 
 the power of turning one human soul from sin, and 
 the " way-marks in the note-book of the wanderer," 
 would not be written in vain. 
 
 " Miss Walton seems pleased with her letter," said 
 Octave". 
 
 "I don't know why you should object to that," 
 observed Mr. Woodville, crossly.
 
 48 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 " I didn't say I did object to it," returned Octave, 
 snappishly. " I said 
 
 " I am certainly pleased to get tidings of my 
 mother, and I think you would be, if you were away 
 from her." 
 
 " Quite likely but were both, those letters from 
 your mother the last one, for instance?" 
 
 " No," said I, blushing " one was from my 
 teacher." 
 
 " "Do they employ male teachers altogether, in New 
 York ?" he asked, carelessly ; and I, not seeing his 
 drift, answered, "not always." 
 
 " I am glad grandma did not ^et a gentleman to 
 teach us," said Gregory, with a roguish smile. 
 
 "Why so?" asked Mrs. Woodville. 
 
 " Because he would have whipped us all, whether 
 we deserved it or not. Mr. Spicer used to whip us 
 every morning; and one morning, when one of the 
 boys asked him what he was going to whip him for, 
 he told him he did not know, but that if he had not 
 
 H 
 
 done any thing to merit it, he would be certain to, 
 before night." 
 
 " Hard logic," said Mrs. Woodville. " Octave, 
 what ails you? you look as if your headache was 
 coming on." 
 
 " It don't matter much if it does I may as well 
 have that as any thing else.". 
 
 "Nonsense, my son, how you talk." 
 
 "Don't mind Octave," said Mr. Woodville, peevish-
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 49 
 
 ly " young jnen are always fretting or finding fault 
 about something. Mary Jones has been frowning on 
 him, I dare say ; but it will not take him long to for 
 get her. There is sefflom any stability in these high- 
 flown temperaments." 
 
 " Confound Mary Jones. Much I care for her 
 frowns or smiles the heartless flirt." 
 
 " Oh, uncle!" said Flora, "that's a pretty way to 
 talk about your wife that is to be. You told me she 
 was to be my aunt, and asked me how I should like 
 to have au aunt Mary." 
 
 " I say a good many things, Flora, when the days 
 are long ; when they are short, I say more at night." 
 
 " My s<9n," said Mrs. Woodville, solemnly, " you 
 should not jest upon such serious subjects. I regret 
 that any thing should have occurred to put you out 
 of humon Mary, put the children to bed." 
 
 As soon as they had left the room, she continued 
 
 "If you expect your wife to be respected, you 
 should never speak of her in that mariner, even though 
 it be in jest. Remember, it may one day be repeated 
 to her, word for word." 
 
 "I don't care if it is. I say again, confound Mary 
 Jones she will never be my wife." 
 
 " Why have you changed your mind so suddenly, 
 my son?" 
 
 " I have been some time changing my mind. It is 
 nothing hasty. Mary Jones is a very good girl in 
 .5*
 
 50 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 her way, but I tell you once for all, I've broken with 
 her." " 
 
 " Octave, is this acting honourably?" 
 
 " A "Woodville never acts otherwise," said the 
 young man, proudly. 
 
 " Perhaps you intend to be an old bachelor, like 
 myself?" suggested Mr. Woodville. 
 
 " I have no such thoughts at present, I assure you, 
 uncle. When the marrying fit comes on me, I shall 
 go to the North for a wife; so don't talk to me any 
 more about Mary Jones that affair is all settled." 
 
 Mrs. Woodville exchanged glances with her brother, 
 and a look of deep meaning passed between them. 
 At that time, in the innocence of my heart, I had no 
 suspicion of their thoughts. Now, alas ! my eyes are 
 opened, and I see I see but what I see, you must 
 not know as yet. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Oae lovely afternoon I dismissed my school, and 
 walked slowly up to the house alone. I was in a sad 
 humor; so sad that I had waited for the children to 
 get out of sight before I left the school room. Even 
 their little joyous prattling annoyed me, for my heart 
 was pining for the dear ones at home. As I crossed 
 the porch, Octave came out and met me. He said
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 51 
 
 " Would you be afraid to ride out behind my horses 
 this evening, Miss Walton?" 
 
 "Why afraid?" I asked. 
 
 " There is no other lady in Georgia who would ask 
 that question. My horses are high-spirited animals, 
 and are the terror of the surrounding country. They 
 have, indeed, to speak frankly, a most unenviable 
 reputation." 
 
 " I do not fear them in the least." 
 
 " Did you ever see them ?" 
 
 " Oh yes, I have been in the stable many a time in 
 the morning before you were up, and they have eaten 
 out of my hand. I won Grey Eagle's heart at once, 
 with a kiss, but it was more than a week before I 
 could bring Bill's Wife to terms. She likes me now, 
 and I should not be afraid to drive them fifty miles, 
 if my own strength would hold out." 
 
 " What, you have been in the stable, and gone near 
 enough to those horses to let them kick you? Oh, 
 Miss Walton, how daring !" 
 
 " Not at all. A horse is my especial delight. I 
 would rather have one for a pet than all the dogs, 
 cats, and birds in the country." 
 
 "And you will drive, two in hand, this afternoon?" 
 
 " Certainly, if you desire it." 
 
 " You don't know what you are saying, but I will 
 take you at your word. Here comes April with the 
 buggy permit me to hand you in."
 
 52 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 " Let me run in first, and ask Mrs. Woodville's 
 permission." 
 
 In a moment I returned. He led me gallantly 
 along, handed me in, sprang up and seated himself at 
 my side. He drove the horses to the head of the 
 avenue, out of his mother's sight, and then, coming to 
 a dead halt, handed me the reins. I had by this 
 time seen enough of the horses to make me repent of 
 my temerity. I said I would rather not drive. 
 
 " Oh, hut you must," said Octave. " It is too late 
 to retract now. Come, take the reins." 
 
 I made up my mind to do any thing rather than be 
 laughed at. I took the reins but here a new diffi 
 culty arose. My hands were so small that I was 
 obliged to hold one rein in each hand. I drove six 
 miles without stopping. The horses flew along before 
 the wind. They were superb animals large, nobly 
 built, iron gray in color, and perfectly symmetrical 
 in shape. They had never before submitted to any 
 hand but their master's, and I felt it to be a dan 
 gerous experiment; but the southern and western 
 horses are, like their masters, polite, generous and 
 kind to the ladies, and I must confess the noble ani 
 mals treated me with that courtesy to which I was 
 entitled as a lady, though not as a very proficient 
 driver. 
 
 At the end of the six miles, I asked if I had driven 
 far enough to prove my courage ? 

 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 53 
 
 "Yes," said Octave, "when you have driven back 
 again." 
 
 I looked appealingly, but Octave's face expressed 
 nothing but a sneer. I hesitated no longer, but 
 dexterously turning round drove back as rapidly as 
 before. We reached the inner gate, and throwing 
 the reins to April, I gave my hand to Octave and 
 sprang out. Never was I more delighted to get out 
 of a scrape. I ran through the garden and up the 
 steps to the portico. At the door I met Mary. She 
 was just coming out. I was struck with the appear 
 ance of her face. It was positively fiendish in ex 
 pression. 
 
 " What," said she, through her closed teeth, " back 
 so soon?" 
 
 " Oh yes," I replied, "we did not go far." 
 
 I passed her and went to my room, and but for sub 
 sequent events I should have forgotten all about it. 
 Often afterwards I recalled the terrible expression I 
 read in her countenance, with shuddering. 
 
 I took off my gloves, and lo, what a pair of hands 
 was there. Clearly defined across the soft white palms, 
 were two large, black marks. The reins had bruised 
 them so much that I was obliged to call for salt and 
 water to bathe them. The tea^bell rang and I went 
 out to supper. Octave saluted me with mock rever 
 ence. I professed profound ignorance of his allusions 
 and manner. He said 
 
 " Just hear her trying to make believe, by her cool,
 
 54 WAY-MARKS IN TIIE 
 
 self-posessed manner, that she is not proud of the feat 
 she accomplished this evening." 
 
 "Indeed," Miss Walton, said Mrs. Woodville, "you 
 Northern ladies have a great deal of courage. I 
 would not trust myself with Octave's horses for a 
 fortune." 
 
 " I shall think, after a while, that I am quite heroic, 
 if you continue thus to laud my courage." 
 
 " To be sure you are brave," said Gregory. " Uncle 
 John says all kind-hearted people are brave, and he 
 thinks " 
 
 "Never mind what I think," interposed Mr. Wood 
 ville. 
 
 "I'll tell her all you think, the first chance I get," 
 said Flora, with a gay laugh. 
 
 "How do you like riding on horseback?" asked 
 Octave. 
 
 "Oh! very much," I exclaimed, and my heart 
 bounded with delight as memory carried me back to 
 the happy hours of childhood, when I had a little 
 pony of my own, and when a kind father's hand had 
 taught me how to guide him. 
 
 "I wish you had said so before," remarked Mrs. 
 Woodville, "I have no doubt the exercise would do 
 you good, and Octave has a very fine lady's horse in 
 the stable, that is absolutely getting ruined for want 
 .of use." 
 
 "-Now do get up early to-morrow morning, Miss 
 Walton," said Octave, "and let me have the honor
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 55 
 
 of taking care of you. I shall be a most excellent 
 squire." 
 
 " I have no riding dress," said I. 
 
 " There are three or four here. After tea, Mary 
 shall bring them all to you, to take your choice." 
 
 Shall I confess it, I was childishly happy at the 
 thought of the morrow's ride. I began to have an 
 Affection for Mrs. Woodville, notwithstanding her 
 pride. I said to myself, she has a kind, motherly 
 heart, after all. She had in a thousand ways tried 
 to impress upon me that I was not her equal. My 
 haughty spirit would not tolerate this, and I met her 
 pride, by an equally chilling hauteur. I felt that by 
 birth, education and conduct, I was her equal. I often 
 found myself drawing comparisons between her and my 
 mother, who was, in my estimation, the beau ideal of 
 loveliness and aimability. I do not think it was par 
 tiality that made me always decide in favor of the 
 latter. She was then, and ever will be, the bright par 
 ticular star of my existence. Her example has been 
 to me a shining light, leading me on to Virtue, Purity, 
 and Truth. With my whole heart I must say, God 
 bless my mother. 
 
 The next morning I rose early, and we started on 
 our ride. The air was clear and bracing, and I re 
 turned with rosy cheeks, high spirits, and an appetite 
 for my breakfast. I went to school, and as if to check 
 me for being happy, Albert and Laurestina both 
 behaved badly, and gave me considerable trouble.
 
 56 WAY-MARKS IN TE 
 
 They would not learn their lessons, and Laurestina 
 was so playful, that she frolicked around me like a 
 kitten. I could not find it in my heart to scold her. 
 Still I knew that if I fulfilled my duty to her I must 
 be strict. I was obliged to keep them both in, and 
 Albert, seeing I was determined to be obeyed, studied 
 his lesson, and came and repeated it perfectly. I 
 dismissed him, and now remained alone with Laures 
 tina. I am quite certain she regarded me in the 
 light of an ogress, for she cried bitterly, and when I 
 went to her to reason with her on her disobedience, 
 she dropped on her knees, and commenced screaming 
 with all 'her might. 
 
 I sat down beside her, and taking her in my lap, 
 gently smoothed back the wet, tangled curls from her 
 beautiful face. In a tone of voice that was kind, 
 though perfectly cool and self-possessed, I said 
 
 "I am very sorry to see my little Laurestina 
 behave so naughty. It grieves me to the heart." 
 
 "Let me go home. Let me go to my mother," she 
 sobbed. 
 
 "I cannot do that, my dear child, till you have 
 said your lesson. Only think what an easy one it is, 
 only just six little words to spell." 
 
 "It is'nt easy, its hard," sobbed the child. "I 
 can't learn it." 
 
 "My little Laurestina must learn it," I answered, 
 firmly. "Don't ever let me hear this word, 'can't,' 
 from that little mouth again. Always say, 'I'll try.'
 
 LIFE OP A WANDERER. 57 
 
 'I'll try,' achieves wonders, but 'I can't,' never did 
 anything yet. Now let me hear you repeat your les 
 son. Come, I'll help you. R-A-T rat. You know 
 what a rat is ? There was one tried to get into the 
 safe, last night. Don't you remember?" 
 
 Completely won over by the firmness and kindness 
 of my manner, the child learnt her lesson, and in ten 
 minutes knew every word. 
 
 I then took the opportunity of talking to her about 
 the temper she had displayed. I told her of her 
 mother, who was dead, and who was an angel in 
 Heaven. I asked her how she would like her to look 
 down and see her little girl behaving so badly. I 
 assured her that it was my belief that God permitted 
 the souls of the just to watch over those they loved 
 on earth, or in other words, to be their guardian 
 angels. I am aware this may be objected to by some, 
 and called a tradition of the Catholic church. I am 
 not a Catholic, but I think many of their rites and 
 traditions are beautiful, and I do not think we have 
 any right, as Christians, to condemn any person on 
 account of the peculiar tenets of their faith. I have, 
 in New Orleans and St. Louis, made the acquaintance 
 of so many liberal-minded, noble-hearted Catholics, 
 that every vestige of prejudice has faded from my 
 mind. Let us have charity with all men, and remem 
 ber that it is neither Catholic nor Protestant as such 
 that will gain entrance to Heaven. The crystal
 
 58 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 gates will open wide to the name of Christian, and 
 sect and tenet will be alike forgotten. 
 
 Pardon me if I digress a little here, to speak of 
 that excellent man, that benefactor of the human 
 race; that noble being, whose whole life has been a 
 sacrifice to the God who gave it, Father Matthew. 
 Life would be well worth having when blessed with 
 such fruition as has crowned his labors. Upon his 
 face God has written his approval. A short time 
 ago I heard him lecture to a crowd of some thousands 
 of people. The sight of this man, so forgetful of 
 self, so devoted to the good of others, so mild and 
 gentle to the little children who crowded round him, 
 made a deep impression upon my mind, and created 
 anew the longing I had experienced in earlier years, 
 when I read the story of the noble philanthropist, 
 whose memory is indelibly associated with the Hos 
 pice of St. Bernard. Ah, thought I, would to God I 
 might win a crown of such laurels. I shall not then 
 have lived and died in vain. 
 
 Laurestina was deebly impressed with what I told 
 her. She seemed to feel a sort of shame (if I may so 
 express it) at the thought of her mother being a wit 
 ness to her bad behaviour. I have reason to think 
 she still remembers what I told her. 
 
 Now, one word in reference to the management of 
 children. How many are there who while that child 
 was screaming with passion, would have taken a whip,
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 59 
 
 and goaded her already highly excited feelings to 
 madness. What permanant good can be effected by 
 this sort of punishment ? Does it convince the judg 
 ment ? Does it reach the heart ? Does it influence 
 for good the after-life of the child? I think not. 
 Better, far better is it to win your way, slowly, firm 
 ly and kindly, by influencing the affections, and con 
 vincing the judgment of the child, that the end you 
 seek is its own individual good, that it must either 
 bow in submission to your will, or seal its own unhap- 
 piness. Tis true there are times, particularly with 
 boys, when a little wholesome whipping may be advis 
 able, but the punishment should be inflicted some 
 hours, or even days, after the commission of the crime. 
 The temper should cool. The child should be made to 
 feel that you are grieved to be compelled to punish. 
 That it is indeed drinking a bitter cup yourself, 
 to be forced to inflict pain upon your child. In this 
 solemn manner you make an impression upon the 
 better feelings, which in the young are always tender 
 and easily moved. The heart of childhood is indeed 
 the ductile wax in the hands of the moulder, and wo 
 be to them who distort it, and warp it to evil. How 
 much misery might be avoided, how much good might 
 spring up where now is no redeeming trait, if love 
 and gentleness had trained up children, instead of 
 harshness and cruelty ; and how many poor, lost souls, 
 forsaken by all the world, steeped in disgrace and 
 shame, loathsome even to themselves, might be saved,
 
 60 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 might be redeemed, if some pure being would stretch 
 forth the hand of friendship, and cover with the mantle 
 of charity their many faults; speak soothing words of 
 pity and encouragement, and give them not only 
 bibles and tracts, but bread, to sustain their miser 
 able lives. 
 
 I heard, not very long ago, the eloquent and far- 
 famed Mr. Wadsworth, of Troy, preach a sermon for 
 the Home Missionary Society of Philadelphia. It was 
 indeed a masterly effort. He painted true charity in 
 vivid coloring. He asked what was the use of bibles 
 and tracts and religious advice if you did not act up 
 to the precepts you inculcated ? He related an instance 
 that had come before the board. A poor, blind man 
 lived with his brother and sister-in-law in a wretched 
 hovel. The brother got sick, and it was to his efforts 
 the family looked for support. They were all old 
 people, and one after another every article of furni 
 ture was sold, to obtain bread to keep them from starv 
 ing. The blind man was an infidel. An open re- 
 viler of the bible, of Christians, and of the church of 
 God. By and by winter came on in all its severity. 
 The cold blasts pierced through and through the home 
 and hearts of the suffering family. Some benevolent 
 person made their case known to the Society. That 
 excellent man, Mr. Street, went to see them. It was a 
 spectacle that touched his heart. He spoke soothing 
 words, and left them to fulfil his errand of mercy. 
 He sent them beds to sleep upon, fire to keep them
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 61 
 
 warm, groceries and provisions to satisfy the cravings 
 of hunger, and various little articles of comfort and 
 necessity, too numerous to mention. Then he went 
 to see them again, this time taking with him a 
 bible and some tracts. " Who are you," asked the 
 blind man, " that has done so much for us ? Why 
 have you given us all these things?" "For the love 
 of Christ, whom I worship," said Mr. Street. " In 
 his name we, who are His humble followers, seek out 
 the poor and needy, and relieve their wants. It was 
 the work He gave us to do, for when He was on 
 earth, He went about doing good. Here is a bible 
 that will tell you of His boundless love for poor sin 
 ners. Shall I read it to you?" 
 
 " Oh yes, read, read. There must be something in 
 this religion, that makes you so good to the poor and 
 wretched, from whom you can expect no sort of re 
 compense." 
 
 The blind man was converted. Thus an immortal 
 soul was gathered to the fold of Christ, that would 
 otherwise have been forever lost. "Ah," said Mr. W. 
 " there is something sublime and noble in this union of 
 bibles and bread, tracts and firewood." And there is 
 a sublimity in it, for it is the union of the two great 
 fundamental principles of the Christian religion, faith 
 and good works. Try as you will, you can never sepa 
 rate them with good to yourself, and with a lively 
 faith you will be certain to abound in good works. 
 This world is passing away. Soon, very soon, we 
 6*
 
 62 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 shall be called upon to leave alike its joys and sor 
 rows. Oh let us try to do all the good we can. If 
 we can bring joy to one sorrowing heart, if we can save 
 one misguided soul from ruin, if we can plant even one 
 seed that may spring up and bloom in Paradise, oh ! 
 let us labor while we may, and strive hard to culti 
 vate all the gentler feelings of our nature, that we 
 may become more and more like the shining example 
 of our most blessed Lord and Saviour. How much 
 more quietly we shall lie down upon our bed of death : 
 'How much more easily will the gates of Heaven 
 unclose at our approach. 
 
 Time passed on, and nature's roses bloomed once 
 more on my cheeks. I rode out on horseback every 
 day with Octave, and he was as kind and attentive as 
 I could have expected a brother to be. I felt grate 
 ful to him, and began to love his mother more and 
 more. She was so happy when I was pleased, and 
 seemed to delight in seeing me gay and cheerful. 
 
 One day, as we rode slowly along a winding path, 
 Octave said to me, 
 
 "Miss Walton, you have entirely won my 
 mother's heart. She acknowledges that you have 
 completely eradicated her prejudices against the 
 Northerners." 
 
 "It makes me happy to hear it," I replied. 
 
 " Do you think you could content yourself to stay 
 here a year, without going home to see your family?"
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. t)3 
 
 "I don't know. If I cannot get away, I must try 
 to make a virtue of necessity. I will strive hard for 
 contentment." 
 
 "I will do all I can to make you happy," he said. 
 
 "Indeed, you always have done that, ever since I 
 came here, and I assure you I am not ungrateful for 
 all your many acts of kindness and atention." 
 
 "It is not gratitude I ask from your heart," he 
 said. 
 
 I looked at him -quite puzzled. Love, with all its 
 enigmas, its hopes and fears, was as yet a sealed book 
 to me ; nor had I yet seen the person who could unfold 
 its mysteries to me. It was surely not Octave Wood- 
 ville. He had inspired me, from the first moment 
 of our acquaintance, with distrust. I did not know 
 then that he loved me, but I do now. He, the petted, 
 courted child of fortune, the heir to an immense es 
 tate, loved the poor, portionless Northerner, the hired 
 teacher of his sister's children. Yes, loved her with 
 an honorable passion, and would have deemed that, 
 the proudest moment of his life in which he could have 
 called her wife. 
 
 We had reached the top of a hill that overlooked 
 the country, far and near. The prospect was charm 
 ing. "Come," said I, "let's have a gallop over this 
 lovely plain," and starting off, I soon left him far 
 behind. When he caught up to me, the moon was 
 shining, and the quiet stars looked down upon me, and 
 warned me of the coming night.
 
 G4 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 "I never dreamed it was so late, did you?" I asked. 
 
 "No, little flatterer, who would think of time in your 
 company." 
 
 " Oh, let us return. I am so frightened. How far 
 are we from home?" 
 
 "Seven miles." 
 
 " You are jesting?" 
 
 "That is Carrol's place to the right." 
 
 "Is it possible? Well, indeed, I would not have 
 believed it." 
 
 We cantered briskly home. As usual, Mary met us 
 on the porch. Her eyes gleamed wildly, and the old 
 expression was on her face, as she said in a hissing 
 tone, 
 
 "Old missus has been so scared about you." 
 
 "Did she think we had run off?" asked Octave, with 
 a gay laugh. 
 
 Mary muttered something that I did not hear. I 
 passed on, and was going to my room, when something, 
 I know not what, induced me to turn. Octave still 
 stood on the porch, and, could it be true ? yes, it was ; 
 I surely saw it with my own eyes ; Mary, the pretty 
 yellow slave, stood before him, and her arms were 
 thrown wildly around him. Her head rested on his 
 shoulder. I was amazed. I knew not what to think, 
 but I had sense enough to hasten away before they 
 saw me. 
 
 As soon as I had laid off my riding habit, I went 
 down to supper. I advanced to Mrs. Woodville and 
 said,
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 65 
 
 " Pardon me, dear madam, for keeping you waiting 
 so long. I will never do so again. Indeed the time 
 passed so rapidly, that it was night before I was 
 aware of it." 
 
 She looked at me fixedly for a moment, and then 
 said, grasping my hand as she spoke, 
 
 "You are perfectly excusable, my child, and if 
 ever truth and innocence were written on a human 
 face, I read it here. You have no apology to offer, 
 my dear Marcia, if you will permit me to call you so." 
 
 "Oh do," said I, delighted, "that will make me 
 think I am home once more." 
 
 " And shall I have the privilege too ?" asked Mr. 
 Woodville, smiling pensively. 
 
 " Certainly, if you wish it," I replied. 
 
 " Well, then, to begin at once, Marcia, will you per 
 mit me?" and he handed me to the table. 
 
 " I want to' call you Marcia, too," said Laurestina. 
 
 "And I," "and I," "and I," chimed in all the 
 others. 
 
 " Oh we cannot permit that," said Mrs. "Woodville. 
 " If we do, we shall have no order at school." 
 
 " I would obey Marcia as quickly as I would Miss 
 Walton," said Flora, pouting. 
 
 "Well," said I, " we will make a compromise. In 
 school I will be Miss Walton. Out of it, if you are 
 good children, I will be Marcia to you all." 
 
 "Oh, I am so glad," said Laurestina. "Marcia, 
 please hand me the biscuit."
 
 6G WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 "I like it too," said Gregory. "Did you have a 
 pleasant ride, Marcia?" 
 
 "Very pleasant, thank you." 
 
 " Come children, eat more and talk less," said Mrs. 
 Woodville* " Octave, what ails you. You don't eat 
 any supper?" 
 
 "I don't feel hungry." 
 
 "Are you sick?" 
 
 "No. Yes. I have a slight head-ache." He 
 leaned his head on his hand. Was he angry that of 
 all that family party, he alone was excluded from the 
 privilege of calling me by my first name ? So Mr. 
 Woodville seemed to think, for he said, 
 
 " How now, boy ; you want to say Marcia, too, do 
 you ? Ten to one you think it a very pretty name." 
 
 He raised his eyes, and gave his uncle a look not 
 easily forgotten. In an instant it was gone, and 
 without answering the question Mr. Woodville had 
 addressed to him, he said to his mother, in a gay 
 tone, 
 
 " I am not hungry and don't want any supper, but 
 after a while, Miss Walton may, if she pleases, make 
 us some egg-nog. I am just in the humor of drink 
 ing and making merry." 
 
 " Will you oblige Octave ?" said his mother to me. 
 
 " Certainly, if you desire it," I replied. 
 
 At nine o'clock the egg-nog was made. I served 
 it out, and Jacob carried it round. I had never been 
 partial to the taste of brandy, and soon sat down
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 67 
 
 my glass. Octave advanced towards me. He took 
 up my tumbler, and holding it up to the light, turned 
 it round till he came to the spot which my lips had 
 touched. He raised it to his mouth, kissed it and 
 drained its contents. No one saw the movement save 
 myself, and a pair of lustrous black eyes, that leered 
 at him from the corner of the room. It was Mary, 
 who sat there at a little work-table mending some 
 clothes for the children. Oh what a look she gave me. 
 I shuddered in spite of myself, and turned away my 
 head. For the first time I felt a restraint in Octave's 
 presence. I did not interpret his kissing the glass in 
 any way but as a little harmless flattery, but I felt 
 annoyed and unusually depressed, and I resolved to 
 retire to my room at once, and gain in solitude that 
 quiet which was necessary to the restoration of my 
 health. But my head pressed a sleepless pillow. A 
 presentiment of evil hung over me and darkened my 
 spirits. The large brilliant black eyes of the pretty 
 yellow slave, haunted my imagination, and pursued 
 me in my dreams. It was near morning when I 
 slept, and the breakfast bell rang without my hearing 
 it. 
 
 Somebody tapped at my door. I arose and open 
 ed it. Flora stood there, and I told her to come in. 
 She held in her hand a superb boquet of flowers. 
 She said, 
 
 " See what uncle Octave has sent you. He was 
 up before day, and rode five miles to Dayne's green 
 house, to get you these flowers."
 
 68 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 "How very kind," I exclaimed, taking them, and 
 inhaling their fragrance. I then placed them in a 
 vase of fresh water. 
 
 "Did you know breakfast was waiting?" asked 
 Flora. 
 
 " Certainly not, can it he possible ?" 
 
 "It is, indeed, and you have not commenced to 
 dress yourself yet." 
 
 "Never mind. Sit still, and you shall see how 
 soon I will be ready." 
 
 In a few moments I accompanied Flora to the 
 dining room, where the family were already seated at 
 breakfast. I looked at Octave to thank him for his 
 gift, and was struck by the pallor of his face. 
 
 " Are you sick ?" I asked. 
 
 " I only have a head-ache." 
 
 "There," said Mrs. Woodville, "I knew it. I saw 
 last night it was coming on ; and that ride this mor 
 ning did you no good." She looked at me with a 
 reproachful air. 
 
 "An early ride has often cured me before." 
 
 "Yes, but not on a damp, heavy morning, like 
 this." 
 
 Octave rose from the table and went to his room. 
 The meal passed in silence, and soon after we left for 
 school. At dinner time I did not see Octave, and as 
 his name was not mentioned I did not inquire about 
 him. I remained in the school room that night, till 
 nearly dark, busily engaged at my French exercises.
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 69 
 
 I was indeed so entirely engrossed, that I took no 
 note of the flight of time. 
 
 Some one tapped at the door, and I bade him 
 enter. 
 
 Mr. Woodville came in and said, 
 
 "Really, Marcia, this will not do. I am afraid 
 some accident will happen to you here. Are you not 
 aware there are many runaway negroes in the woods, 
 prowling about ? Men who would not hesitate at any 
 crime, not even murder." 
 
 "I never thought of that," said I, shuddering. 
 " It seemed to me I was removed from all the danger 
 so common in great cities." 
 
 I was very soon ready to accompany Mr. Wood 
 ville up to the house. I went to my room, took off 
 my bonnet, and came out to supper. Octave was 
 there, lying on the sofa. He was as white as death. 
 He fixed his eyes upon me with a sad expression, and 
 I asked him how he felt. 
 
 " Better," was his only word of answer. 
 
 After eating my supper, I brought out my work 
 basket and sat down to my sewing. Octave said, 
 
 "Miss Walton, shall I trouble you to bathe my 
 head ? I can get no relief from this intolerable pain 
 in any other way." 
 
 " I shall consider it a pleasure rather than a trouble, 
 if I can do aught to soothe you." 
 
 I got cold water and bathed his throbbing temples 
 and fevered brow. I nursed him as a sister might 
 7
 
 70 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 have waited on a brother, and I ain very sure no feel 
 ing entered my heart but pity, such as an angel 
 might have felt. 
 
 "Does that relieve you?" I asked, bending over 
 him. 
 
 "Oh, very much," he replied. "Are you tired? 
 Do not leave me without you are." 
 
 " Certainly not, if it affords you any gratification 
 for me to stay." 
 
 Ten o'clock came. Mrs. "Woodville begged Octave 
 to permit Mary to bathe his head. She pleaded that 
 I must be tired. 
 
 "I don't want Mary to come near me," he said, 
 crossly. " Then asked me, gently, " Are you tired, 
 though ?" 
 
 "Not much," I replied. "I am used to waiting 
 on the sick. Mother thinks me quite a good nurse." 
 
 " Well, I must not forget in my selfishness that 
 you are not much more than an invalid yourself. 
 Go, now, and get a good night's rest. I shall be well 
 to-morrow, for there is a charm in the touch of your 
 fingers. I am better than I have been all day." 
 
 " I shall retire then in the hope of seeing you quite 
 recovered in the morning. Bon-soir." 
 
 And away I went to my neat little room, to lay 
 my head down for the last time on my pillow, ere the 
 crisis of my life had arrived. One scene of the drama 
 had been acted, and the curtain was now falling, 
 which would separate, with an iron land-mark the
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 71 
 
 Past and Present. God alone knows why such things 
 are permitted. We feel them, we suffer, yet remain 
 in ignorance of their use ; but God knows best, and I 
 will not repine. With a cheek blooming with health, 
 a heart rich in all the gilded visions of Hope, and a 
 soul pure and uncontaminated by evil, and devoted to 
 God, I laid down to sleep, the last sweet dreamless rest 
 of a happy childhood. . 
 
 I awoke, to what? You shall learn it in another 
 chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " Oh, turn away those rigid eyes ! 
 
 My heart hath frozen 'neath their spell; 
 Such looks are not the meet replies 
 To one who loveth thec so well. 
 
 One smile ah, one frank tender smile, 
 Were than a thousand gems more dear, 
 
 If it but told my heart tho, while, 
 
 That I had power thy thoughts to cheer.'' 
 
 I know not to what to attribute my depression this 
 morning. There is a weight on my spirits. There is 
 sorrow at my heart. I feel the invisible presence of 
 something that I fear and dread. I will go forth and 
 inhale the fresh dewy air of the morning. It may 
 bring calm and quiet to my fevered brow.
 
 72 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 Well, out I go. I choose this morning the walk at 
 the back of the house ; and I slowly descend the hill 
 till I reach the little stream at its base. I wander 
 along its verdant margin, stooping now and then to 
 gather the modest violets that peep forth from the 
 turf. Oh, what a lovely day ! The air is mild and 
 balmy; and the ever-green woods around me, declare 
 me to be in a land where reigns an eternal summer. 
 The birds merrily warble their hymns of love and 
 gratitude. All nature seems to rejoice, and I ask 
 myself, " Why art thou, of all the gay things around 
 thee, unhappy? Oh, daughter of earth, why dost 
 thou suffer aught to come between thee and the love 
 of the Infinite?" 
 
 Suddenly, a voice interrupted my musings. It was 
 Octave's. He said 
 
 " Am I not a true prophet ? I told you I would 
 be well this morning. Lo, the morning is here, and I 
 surely never felt better in my life." 
 
 " I am happy to hear it." 
 
 " And yet, to tell the truth, you do not look very 
 happy. What ails -you, Miss Walton? Have you 
 any cause for trouble?" 
 
 " On the contrary, I had never more cause for joy. 
 My health is returning, and I feel strong and hearty. 
 Indeed, nothing is the matter with me, save some 
 imaginary nonsense." 
 
 " Pray, tell me, what sickly fancies have been dis 
 turbing you? Perchance I may cure them."
 
 LIFE OP A WANDERER. 73 
 
 " They would be beyond your reach, for I do not 
 know what they are myself?" 
 
 " Well, we will banish them, then. Let us talk of 
 something else." 
 
 "Certainly, if you desire it." 
 
 " Are you fond of flowers ?" 
 
 " Passionately." 
 
 " Come, sit down here at the foot of this tree. I 
 had this bench placed here for my own accommoda 
 tion. I little dreamed, in those days, that a fair 
 Northerner would ever grace it with her presence." 
 
 " Is this a favorite spot of yours ?" 
 
 " It is, indeed. I spend many happy, and many 
 miserable hours here. Now, come, answer me a ques 
 tion. Can you read the language of flowers ?" 
 
 "Perfectly well." 
 
 " Do you remember the interpretation of the boquet 
 I sent you yesterday ?" 
 
 " Indeed, I do not. I never stopt to think." 
 
 " There was keliatrope what does that mean?" 
 
 "Devotion." 
 
 " There were many violets." 
 
 " Violets are interpreted faithfulness." 
 
 " The sweet blue-bell was there." 
 
 " Oh yes, that means constancy." 
 
 " There was the fragrant, lovely rose-bud." 
 
 " Come, come. I have no notion of being turned 
 into a botanical dictionary. If you wish to become 
 
 versed in the floral world, get a book and apply your- 
 
 7 *
 
 74 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 self diligently," said I, laughing. Octave said, se 
 riously 
 
 " I did not ask you these questions on account of 
 my ignorance, Miss Walton. Far from it. I had 
 these flowers selected with great care, that you might 
 read in them what my lips so longed to speak, but 
 dared not. Sweet Marcia, you have awakened in my 
 breast emotions so overpowering that I am no longer 
 master of myself. I am completely entranced and 
 spell-bound, and I feel that I only live in your pre 
 sence. I have struggled against this passion, well 
 knowing that it would meet my mother's disapproba 
 tion ; and I have watched you closely, but have never 
 yet received one word or look of encouragement from 
 you. Dearly^ loved girl, speak that word, look that 
 one look of affection now, to reward me for my love. 
 Nay, do not turn away your head. Take time to con 
 sider before you repulse me. My heart is wholly 
 yours. I offer you now my hand, and my fortune 
 would be valueless if not shared with you. Why do 
 you rise? Why do you look at me so strange and 
 cold ? Am I then deceived in you ? Are you heart 
 less? Are you without pity for one who loves you 
 with such wild devotion as mine ?" 
 
 "Indeed, Mr. Woodville, I cannot find words to 
 express to you my surprise. I never dreamed of this. 
 I have the kindliest feelings for you, but if, by any 
 action of mine, you have been led to believe that I 
 anticipated this avowal on your part, I humbly beg
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 75 
 
 your pardon. I never loved any one enough to wish 
 to be married to him, and I always thought that you 
 were engaged to be married to Mary Jones. I knew 
 there was some slight difference between you, but I 
 supposed it to be some trifling lovers' quarrel. You 
 have been very kind to me, but I attributed it to the 
 kindness of your heart. I am poor and lonely, far 
 from my home and friends, and oft times very sad. I 
 fancied that you knew all this, and that the generosity 
 of your nature induced you to offer me attentions to 
 lighten my load of sorrow attentions which I should 
 have blushed to receive, had I imagined them prompt 
 ed by any other feeling. Pardon me, if under the 
 influence of gratitude I have for one moment seemed 
 other than I am. I shall ever esteem you highly, but 
 your wife I can never be. I speak firmly and deci 
 dedly, for my mind is fixed, and I need no time to 
 think about it. Let us return to the house." 
 
 " Oh, Marcia, I entreat you not to go yet. Stay 
 one moment. Let me implore you to think over my 
 offer. At least give me some better reason for your 
 refusal. Is there not some one who possesses the 
 treasure of your virgin heart ?" 
 
 "Do you wish to insult me, sir? If I was loved, 
 it should be no hidden thing. I would accept no love 
 it was necessary to hide. I left the school-room, and 
 my mother's bosom, to come to your house. I am 
 but just eighteen, and my mother educated me to con 
 sider myself still a child at that age. It is not neces-
 
 76 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 sary to pursue this subject farther. I have frankly 
 told you the truth, and it is useless for you to suppose 
 that time can change my feelings in the least." 
 
 A slight rustling in the woods here attracted my 
 attention. Octave said it was nothing. I walked 
 towards the house. He insisted on walking with me, 
 though I would much rather have dispensed with his 
 company. In a few moments we met Flora and 
 Mr. Woodville coming towards us. Flora's eyes were 
 bright, and her cheeks were rosy with health. Mr. 
 Woodville said to me 
 
 " Well, Marcia, you are taking your early walk, I 
 see ; but you look pale. Come here, and lean on an 
 old man's arm. It is an arm that would gladly shield 
 you from all t!ie' evil this world has in store for you. 
 Flora, do you trip on before with your uncle Octave. 
 Oh, you must have your kiss before you go, aye. If I 
 was Miss Walton, I would not permit it." 
 
 I asked 
 
 " Why do you think, Mr. Woodville, that this world 
 has evil in store for me?" 
 
 "It is the lot of all mortals, my dear child. God 
 has placed us here to prepare for another and happier 
 state <j being, and it is to be feared that the fiffections 
 of our weak and sinful natures would bind us irre 
 trievably to earth, if sorrow and trouble were not our 
 portion, and if we found this world aught else but a 
 vale of tears." 
 
 " But why, I have often asked myself, did God per-
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 77 
 
 mit sin to come into the world? He is certainly 
 omniscient, and He knew that sin was the parent of 
 sorrow and death." 
 
 "What merit would there be in doing well, in 
 living a holy life, if there were no inducements, no 
 temptations to act otherwise ? That man would 
 achieve no victory who had no foe to vanquish. And 
 again, how many virtues are there, that but for the 
 opposing influence of sin, would sleep in embryo ? 
 ^^ We should not question whatever there is of mystery 
 in the works of God, but bow submissively to His 
 Avill, in the full confidence that He knows what is best 
 
 %for us. Our finite minds cannot comprehend the 
 wonders of His love, and we must not expect, in this 
 vale of tears, to pierce the impenetrable" mystery with 
 which His works are surrounded." 
 
 "Ah, believe me, my dear friend, I do not lack 
 that faith and confidence of which you speak. I know 
 full well that all God does is for the best, although it 
 may seem hard to me, and the questions I have asked 
 myself, have been rather the inquisitive promptings 
 of an inquiring mind, than any actual doubt of 
 the wisdom and beneficence of God. I have often 
 sought to make clear all the mysteries of religion to 
 my own mind, in order that I might the better ex 
 plain it to my pupils, and I have been more especially 
 interested in this, on account of having been, since 
 my fourteenth year, a teacher in a Sabbath school." 
 
 " This is a laudable feeling, in some respects, my
 
 78 WAY-MAKES IN THE 
 
 dear child, 4>ut I would advise you to go no farther 
 than God his revealed Himself to you in His Holy 
 Word. Study faithfully and patiently all you find 
 there, and your soul will then be fitted to enjoy the 
 happiness which shall be yours, in that Land of Pro 
 mise God has prepared for His children." 
 
 "Ah, my friend, now we have gained a point that 
 has often caused me great trouble, for I fear I shall 
 never reach that happy land of which you speak. 
 My heart clings to earth and sin, in its many thousand 
 forms, allures my wandering footsteps. My spirit 
 indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak, and to be 
 worthy of that blessed recompense, is to be far more 
 holy, more earnest and more faithful, than I ever can 
 be." 
 
 "Nay, but you must not say so, Marcia. I too 
 have often had my fears that I could never suffi 
 ciently overcome the weaknesses that flesh is heir to, 
 to inherit eternal life. When I was a young man, 
 about the age Octave is now, I was engaged to be 
 married to one of the loveliest girls in Georgia. She 
 was fair as you, Marcia, and I loved her as man can 
 never love but once. She was entwined about my 
 heart strings, and day and night I thought and 
 dreamed about her, cherishing the fondest visions of 
 future happiness in the possession of so peerless a 
 wife. I left her and went forth to battle with my 
 country's foes, for the freedom which seems the birth 
 right of the American. While absent from home,
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 79 
 
 a young British officer, who had been severely 
 wounded, was picked up by the father of my be 
 trothed and carried to his home. Ellen nursed him 
 through a long and severe illness, forgot her sacred 
 vows to me, gave her heart to my rival and and 
 I returned to find her the wife of another. Would to 
 God I could obliterate from the page of memory that 
 fatal hour. She, that I loved and trusted, was false, 
 and her falsehood made me a misanthrope, a dark 
 scowling miserable being in my youth, and in my old 
 age a querulous, fault-finding old man that nobody 
 loves, and every body either hates or fears." 
 
 " Do not s"ay so, dear Mr. Woodville. I, for one, 
 neither hate nor fear you. You have been very kind 
 to me, and let others change as they will, you have 
 always met me with smiles ami words of encourage 
 ment. Indeed, but for you, my lonely position here 
 would have been far less tolerable." 
 
 " Say you so, 'Marcia ? Well, well, that will be 
 some cause for joy in the old man's heart. I know 
 not why, my dear child, but I liked you the first mo 
 ment I saw you. Your pale, sad face, your gentle, 
 modest manners, and your evident devotion to your 
 mother and brother, all interested me in you, and I 
 have since then had ample opportunity to satisfy my 
 self that my interest was not misplaced ; but I am 
 wandering from my subject. To resume my argu 
 ment where I left off, I must say that this misan 
 thropic state of mind was iny besetting sin. The best
 
 80 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 years of my life were spent in brooding over my 
 wrongs, and I constantly encouraged and nurtured all 
 the evil feelings of my heart. I viewed all mankind 
 through a jaundiced medium, and a long time elapsed 
 ere I was awakened to the sin I was committing against 
 God and my fellow creatures. The hour of repent 
 ance came at last, and in my feeble efforts to undo the 
 past, and become a blessing instead of a curse to my 
 race, I have experienced the only emotions of happi 
 ness allowed me to cheer my down-hill journey to the 
 tomb. Oh ! believe me, my child, the man who for 
 gets his duty to God and to his fellow man, who closes 
 his heart to the appeal of suffering humanity, and who 
 believes it is no business of his, if half the world JJL 
 starve or freeze, so he justly liquidates all the claims 
 that honor and the laws of his country bid him re 
 cognize ; that man, I say, is a debtor to his God, and 
 he shall be weighed in the balance and found wanting ; 
 and, at a bar where impartial justice is administered, 
 he will receive his doom." 
 
 "I have often wondered why it is that the hearts of 
 the rich are so hard. I think it would be the greatest 
 joy of my life to do good, if I had it in my power. 
 One day when I made the same remark to my teacher, 
 she told me ' the fuller the purse got the tighter the 
 strings were drawn,' and I suppose it must be the 
 case, but I don't think the possession of riches could 
 ever harden my heart to the sufferings of the poor." 
 
 " Ah ! child, you know not the deceitfulness of
 
 LIFE OF A WANDEKEE. 81 
 
 the human heart. It is impossible to judge, if your 
 circumstances should change, if your heart would not 
 change also. Poor human nature, how frail it is. 
 How its best resolves, its wisest precautions, are often 
 overturned in a moment, and the long pent-up and re 
 stricted emotions of years burst their bonds and carry 
 all before them. Well, well, life at the best is a mov 
 ing panorama, abounding in light and shade, and it 
 seems to me the dark spots are far more prominent 
 than the bright." 
 
 " Surely this, then, is one of the bright spots, for 
 here is the end of our walk, and a happy, happy home 
 this seems to be. Good morning, Mrs. Woodville ; I 
 hope we have not kept you waiting breakfast for us." 
 
 " That would not have been a capital crime, even if 
 you had." 
 
 " Laurestina, where is my kiss ? Coming, aye ? 
 I thought you would not deprive me of it. Indeed, I 
 don't know how I should get along without it. Boys, 
 why have you not been out this morning ?" 
 
 " Our lessons are so hard that we have been up ever 
 since six o'clock studying them. We had no time to 
 go out." 
 
 " You would have had plenty of time, if you had 
 studied last evening, instead of playing. My motto 
 has always been 'work first and play afterwards.'" 
 
 "Come to breakfast," said Jacob, and in we went. 
 Mary handed me my coffee. I tasted it, and begged 
 her to put some more sugar in it. I have always had 
 8
 
 82 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 a fashion of sipping my coffee, and getting it quite to 
 my taste before I began my breakfast. When I had 
 finished eating, I drank the whole cup-full at once. 
 
 Mary brought me the sugar bowl and I sweetened 
 to my taste. I then ate a hearty breakfast, talked 
 with the children, and began to throw off the uneasy 
 sensations I had experienced an hour before. Octave 
 looked at me fixedly, as if to chide me for what he 
 doubtless supposed my heartlessness, whereas I acted 
 carelessly, with the sole desire of putting him at his 
 ease. I raised my cup to my lips and drank it every 
 drop. I looked at Mary. She was standing opposite 
 to me, and behind Mrs. Woodville's chair. The old 
 expression was in her face now, and a strange, wild 
 light was in her eyes. All at once the conviction 
 flashed itself upon me that she was crazy. Before I 
 had time to pursue the thread which this suggestion 
 opened before me, a horrible pain seized me. My 
 brain seemed to be on fire. My head swam, my 
 temples throbbed with all the maddening fever of de 
 lirium. A burning sensation, as of coals of fire in 
 my stomach, filled me with the most intense agony. 
 I know my face was pale as ashes. My compressed 
 lips were livid as those of a corpse. I felt as though 
 death, in its last dread agony, was upon me, and all 
 at once the truth flashed like a meteor across my mind. 
 I rose from the table, staggered to the sofa, and, as I 
 threw myself with all the superhuman might of de 
 spair upon it, I screamed out, in tones of horror,
 
 LIFE OF A WANDEREK. 83 
 
 " God of Heaven, have mercy upon me ! I am 
 
 poisoned ! 
 
 We will here make some extracts from Mr. Wood- 
 villc's diary, in order to pursue the thread of our 
 story. 
 
 i 
 
 FEBRUARY 5th. In the lonely silence of my cham 
 ber I have sought in vain for rest ; but, alas, the hor 
 rors of this day have banished peace and quiet. 
 Would that I could forget even for an hour, the tor 
 ture that is racking our poor Marcia. Poor, lonely 
 girl ; far from her home and all she holds most dear, 
 and suffering thus for a crime committed by another. 
 Thou knowest, oh God, why she must pay the penalty 
 of what she is innocent of. Ah, Octave, how has that 
 sin of thine early youth returned upon thee, to curse 
 thee in her thou wouldst die to save. I pity thee, 
 poor boy ; from my heart, I pity thee. 
 
 It is now two o'clock. I will keep my lonely vigil 
 here, for I cannot sleep. I will write all that passes 
 around me, for should she be spared, the events of 
 this period would possess a fearful interest for her. 
 Oh, those long, weary hours that elapsed before the 
 doctor came. I have such fears should she die 
 should her soul be called away, and nothing be left of 
 the bright, young creature, that has been a ray of 
 sunshine to my heart, but a loathsome corpse 
 alas, how shall I tell her mother the sad tale ? In
 
 84 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 what words could I clothe such intelligence ? I con 
 fess I shrink from the task. I brought her here, 
 poor delicate girl. She came to seek health and 
 healing in the warm balmy breezes of the sunny 
 South, and she has found a cruel enemy, poison, 
 agony, and it may be an untimely grave. Oh ! Thou 
 who hast promised to hear the prayers of those who 
 cry unto Thee, listen this night to the voice of my 
 sorrow, which is torturing my poor heart beyond mor 
 tal endurance. I am an old man, and my course is 
 nearly run. She is young, and beautiful, and good. 
 Oh, spare her, and if one must be sacrificed, take me ! 
 I cheerfully resign myself. I would die happy in the 
 thought that she would return to be once more the 
 joy of her widowed mother's heart. Oh! God of 
 Heaven, hear my prayer ! 
 
 Now let me collect my scattered thoughts. First, 
 were the alarm and terror of the whole household, 
 when we found that Marcia had swallowed, in her 
 colfee, a large dose of arsenic. We stood by appalled, 
 while Octave rushed out of the house, saddled his 
 fastest horse, and galloped with incredible swiftness 
 down the avenue, endowed with the superhuman 
 power and energy of love. My sister held her head, 
 bathed her temples, and vainly tried to lull her to 
 rest -upon her bosom. Gently, as a mother would 
 have tended her darling child, she nursed her, and 
 proved the truth of what I have often asserted, that 
 after all her heart is in the right place. And then
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 85 
 
 the children crowded around her, with tears and sobs, 
 all eager to display their affection for they all love 
 her dearly. Indeed it is strange that she has so com 
 pletely won all their hearts. But, alas, no one could 
 help loving her that knew her. Poor child, so simple, 
 artless, and confiding, striving always to do the right, 
 and loving, with her guileless heart, the meanest in 
 sect God has blessed with life. How Mary could 
 have found it in her power to harm her, I don't know, 
 for there is a sweetness about her that disarms hatred.^ 
 Oh Marcia ! Marcia ! child of innocence and truth, 
 would that I could save thee from the tortures that 
 are racking thee. I hear thy piteous meanings, and 
 they touch my heart. I will come to thee, poor suf 
 ferer. Perhaps I can do something to comfort thee. 
 
 $. j. jk < ^. ift 4l ' $ j 
 
 I have -been to her chamber to gaze, in speechless 
 agony, upon the writhing form of the victim. She 
 did not know me. Delirium has veiled her eyeballs; 
 and oh ! what a change has come over that fair, 
 young face, in these few short hours. The doctor is 
 there, keeping watch beside her. In answer to my 
 look of inquiry, he shook his head mournfully, oh! 
 so mournfully ; as if he feared there was no hope. 
 I felt as if my heart would break. My sister is there, 
 and Octave kneels beside the bed, suffering anguish 
 enough to atone for the crime which is now crushing 
 him with its fearful retribution. He has indeed lived 
 an age of misery in one day. Ah, how fondly he 
 8*
 
 80 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 loves the pallid stricken form that lies before him. 
 How the pent up devotion of his heart swells up to 
 his face, and proclaims, what he no longer seeks to 
 hide. I do not blame him for loving her. Who 
 could help it ? Who could help it ? 
 
 Octave has just called the doctor out, and told him 
 to save her life, to watch over her night and day, till 
 the danger was passed, and he would reward him to 
 the half of his fortune. Alas, poor boy, I fear that 
 gold and science and prayer alike, will fail. There 
 seems a chilling presence here, as if death sat at the 
 bedside. Pray God I may be deceived in my fears. 
 
 FEBRUARY 6th. Day dawned at last, and I 
 hastened to Marcia's chamber. As I drew near the 
 bedside, the doctor approached me, and whispered a 
 sentence in my ear. What words were those he 
 breathed to me ? They seemed like droppings from 
 some celestial fountain of eloquence, as they entered 
 my heart, and talismanic-like sent the sluggish blood 
 coursing rapidly though my veins. " There is hope." 
 Sweet words ! In the wildness of my joy, I could 
 have kissed the doctor. " There is hope." Three 
 simple words, and yet upon them hung life and death, 
 joy and sorrow, happiness and wo. 
 
 I leaned over the reclining form of the fair Marcia. 
 She was sleeping. One snowy arm lay under her 
 head, the other hung by her side. Her beautiful hair 
 was thrown back upon the pillow, and lay a perfect
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 87 
 
 mass of rich auburn curls. Some little of the warm 
 tide of life was returning to her lovely lips, and her 
 breathing was rather easy. Her violet eyes were 
 closed tightly, and were surrounded by those dark 
 blue circles, so sure an evidence of suffering. The 
 long, black lashes rested on her pale cheek, and she 
 was beautiful still, though wearing the marks of an 
 guish and pain. 
 
 My sister sat dozing in an easy chair by the bed 
 side, but Octave still knelt in the same position, and 
 gazed with the same look of intense suffering at the 
 pale face before him. I approached him, and bending 
 down, repeated in his ear the words of the physician. 
 He raised his eyes quickly to mine, and then glanced 
 interrogatively at the doctor, who bowed his head in 
 the affirmative. Joy is as overpowering in its influ 
 ences as sorrow, and Octave buried his head in the 
 bed clothes, and wept like a child. I was rejoiced to 
 see these tears. I knew they would lessen the fever 
 that was burning at his heart and maddening his 
 brain. As I left the room, I met April who had just 
 returned from -the pursuit of the guilty girl, who had 
 been the cause of all this misery. He beckoned me 
 to follow him into the parlor, and when he had quietly 
 closed the door, he said, 
 
 " We have got her, massa, safe and sound." 
 
 "Where did you find her ?" I asked. 
 
 "Down in Stokely's woods, but she gin us the 
 greatest chase you ever see. We wouldn't a found
 
 88 WAY-MAKES IN THE 
 
 her now, but we got Toby's blood hounds on the scent, 
 and they soon hunted her down. She ran up a tree, 
 and they tore round it and pawed the trunk, and would 
 a teared her to bits if we hadn't a called 'em off. Oh ! 
 but she was skared. When we tuk hold of her, she 
 shivered like as if she was a goin' to pieces." 
 
 " Where is she now ?" 
 
 " Back in the kitchen, 'till we find out what to do 
 with her." 
 
 " Take her to the cotton gin bind her hand and 
 foot, and keep two of the plantation boys with her all 
 the time and remember April, your master, Octave, 
 will look to you for her safe-keeping." 
 
 " Trust to me, massa. I'll take good care uv her." 
 
 " I don't wish you to be unkind to her don't taunt 
 her, or suffer others to do so. Do you hear?" 
 
 "Yes, massa, I hears and I heeds, though she don't 
 'serve no such exclemency." 
 
 " It is not for you to judge of that, April. Now 
 go, and do as I bid you." 
 
 FEBRUARY 7th. As I sat in the dining room, about 
 eleven o'clock this morning, my sister and Octave en 
 tered. Octave said, 
 
 " What did you say the doctor told you, mother?" 
 
 " He is of opinion that she will recover, but that 
 the effects of the poison will go with her to the grave." 
 
 "And this is all my fault. I have brought down 
 upon this young girl's innocent head all this weight of
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 89 
 
 misery. I have doomed her to an early grave. How 
 can I bear all this patiently ? I feel as if it would 
 drive me mad." 
 
 " Now, don't, my son, take it so to heart. Rather 
 be thankful that it is no worse." 
 
 " Worse ! How could it be worse ? Alas ! what 
 reparation can I offer her what atonement can I 
 make for all she has suffered?" 
 
 " Indeed, I know not. She would scorn money." 
 
 " And I would scorn myself for offering it." 
 
 " Then I don't know what you can do, but be as kind 
 to her as possible." 
 
 " I can make her my wife." 
 
 " Marry her ? impossible ! Such a match is entirely 
 beneath you, my son." 
 
 "And why beneath me? On the contrary, I feel 
 that all the condescension would be on her part. Do 
 you object simply because she is poor and I rich? 
 What is it but chance that has made these different 
 distinctions? Marcia is a lady in every sense of the 
 word. She is pure-hearted, gentle and amiable. She 
 is graceful as a gazelle, and beautiful as the morning. 
 What more can you desire in a daughter?" 
 
 " I acknowledge that she is all, and even more than 
 you say, but I cannot overcome my prejudices. What 
 will the world say at the intelligence of the rich Octave 
 Woodville, the wealthiest planter in Georgia, having 
 wedded the poor governess, who was hired to teach his 
 sister's children?"
 
 90 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 " Let the world talk, and say what it will. Oh ! my 
 mother, would you wreck your son's happiness for 
 aught of so little moment ? Let those who do not like 
 my bride absent themselves from my house. The 
 great and good would love her, and do her honor ; and 
 for the opinion of the multitude, I would not give the 
 snap of my finger. And then you must consider, mo 
 ther, it is I who have made her suffer. Had it not 
 been for me, this terrible .thing would never have hap 
 pened. Oh ! take it home to your own kind heart. 
 Ask yourself what my duty is, aside from all foolish 
 pride, and as a woman and a Christian, I know what 
 your answer must be." 
 
 "I know not what to say. What does your uncle 
 think ?"^^ 
 
 " I think just as Octave does, and I do not believe 
 the world contains a better wife than she would make. 
 She is splendidly educated, has a fine mind, noble sen 
 timents, and fixed principles of right. In addition to 
 this, is the fact that through Octave's own crime, she 
 has been made an invalid for life." 
 
 " Do not say a word about that, uncle. God knows 
 how ceaselessly I have upbraided myself for the past. 
 I would willingly atone for the evil I have done with 
 my life, if it could be of any avail. I love Marcia, 
 and I only want your approbation to the match, and 
 I will propose myself to her at once. You want to 
 see me happy, do you not, dear mother ?" 
 
 " Certainly; there is no object I seek more earnestly
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 91 
 
 than your happiness, my dear son ; but suppose I did 
 give my consent. How could you live secure from 
 that abominable Mary." 
 
 " I would sell her off, in some distant State, for a 
 plantation negro." 
 
 " Well, if you insist upon it, I suppose I must con 
 sent. Marry her, my son, be kind and affectionate to 
 her, and God bless you both." 
 
 " Thank you, my dear mother. I knew you had 
 my happiness at heart, and could be easily induced to 
 sacrifice your pride to it. Now, I have removed every 
 obstacle but one, and that I hope you will be able to 
 surmount." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 " Marcia's own consent. I have been led to fear 
 that she positively dislikes me." 
 
 " Nonsense ! She has too much good sense to re 
 fuse such an offer. She has treated you coldly, out of 
 maiden bashfulness, and I like her the better for it." 
 
 " I leave it with you, my mother. Plead the cause 
 of your son as if it was his life you sought to save." 
 
 FEBRUARY 15th. Our little Marcia has been gradu 
 ally improving, and to-day she has been sitting up. It 
 was judged prudent to say nothing to her about the 
 future, but to keep her mind perfectly free from every 
 care. This morning she seemed so bright, my sister 
 thought she might venture on her long-deferred con 
 versation, and she began thus :
 
 92 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 " My dear Marcia, I have something of importance 
 to communicate to you. Do you think you can listen 
 to it without taxing your powers too much?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, I think I can. I feel quite strong to 
 day." 
 
 "My son loves you, Marcia." 
 
 "I assure you, dear madam, J never sought his 
 love." 
 
 " I am aware of it, my dear child, and the fact is 
 only one more of the noble traits of your character. 
 Octave loves you, and would make you his wife ; and 
 I join my entreaties to his, to implore you not to 
 refuse him. I believe his affection for you is of the 
 purest and most exalted character, and I entreat you 
 to give me some words of encouragement to cheer him 
 in his sorrow, for you know not how he has suffered 
 during your illness." 
 
 " I regret very much he has suffered aught on my 
 account, and I am very grateful to him for his exalted 
 opinion of me ; but listen to me, and I will give you a 
 decided answer. I deeply feel all your kindness. I 
 love you for it, and I shall never forget it, but I 
 respectfully decline an alliance with your son. You 
 have a right to demand my reasons, and I will, in all 
 truth and sincerity, confess to you that I do not love 
 him. 'Tis true I feel for him an interest. I hope he 
 may be happy and entirely forget me. I think I can 
 conscientiously acquit myself of ever having, by word 
 or deed, offered him any encouragement. I have
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 93 
 
 never known what it is to love ; yet I feel within me 
 the power of loving, and should I ever meet the being 
 that comes up to my idea of manliness, and he woos 
 me as maiden modesty approves, doubtless I shall be 
 won. I deem it but justice to say that I do not now, 
 and never can love your son, and in all humility I re 
 linquish all title to the high honor he has wished to 
 confer on me. After this declaration on my part, it is 
 evident that it would be unpleasant to remain under 
 the same roof with him, and I will therefore prepare 
 to return to my mother, as soon as my strength 
 permits." 
 
 "But, Marcia, my dear child, you have not con 
 sidered the case in all its bearings. This marriage 
 would be an advantageous one. My son is rich. He 
 would be a son to your mother. He would protect 
 and educate your brother." 
 
 ** Interest will never influence me in the acceptance 
 of a husband. Pardon me for saying it, madam, but 
 you have formed a poor estimate of my character." 
 
 " Rather pardon me, my dear child, for supposing, 
 for one moment, that a noble heart like yours could 
 be bought for gold. Oh, my son, my son, what a trea 
 sure you have lost." 
 
 " Ah, believe me, madam, in a garden of beauty 
 and loveliness like America, your son will not long 
 search in vain for a suitable wife." 
 
 " No one can fill your place in his heart, my dear 
 Marcia." 
 
 9
 
 94 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 " Let us change the subject. I have some questions 
 to ask of you, if you are willing to answer them." 
 
 "Speak, my child. I only wonder that your 
 curiosity did not prompt them before." 
 
 " Who administered that deadly drug, that came so 
 near killing me?" 
 
 "Mary." 
 
 " And why ? Surely I never harmed her in 
 thought, word or deed." 
 
 " Octave loved you." 
 
 " And why should that make her wish to kill 
 me?" 
 
 " Can you not guess ?" 
 
 "I confess I cannot." 
 
 "Mary loves Octave herself." 
 
 "What ! the black slave love her master?" 
 
 "Yes; unfortunately, yes." 
 
 " But this is a mystery. Why did she act so, unless 
 she had some horrible revenge to gratify?" 
 
 " Indeed, Marcia, I scarcely know how to answer 
 you. Your pure soul can not readily conceive the 
 wickedness of the world. But this is a story you have 
 a right to know, even though it makes the mother 
 blush for her son. You came near losing your life by 
 it. Listen then to what I shall repeat to you." 
 
 " Nay, madam, nay. Spare yourself any repetition 
 that may be painful to you, and pardon me if I have 
 unwittingly disturbed your serenity of mind. God
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 95 
 
 *? 
 
 forbid that I should give a moments pain to the heart 
 of any mother." 
 
 " It is right that you should know the whole truth, 
 Marcia, and I will try to word it so that it may not 
 even offend your chaste ears. This is the story." 
 
 " Oh, madam, this is dreadful. I bitterly reproach 
 myself for having thus stirred the dregs of your cup 
 of sorrow. Pray forgive me." 
 
 " Nay, child, it was a duty I owed you. You now 
 understand it all. I may trust to your honor never 
 to divulge it." 
 
 "Ah, dear Mrs. "Woodville, believe me, you may." 
 
 " I trust, Marcia, you will reconsider your intention 
 of leaving us. The children have become attached to 
 you, and brother John will miss you sadly, to sayjj 
 nothing of myself." 
 
 "And yet you must admit, Mrs. Woodville, my 
 situation would be unpleasant." 
 
 " Oh, not at all. Octave would go to some of his 
 other plantations, and try to learn forgetfulness in 
 absence." 
 
 " Do not, for one moment, suppose I would banish 
 your son from his home and your presence, for a single 
 hour. Oh, no, the very thought would make me 
 miserable. Permit me to regain sufficient strength, 
 and I will return at once to my mother." 
 
 " My dear, dear Marcia, how it grieves me to see 
 you the victim of that wicked woman. You know not
 
 96 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 how seriously your health is undermined by the effects 
 of that poison. It will be some time before you can 
 enter upon the laborious duties of a teacher, and you 
 must permit me to pay you for all the time you lose. 
 Indeed, conscience would not acquit me, if I did 
 not." 
 
 " No, madam, I cannot think of receiving anything 
 over my stipulated salary. That was handsome 
 enough, and I firmly decline taking one penny more 
 than I have earned." 
 
 " We shall see about that. Now, I must leave you, 
 and go to Octave, who, poor boy, little dreams I come 
 to blight his hopes. I will soon return to you. Don't 
 get lonesome." 
 
 " I can't be that in the hope of your speedy 
 return." 
 
 " Oh, little flatterer, I go." 
 
 " Shall I describe to you poor Octave's feelings 
 when his mother told him that Marcia would not 
 marry him ? Shall I dwell upon the sorrow that from 
 that moment clouded his brow ? Oh, no ; it would 
 be waste of paper. Too many of such descriptions 
 have already been penned. It would be useless repe 
 tition. Kather come with me to the chamber of the 
 invalid, and listen to the sweet, sad melancholy of her 
 voice, as she answers my questions, and tells me what 
 she thought of death, when it hung like a flaming 
 sword over her couch." 
 
 " "When first the maddening conviction forced itself
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 97 
 
 upon me that I was poisoned, a shrinking sense of 
 terror entered my soul a terror so black, so over 
 whelming, that my brain reeled under its force. I 
 had no hope of life. I viewed death as certain, and 
 the last, sad rending of the spirit from the body, the 
 clay-cold corpse, the glazed eye, the fallen jaw, the 
 shroud, the coffin and the open grave, passed in rapid 
 review before my mind, much more quickly indeed 
 than I can tell it. And then came the remembrance 
 of my mother, and my darling brother. They whom 
 I loved so dearly, and who, I believed, I should never 
 see again on earth. Oh ! thought I, that I could once 
 more see her loving eyes bent upon me, hear again 
 the music of her voice, and feel the holy kiss with 
 which she so often blessed me. But no, said I, this 
 cannot be. Death is staring me in the face. I must 
 meet it. In an incredibly short space of time every 
 event of my life passed before me. I remembered 
 things which had long lain silent in the cells of memory. 
 Sins arose and stood around me, and claimed me as 
 their parent. Oh how hideous and black seemed to 
 me the history of my heart. How ungrateful I had 
 been to God, for all His goodness. How often had 
 He called me, with tones of love, and how often had 
 I neglected Him. How had His blessed spirit striven 
 with me, coming again and again and getting answer 
 every time, ' not yet, not yet, a more convenient sea 
 son.' What a base return for the loving kindness 
 that had watched over me and protected me from 
 9*
 
 98 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 dangers, seen and unseen, from my childhood up. 
 Weighed down with a sense of my own shame, in the 
 presence of the infinite, I could only call out, in 
 tones of deep contrition, * God have mercy upon me, a 
 miserable sinner.' But now the fiery tortures com 
 menced again, and my vitals seemed turned to living 
 coals. My throat was dry and choked, my tongue 
 was parched and swollen, and an unquenchable thirst 
 took possession of me. My brain reeled, and I felt 
 that reason was giving way. I knew that very soon 
 I should be mad, and in the brief interval that reason 
 was spared me, I turned my thoughts to the calm, 
 peaceful home of my childhood. I imagined my 
 mother sitting at her sewing, and little Benny, with 
 his book, beside her. I painted them as they watched 
 for the coming of a letter from me. I saw their looks 
 of affection and interest change to the blackness of 
 despair, as they read tile horrid fate death by poi 
 son. I saw my mother, in her wretchedness, tear the 
 silvery locks from her noble brow, and fling aloft her 
 arms in the wildness of phrenzy. I fancied I could 
 hear the thrilling tones of her voice, as she screamed 
 my name, and invoked the curses of heaven upon the 
 head of my murderer. I saw my little brother, as he 
 stood there, pallid and death-like, the big tears roll 
 ing down his cheeks, his tiny hands clasped in infant 
 misery, as he turned his eyes, with hopeless appeal, 
 upon my mother, and asked, shall I never see sister 
 any more ? Did you say that Marcia was dead, my
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 99 
 
 own, pretty, sister Marcia? Oh, she promised to 
 come back to me ! Won't she come, dear mother ?' 
 
 "I dwelt upon this scene till reason tottered on her 
 throne. I shrieked forth the anguish of my soul, and 
 was a maniac, tortured and wrestling in the mad fury 
 of delirium. All was chaos. How long I remained 
 in this state I know not, but I awoke, at last, to 
 misery and wo. I heard them softly whisper around 
 my bed, that my life hung on a slender thread ; that 
 the spirit was hovering, as it were, between the two 
 worlds. I was anxious to die, for I was completely 
 prostrated, and I felt it to be an effort to breathe ; 
 and a benumbing torpor seized hold of the faculties 
 of my mind. All my energies were crushed, and I 
 still feel that I am under the influence of the poison 
 ous effects of the deadly drug. 
 
 " My only anxiety is to get away, to leave behind 
 me all remembrance of the past, and to pillow my 
 poor head, once more upon my mother's breast. It 
 needs the magic influence of her smiles, the melody 
 of her voice, the tenderness of her watchful care, to 
 charm me back to life and happiness again." 
 
 "And all these you shall have, my sweet child. I 
 myself will go with you, and watch over you, as ten 
 derly as your own father would have done. You 
 must keep up your spirits, and take excellent care of 
 yourself, and I think by riding out every day to re 
 cruit your strength, you will in a month, perhaps, be 
 equal for the journey."
 
 100 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 " How kind you are, Mr. Woodville. How can I 
 ever thank you for all you have done for me ?" 
 
 " By not thinking me the cross old man so many 
 deem me. Come, cheer up, and clothe your pale 
 face with some of those sweet smiles that used to bring 
 sunshine to my heart. Here comes Flora, with a 
 rich bunch of flowers for you." 
 
 " Oh, how beautiful ! Are they for me though, 
 indeed, Flora?" 
 
 " Yes, uncle Octave has just been to get them for 
 
 you." 
 
 " How very kind. I hope he did not give himself 
 any trouble for me." 
 
 "It was no trouble, I know, for anything uncle 
 Octave does for you is a pleasure." 
 
 " So, little flatterer, you want to spoil me too, do 
 
 you?" 
 
 "Nay, sweet child, Flora only desires to do you 
 justice." 
 
 "Poor Octave. I am sorry that I cannot make 
 him happy as he wishes. But, alas, happiness I fear 
 is a phantom that smiles but to allure us. "We must 
 look beyond this vale of tears, where the wanderer's 
 weary way is strewn with thorns, if we wish to taste a 
 cup of pure felicity."
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 101 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 " Thought, like a bird of drooping wing, 
 
 Sits hushed upon thy brow ; 
 While from thine eyes deep-shaded spring, 
 A thousand feelings flow. 1 ' 
 
 A month has passed slowly by, and here I still 
 remain, and I do not think I am either stronger or 
 better than I was at the commencement of it. Why 
 is it that this fearful prostration continues so long ? 
 Shall I never regain the elasticity, the buoyancy of 
 youth ? The doctor tells me I am better, and that I 
 will soon be well, and dear, kind Mr. Woodville has 
 made every preparation for our journey, and talks 
 confidently of our visit to New York ; yet, notwith 
 standing all this, my heart is sad, and hope no longer 
 gilds my wandering way. I have a dread of death : 
 an indefinite sense of terror, which I can scarcely 
 explain to myself? And why should I fear death? 
 Is it not a good friend ? Is it not the door-keeper of 
 heaven ? Are there not joys in heaven, never tasted 
 in the cup of life we drink this side the grave ? Is 
 there not perfect happiness in the presence of God ? 
 Is there not rest from all the sorrows that are our 
 portion here ? Yes, oh, yes but yet my heart clings 
 to the dear ones I must leave behind. I had hoped
 
 102 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 to be the prop of my mother's age ; the joy and com 
 fort of her life. I had promised myself the dear pri 
 vilege of warding off from her loved form the blasts of 
 adversity, the sorrows of humanity : to encircle her 
 with an atmosphere of luxury, and shield ^her from 
 trouble and care. To educate my little brother, and 
 rear him up to a life of usefulness and good ; and now 
 to die, in the first dawning of womanhood, ere yet my 
 sun of life has fairly risen ; ere yet my fragile bark 
 has been well launched ; ere I have learned half the 
 sweet emotions the human heart is capable of feeling. 
 Forbid it, heaven. Spare me a little longer from the 
 damp charnel house. 
 
 It was from a reverie like this, I was aroused by the 
 entrance of Mrs. Woodville. She who^at^first, I had 
 read as the coldest-hearted of her sex, now never en 
 tered my room, that she did "not seem like a ray of 
 sunshine to my lonely heart. 
 
 " Come, Marcia, cheer up. There is a stranger 
 coming, and he will be here to tea. We have engaged 
 his services to teach the children, and John has been 
 prevailed upon to join the school, and I trust to study 
 in real earnest." 
 
 " What a burthen I have become to you. I am no 
 longer able to be of any use to you." 
 
 " Do not say so, dear child. You have grown so 
 closely into our hearts, that we should miss you as 
 much, if you left us, as though you were our own flesh 
 and blood. But, to return to the new teacher. He
 
 LIFE OP 'A WANDERER. 103 
 
 is from the State of New York, and from all we can 
 glean, he is a man of finished education, polished 
 manners, and possessed of a mind of the highest order. 
 I trust that the addition to our family circle will please 
 you, and give you something to relieve the monotony 
 of your life, here in the Georgia woods." 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Woodville, how considerate you always 
 are for me. How can I thank you for all your kind, 
 motherly care of me. I bowed low over her hand and 
 kissed it." 
 
 It was a beautiful evening, late in March. Not the 
 cold, blustering, stormy March of the North, but the 
 balmy, genial, fragrant spring of the South. We sat 
 in the parlor, awaiting the coming of the stranger Avho 
 was to take my place. The children indulged in many 
 wonders as to whether the new teacher would be cross ; 
 if he approved of whipping, if he gave long lessons, if 
 they would dare to speak in his presence, &c. &c. 
 
 "Don't you remember," said Flora, "how we 
 waited when Marcia was coming, and wondered what 
 she would be like ?" 
 
 "Yes, I do," said Albert. "I said she would be a 
 tall, cross, long-nosed specimen of humanity, with red 
 hair." 
 
 "It was I that said she would have red hair," inter 
 posed Gregory. 
 
 "Well, did you find yourselves mistaken?" asked 
 Mrs. Woodville. 
 
 "Yes, indeed," said all the children in a breath.
 
 104 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 "And what did Laurestina think of me ?" I asked. 
 
 " I was afraid you would whip me, when you came, 
 for mother said I was such a lazy child, and I felt 
 certain that I would never learn my lessons in time." u 
 
 At this moment we heard the clattering of horses' 
 hoofs, and looking through the window we perceived the 
 expected party coming up the avenue at a brisk trot. 
 
 " It is the new teacher," cried out all the children, 
 and in another moment they had entered the room. 
 
 The children's cousin, whom I shall call cousin John, 
 approached me, and greeted me warmly. Although 
 he was so wild and refractory to others, he was always 
 gentle and docile to me. Octave came next, and in 
 quired, with the tender solicitude of a brother, after 
 my health. He then introduced the stranger to me, 
 whom he had previously presented to his mother and 
 uncle. 
 
 Harry Percy was about thirty years of age. He 
 was tall, finely formed, and splendidly developed. His 
 broad chest, muscular arm, and erect figure, left you 
 nothing to wish for to make up a model of manly 
 beauty. His face was not handsome, and a casual ob 
 server would have supposed him a man of very ordi 
 nary mental powers. His hair, which was black and 
 glossy, he wore carelessly pulled down over a broad 
 and ample forehead. His eyes were large, full and 
 brilliant in expression, but he veiled them beneath 
 their lashes, and only at times could be seen glimpses 
 of the fire that burned within. His nose was rather
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 105 
 
 homely, and as it was neither Grecian nor Roman, I 
 presume it must have belonged to the same family 
 as my own, commonly known hy the familiar appella 
 tion of "pug." His chin was prominent enough to 
 bespeak the man of energy and decision. And now I 
 come to describe that feature which, in my opinion, 
 tells more of character than any other of the human 
 face. His mouth was large, and was filled with two 
 rows of teeth as even and beautiful as pearls. The 
 bright red lips, when in repose, spoke the quiet happi 
 ness of a mind at ease, but when he spoke and became 
 interested in conversation, the smile that hovered 
 round his lips lit up his face with superhuman beauty, 
 and made his countenance beam with intelligence and 
 animation. I never saw so heavenly an expression on 
 the face of a human creature. And when first it shone 
 on me, it found its way at once to my heart. I read 
 in that bright look, in that soft melodious voice, the 
 mild fluctuating beauty of his countenance, which ex 
 pressed piety, love, truth, respect, sternness, energy 
 and candor, by turns the soul that could not be 
 swerved from honor's track the man of truth and 
 sincerity of mind and purpose. I studied him with an 
 interest no human being had ever awakened in my 
 heart before, and I found it quite easy to observe him 
 closely, as I was not obliged to talk much, on account 
 of my being an invalid. I soon became convinced that 
 I saw before me a man whose purity of heart, strict, 
 unbiased integrity, and sinless conscience, made him 
 10
 
 106 WAY-MAKES IN THE 
 
 worthy of the esteem and admiration of all good men, 
 and I felt satisfied that the dear children would be well 
 taught, and kindly treated by him. At supper, he was 
 placed beside me, and the gentle attentions he paid me 
 pleased me more perhaps than the occasion warranted. 
 He saw that I was an invalid, and he at once assumed 
 a frankness towards me like that of an affectionate 
 brother. When we went into the parlor, after tea, he 
 fixed the pillows in my easy chair, and placed the stool 
 under my feet, and did it all with such an air of quiet 
 self-possession that you might have supposed he had 
 known me for years. 
 
 The conversation turned upon education, and was 
 briskly supported by Octave, Mr. Woodville and cousin 
 John, and now and then, when appealed to, Harry 
 Percy would join them, and there was in all he said 
 so much quiet dignity and good sound sense that I was 
 more than ever prepossessed in his favor. 
 
 Speaking of whipping, Octave said 
 
 " I judge of this matter entirely from my own expe 
 rience, and I am quite sure I never learned a lesson 
 better for having been whipped into it. On the con 
 trary, a dogged resolution possessed me to see how 
 firmly I could stand out against my master. Often, 
 while the lash was coming down on my back, and mak 
 ing me wince with pain, I have kept repeating to 
 myself 'I'll never surrender I'll die first.' If chil 
 dren wont learn without whipping, I am afraid they 
 never will with it."
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 107 
 
 " I think it is shameful to whip such large boys," 
 said cousin John, feelingly. 
 
 " Such as yourself, I presume," said Mrs. Woodville, 
 with a demure smile. 
 
 "When I was a boy," said Mr. Woodville, 
 
 "Which was some few days ago," mumbled Albert. 
 
 "When I was a boy, the good old-time people used 
 to think very highly of the precepts of the bible, and 
 when I saw my father coming to me, with the cat-o'-nine 
 tails, I always knew the first words would be, * spare the 
 rod and spoil the child.' I make no doubt I should 
 have been a better man if he had whipped me three 
 times where he did once." 
 
 "I should like to try it now," said Albert to Flora. 
 
 "A'nt you ashamed of yourself," was the reply. 
 
 " What is your opinion, Mr. Percy ?" asked Mr. 
 Woodville. " Do you think refractory boys, like Albert 
 here, for instance, could be managed without corporeal 
 punishment?" 
 
 " I do not know enough, as yet, of his peculiar or 
 ganization, and therefore could not answer in his case ; 
 but, as a general thing, I think it far better to gain 
 one's end by gentleness. That boy must have a cow 
 ardly spirit who compels his teacher to -whip him into 
 the performance of his duties." 
 
 " Do you think female teachers are better for 
 boys?" asked Mrs. Woodville. 
 
 " Most unquestionably, madam. There is so much 
 gentleness in their manners and character, that, in-
 
 108 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 sensibly to themselves, the boys' feel and bow to it ; 
 and thus begins the first homage they pay to woman." 
 
 "I know that is the truth," interrupted cousin 
 John, " for when I went to school to Miss Sally 
 Gibbs, and she was thirty, and I was ten, I was 
 madly in love with her, and made her promise to 
 marry me as soon as I grew up." 
 
 " Oh, John, what nonsense," said Mrs. Woodville. 
 
 "I fully agree with Mr. Percy," said Octave. 
 " The mild influence of woman softens down all the 
 roughness of boyish nature. I know when I was a 
 boy, I would have hailed the advent of a woman into 
 the school room with a delight bordering on madness. 
 Constant intercourse with the sex refines and elevates 
 the sentiments, and man acquires, in the society of 
 woman, an ease and refinement of manner impossible 
 to gain elsewhere ; and more ; he learns, for her sake, 
 still more devotedly to fulfill his duties to his fellow 
 man." 
 
 "I believe what you say is correct," said Mr. 
 Woodville. " It bears the impress of truth." Mr. 
 Percy said, 
 
 "I believe the public generally are waking up to 
 this fact. Many of our largest schools for boys, are 
 now entirely under the care of lady teachers, and, so 
 far, the system works admirably. I hope it may suc 
 ceed, for it will be the means of giving employment 
 to many excellent women who are forced to labor for 
 their bread."
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 109 
 
 " I trust it may, indeed, from the bottom of my 
 heart," said Mrs. Woodville, " and I have, indeed, 
 often thought it a great pity that there were not more 
 fields of labor open to women who are thrown upon 
 their own resources. Do not think that I belong to 
 that class who advocate woman's rights, and who think 
 her place is in the pulpit, in the halls of legislation, in 
 the offices of government, or at the polls. All these 
 things are certainly out of her sphere, for many rea 
 sons, and one, particularly. Although the intellect 
 of women is frequently of a high order, still they lack 
 that strength of mind, that comprehensiveness and 
 power of concentration, that rank man highest in the 
 intellectual scale. It is true, there are occasionally 
 women of that masculine power of mind, which makes 
 her prominent in all she undertakes ; but here, in my 
 opinion, she destroys the loveliness of her character, 
 and the feminine softness which makes woman so dear 
 to your sex is lost, and then, who would envy her her 
 high position? But there are ways and means by 
 which the condition of the sex could be vastly im 
 proved, without destroying one atom of the gentle 
 ness and modesty of her nature." 
 
 " Your argument is unexceptionable, madam, and I 
 am not without hope, that, in this age of improve 
 ment, something may be found, some philosopher's 
 stone, capable of transmuting all her bright qualities 
 into gold." 
 
 10*
 
 HO WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 "And what do you think of all this, Miss Walton ?" 
 asked Octave, in a low tone. 
 
 " I have no doubt your mother takes a correct view 
 of this subject, as she does of every other she touches 
 upon." 
 
 "Well, I beg leave to differ with all of you," said 
 cousin John. " Women have now by far too many 
 privileges. They break our hearts as carelessly as 
 they would an old time-worn pie-plate. They think 
 nothing of making us lay awake all night, fretting and 
 sobbing over their heartlessness and inconstancy. For 
 my part I don't see what they were sent on earth for, 
 without it was to be the plague of all honest, soberly 
 disposed men's lives." 
 
 "What treason," I exclaimed. "I revolt against 
 it in the name of my slandered sex." 
 
 " Oh, you know I excuse you, as a matter of course ! 
 I should not think of classing you with the generality 
 of your sex." 
 
 "No, I wont let you flatter me thus. I wont let 
 you coax me into compliance with your treasonable 
 doctrines. If I did, doubtless, I should be the first 
 one to suffer by it, and I wish you to remember, John, 
 I shall warn all the young ladies about you, particu 
 larly pretty little Kate Kennett." 
 
 " Now don't, pray don't. Indeed I will retract all 
 I have said, if you will forgive me this once." 
 
 "Don't promise rashly, Marcia. Try him first," 
 said Mr. Woodville, laughing.
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. Ill 
 
 " Well, rebel, I will try you, and beware how you 
 transgress again. I shall not easily pardon a second 
 sin, I assure you." 
 
 "Marcia, how well you look to-night," said little 
 Flora. "I have not seen you in such spirits since 
 your sickness. I do think you will soon be well 
 enough to race with me in the avenue." 
 
 "I hope so, indeed, Flora, but I must confess I 
 don't feel much like it now." 
 
 " Flora is right," said Mrs. Woodville, affectionately 
 passing her hand over the thick masses of my hair. 
 " I knew our little girl only wanted change of com 
 pany. She could not help but weary of such plain 
 country people as we are." 
 
 I looked up, at this allusion to the pleasure I had 
 experienced in the society of the new teacher, and met 
 the earnest gaze of his eyes fastened upon me. I 
 know not what had such an effect upon me, but I know 
 I blushed, and quickly turned my head. I said to Mrs. 
 Woodville, 
 
 "Nay, nay, dear friend, you wrong me there, I 
 could be nothing short of ungrateful, if it were pos 
 sible for me to weary of you. 'Tis true I long for the 
 dear ones who are bound to me by the ties of blood, 
 but do not think, however far from you I may go, I 
 shall ever forget you. I feel that with me 'tis 
 
 " Deatli alone remembers not."
 
 112 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 " What do you think the doctor told me about you, 
 to-day ? He said he believed you would be able to 
 start about the middle or last of April, though he 
 thinks May would be the pleasantest month for you," 
 said Mr. Woodville. 
 
 " Oh, how glad I shall be when the happy moment 
 arrives," said I, clasping my hands together in an 
 ecstasy of delight, as I sat dreaming of my mother's 
 embrace, and heard her words of joyous welcome. 
 
 "Miss "Walton has been ill?" asked Harry Percy, 
 in a tone of interest. 
 
 " Oh, very ill," said Mr. Woodville. " Indeed, at 
 one time we feared we should lose her, but we- have 
 now every hope that her youth, and a good constitu 
 tion, will triumph over disease." 
 
 "What was the cause of her illness?" he asked 
 pointedly. 
 
 Mr. Woodville paused a moment before replying. 
 Then he said 
 
 " A very high fever at first, followed by prostration 
 so great, that I feared nothing short of a miracle would 
 rally her from it." 
 
 Harry Percy looked at me kindly, pityingly, and all 
 at once it occurred to me that I had seen him before, 
 but when or where I could not remember. Of one 
 thing I was convinced, however, and that was, that 
 the family wished every one to remain in ignorance of 
 the caus*e of my illness, and I mentally resolved to 
 keep the secret faithfully, since, by betraying it, I-
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 113 
 
 would expose to the view of the curious, a dark spot, 
 they were naturally anxious to hide. 
 
 The evening passed pleasantly away, and when we 
 separated, we were mutually pleased with each other. 
 In fact the coming of the stranger in our midst, formed 
 a valuable acquisition to the family party, and my 
 mind dwelt upon him, more, perhaps, than was justi 
 fiable. Still I could not divest myself of the idea that 
 I had somewhere seen him before, and like the vague 
 remembrances of a dream, I connected him with my 
 distant home. I noticed, when Octave first presented 
 him to me, a strange look of surprise and interest in 
 his face, which he at the same time vainly strove to 
 dissemble. At length, wearied with my cogitations, I 
 fell asleep and dreamed ; and that which I saw in my 
 dream was so singular that I will repeat it. 
 
 Methought I was in a large ship, in the middle of 
 the ocean, and I was the only passenger. The captain 
 and his officers were preparing to meet a terrific storm 
 that was threatening us, and the sailors were rushing 
 wildly to and fro, to execute the orders of their supe 
 riors. I felt no fear, for all around me were mighty 
 pillars of marble, which seemed to me to form a bul 
 wark, of strong defence, that even old ocean could not 
 harm. I trusted in them implicitly, and sat looking 
 at them with much of the same faith with which the 
 repentant sinner views the Cross of Christ. But, lo, 
 in the midst of my fancied security, while fhe wind 
 howled, and the waves rose mountain high, there came
 
 114 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 from the bosom of the deep a great white being. His 
 face shone like the sun. His stature was mighty. 
 With a great sword he cut down the pillars which had 
 been my defence, and one after another cast them 
 into the sea. Oh, htfw desolate, how desponding I 
 was at that moment, when what I had trusted in was 
 thus rudely torn away. But suddenly the white being 
 raised to heaven his hand, and said, in tones of pity 
 and love, "Trust thou in God." I looked again. He 
 was gone, and amid the howling of the storm the ship 
 dashed on, and the giant waves washed over the decks, 
 wetting me to the skin. A chill, as of death, passed 
 over me, and I awoke, trembling with an indefinable 
 feeling of terror. I tried to reason with myself, and 
 remember it was only a dream, and at last I fell 
 asleep, and the self-same vision presented itself before 
 me, even more vividly than before. I can remember 
 it now, as I write, as clearly as though it were only a 
 moment ago* I dreamed it, and I am superstitious enough 
 to believe it was sent to me as a warning from God. 
 
 In the morning, when I awoke, I resolved to tell 
 Mr. Woodville my vision, and get him to interpret it 
 to me. I accordingly took my breakfast, and having 
 allowed Susan, my dressing maid, to attire me, I went 
 out to seek him. He was sitting in the porch, read 
 ing, and as I took my seat beside him, he welcomed 
 me with kind smiles, and inquiries after my health, 
 and taking my hand in his, he pressed it tenderly.
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 115 
 
 "Marcia," said he, with an anxious look, "how is 
 this ? I find you feverish this morning." 
 
 " I had such a singular dream last night, and I 
 came to you to interpret it," I replied. 
 
 " What, my child, have you so much faith in my 
 wisdom ?" 
 
 "I have, indeed." 
 
 " Since when have I acquired such majesty in your 
 eyes?" 
 
 "I know not any particular period. Indeed, it 
 seems to me I always felt it." 
 
 "Let me hear your dream," he said. 
 
 I repeated it, word for word, as I have written it. 
 The old man sat quietly musing for a long time after 
 I had finished. At last he said 
 
 " That it was true he could divine the dream. The 
 ocean upon which the ship was launched, was the 
 ocean of life. The captain and sailors were the 
 virtues and passions, who alternately sought to guide 
 me. The pillars of marble to which I trusted, were 
 many and dear friends, to whom my affections clung, 
 and upon whom I leaned for support, love and pro- 
 tection. The great white being was the angel of God. 
 By his action he proved to me how vain it was to 
 trust in aught that this earth can give, and how im 
 possible it was to gain heaven, till all earthly affec 
 tions are uprooted. He pointed upward, and told me 
 of the Friend who was able and willing to defend me. 
 The wild dashing of the ship was what was to be 

 
 116 WAY-MAKES IN THE 
 
 expected. The storm that surrounded me, had been 
 the lot of many another -way-worn and weary pilgrim. 
 I must expect to meet* them, and obey the divine 
 voice that spoke in my dream. I must "trust in 
 God." 
 
 I felt that there was the impress of truth in all that 
 Mr. Woodville said, and I returned to my room to 
 ponder in silence upon this call that God had given 
 me in a dream. It may be readily supposed that the 
 impression made by it was deep and lasting, and within 
 the chambers of my heart the blessed spirit of God 
 wrestled with me and exhorted me to repentance. 
 
 That evening I yielded again to Mrs. Woodville's 
 solicitations, and joined the family circle in the parlor. 
 The conversation was bright, cheerful and animated, 
 and was prolonged to a late hour. There were mo 
 ments when I fancied that Harry Percy could be ter 
 ribly sarcastic in his opposition to what he believed 
 erroneous ideas, but his raillery was of that polished 
 kind that called forth no emotion of anger. He 
 thought slavery a sin, and condemned it as a blot on 
 the national escutcheon. Octave, on the contrary, 
 warmly upheld the system, declaring it to have origin 
 ated in a wise ordination of Providence. " The stran 
 ger within thy gates," he believed to be the slaves of 
 the olden time ; thus proving that the Bible counte 
 nanced slavery. He also called attention to the com 
 fortable condition of the slaves, compared to that of 
 the free black population, or even the lower classes of 

 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 117 
 
 whites, at the North, and quoted in favor of his argu 
 ment the favorite by-word of the slaves themselves, 
 " as wretched as a free nigger." 
 
 Mr. Percy said 
 
 " It is true, as you say ; there is great misery at 
 the North, and much of it, it is impossible to avoid. 
 The constant influx of foreign paupers, thrown destitute 
 upon our shores, makes misery and want, that, labor as 
 we may, we cannot entirely alleviate. But the great 
 evil in slavery I conceive to be in the unlimited power 
 the master has over the slave. If he be a tyrant, he 
 can exercise the most brutal cruelty to the poor crea 
 tures who are his property, and they have no redress. 
 He can make life a burthen to them, too intolerable to 
 be borne, and at the same time they may have done 
 nothing to deserve such cruelty at his hands." 
 
 " I acknowledge all you say to be quite true, Mr. 
 Percy ; but let me ask you one question. Have you 
 never met with tyranny at the North ? Have there 
 not been cases there where children of both sexes have 
 been bound out in families, who have daily been tor 
 tured and goaded with the lash, and nearly starved, to 
 satisfy a caprice on the part of master or mistress ? 
 Have not poor children, scarcely covered with rags to 
 protect them from the chilling blasts of winter, been 
 sent into the streets to scrub the door-steps, while their 
 hands nearly froze as they performed their labor ? I 
 do not say this is the general feature of the North. 
 Far from it. I only assert that these cases are facts 
 11
 
 118 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 which I have gleaned from actual observation, and I 
 solemnly assert that the cases where a slaveholder 
 abuses his slaves are equally rare. Does not your 
 own good sense teach you that it is our interest to be 
 kind and careful of them ? They are our property ; 
 if we do not make them comfortable and provide for 
 their wants, they depreciate in value. No man, with 
 the common dictates of humanity, would abuse his 
 horse, neither would he abuse his still more valuable 
 property, his slave." 
 
 " I do not deny that there is truth in what you say, 
 but still it does not prove that the system is right. 
 Man has no power, human or divine, to hold his fellow 
 man in bondage. If you admit that blacks have souls, 
 you must, to a certain extent, place them on a level 
 with yourself. What says our Constitution ? ' That 
 all men are born free and equal.' And is this freedom ? 
 Is this equality to traffic in human flesh, to buy and 
 sell the being that God has endowed with an immortal 
 soul, a spark struck from his own Divine nature ? Nay, 
 if this be freedom, it were better far to live the fawn 
 ing subject of royalty the mere creature of the 
 crowned-puppet that they call a King. 
 
 "What, then, would you have us do to remedy the 
 evil ? Suppose we grant freedom to the slaves, and 
 permit them to go forth as they list, what would be 
 come of them ? Do you not know they would die out 
 before the faces of the whites ? Does not experience,
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 119 
 
 in the fate of the hapless Indians, prove to you how 
 completely all such races must be exterminated?" 
 
 " You quite mistake me, if you suppose me to be 
 one of those hot-headed abolitionists, who want the 
 slaves to be turned loose upon society, without any 
 preparation far from it. In my opinion, the only 
 just mode of proceeding would be to fix a time, and 
 let it be fifty years distant, if you choose, and declare 
 that upon that day your slaves shall all be free. Com 
 mence now to educate the race, both fathers and chil 
 dren. Strive to raise them from the darkness of ig 
 norance, and exalt their hopes and feelings." 
 
 " That is all very well to talk about, Mr. Percy, but 
 if you knew as much as I do about the blacks, you 
 would be convinced of the fallacy of your theory. 
 Educate the black exalt his ideas ! Why, he has no 
 intellect to take an education, and no mental power to 
 apply it when taken ; and as to his ideas, he has none 
 to exalt. An educated darky would be a phenomenon 
 of nature. I never saw one, North or South. Speak 
 candidly, now did you ?" 
 
 " I have, indeed, seen many." 
 
 "And are you sure they were blacks? Were they 
 not rather a mixture of the two races?" 
 
 "I can't say; but I rather think they were part 
 white." 
 
 "Ah! now, we have it. These men that you speak 
 of, that had sense and education, derived it most un 
 doubtedly from a white ancestor. Believe me, you
 
 120 WAY-MAKES IN THE 
 
 little know the character of the blacks. They are 
 totally unfitted by nature to provide for themselves, 
 and nothing do they so cordially hate as any kind of 
 mental application. 'Tis true, they are affectionate, 
 and become very much attached to us, and so do we to 
 them; but they have many bad traits of character 
 that call forth all our patience, and, indeed, seem to ' 
 merit extreme severity. 
 
 " There is, perhaps, justice in all you say, but still 
 with all my northern prejudices fresh around me, you 
 can't expect to convince me. It is quite likely if I 
 had been born and brought up in the midst of slavery, 
 I should have been, like yourself, blind to its evils, and 
 none can know better than myself how to sympathize 
 with the weakness which has been engendered by early 
 associations. But, let us change the subject, since it 
 is apparent we are both fixed in our own way of think 
 ing. I am sure the rest of the party must think us 
 very prosy individuals, and selfish in the bargain." 
 
 "I, for one, was very much interested," said Mrs. 
 Woodville. 
 
 " I should be better pleased to have Marcia play 
 some for us, if it would not fatigue her too much," 
 said Mr. "Woodville. 
 
 The rest of the party eagerly joined in the request. 
 I said 
 
 " I play and sing so poorly that I fear it will be a 
 cause of annoyance to Mr. Percy, who has just come 
 from the great American centre of musical talent,
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 121 
 
 New York. He is doubtless a severe critic, and fear 
 of his ridicule steals away my voice. 
 
 " Indeed, Miss Walton, you do me injustice to sup 
 pose that I could ridicule you. I assure you, the fash 
 ionable opera style of singing is very much out of my 
 taste. I certainly prefer the sweet old-time music. 
 There is far more melody in it, and it is inexpressibly 
 dear to me, on account of the fond memories of home 
 it awakens in my breast. Pray sing without fear of 
 me." 
 
 And play and sing I did, with an energy and power 
 of execution I had not felt for months. I ran through 
 all the favorite airs from the operas, polkas, waltzes, 
 marches, preludes, symphonies, &c., and wound up with 
 singing all the old-fashioned songs I could remember. 
 I forgot a critic's ear was listening to my performance, 
 but I sang from the heart, and I felt through its every 
 fibre the truth of the words, " Home, sweet home, there 
 is no place like home." 
 
 At last I stopped, and every one present had some 
 word of praise, saving and excepting only Harry 
 Percy. I felt piqued, and looked up to examine his 
 countenance, and see the perfect indifference I fancied 
 must be there, but I was struck with the hopeless de 
 jection of his attitude. He sat resting his head on 
 his hand, and gazing on the floor with such sad listless- 
 ness of manner as touched my heart with pity. Ah ! 
 I exclaimed to myself, this man has some secret cause 
 for grief. He is unhappy. Oh ! would that mine were 
 11*
 
 122 WAY-MARKS IN TUB 
 
 the magic power to chase all sorrow from his brow. 
 Dangerous interest! Ah! beware, fair daughter of 
 earth, when thy heart feels pity such as this. Thou 
 steyest, unknown to thyself, be forging chains for thine 
 own freedom. 
 
 I went to my room, sat down and wrote the follow 
 ing lines : 
 
 Why sittest thou so lonely, 
 
 When all around are gay ? 
 Is it thy heart, thine only, 
 
 That feels not music's sway ? 
 Was there no charm to lull thee, 
 
 When Marcia sang of home ? 
 Hast thou lost that love so holy, 
 
 As leaves thy heart alone ? 
 
 Or hast thou cause for sorrow ? 
 
 Dost thou at hour of night, 
 Look sadly for the morrow, 
 
 That brings to thee no light? 
 Hast thou buried all that loved thee, 
 
 Deep in the silent grave ? 
 Or have the false deceived thee, 
 
 And betrayed the trust you gave? 
 
 Oh ! tell me why so joyless, 
 
 Droops thy majestic brow ? 
 Is thy sun of life so rayless ? 
 
 Thy heart all darkness now 1 
 Oh ! tell me what thy sadness ? 
 
 Relieve thy burdened breast ; 
 I'll inspire thre with gladness, 
 
 A nd soothe thee into rest.
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. * 123 
 
 I know not why I ask thee, 
 
 Thy secret wo to tell; 
 Put gladly do I task thee 
 
 Thy sorrow to dispel. 
 In childhood's early hour, 
 
 1 grieved for other's pain, 
 And 1 feel for thee the power 
 
 To weep and grieve again. 
 
 One fine, lovely Sabbath morning, we arose, and 
 taking an early breakfast, started for church, which was 
 twelve miles distant. It was the first time I had ac 
 companied the family since my illness. The air was 
 mild, and came laden through the windows of the car 
 riage with the breath of spring and the perfume of wild 
 flowers. Our road lay through a fertile and highly 
 cultivated part of the country, and as we were drawn 
 rapidly along by a pair of swift horses, I felt that the 
 shadows which had so long been darkening my path 
 were being dispelled by the brightness of all around 
 me. Octave and Harry Percy were in a buggy, drawn 
 by the superb grays, and rode in front of us, occasion- 
 ^lly stopping beside us to exchange compliments and 
 smiles. Mr. Woodville and cousin John rode in a 
 buggy behind us, and thus our little party wound their 
 way to the house of God. 
 
 Arrived at the church, we alighted and entered, 
 noiselessly. A strange feeling of solemnity came 
 over me as I took my seat in Mrs. Woodvillc's pew,
 
 124 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 but it was not to be wondered at, when the horrors I 
 had passed through were recalled. And then, again, 
 during the coming week, I expected to leave Georgia, 
 never to return to it, perhaps, never again to sit in 
 the old church, and join in its time-hallowed worship. 
 It was the spirit of God that strove with me then, 
 warning me to forsake the world and all its vanities, 
 and trust in God. I bowed my heart in repentance, 
 and when we came to the confession, and repeated 
 the words "We have erred and strayed from thy 
 ways like lost sheep ; we have followed too much the 
 devices and desires of our own hearts," oh, then it 
 was that the conviction seized me how deeply guilty I 
 had been. I remembered the peculiar manner in 
 which God had called me to himself, and I found I 
 had been giving my heart, and its thoughts and feel 
 ings, to the creature, and had banished from His 
 shrine the creator of my life. In a word, upon close 
 self-examination, I read a secret before unknown to 
 me. Of its nature I shall speak more hereafter. 
 
 The Reverend Mr. W preached on that morn 
 ing a sermon from the text, " Give thy heart to 
 God." He went on, in the most lucid manner, to 
 explain what this giving of the heart meant. He saw 
 there were too many Christians who gave their devo 
 tion and prayers to God, who relieved the poor, and 
 were always foremost in works of love ; who were, in 
 fact, or seemed to be, the pillars of the church, and 
 yet who were in reality on the brink of a precipice,
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 125 
 
 with only one step between them and eternal death. 
 "These persons," said he, "who lull themselves in 
 fancied security, and who believe heaven sure, are 
 those who give their hearts to God with a reservation. 
 There is for them one darling sin, one cherished fault, 
 one secret passion that they cannot sacrifice, and they 
 believe that their devotion in all other matters will 
 ensure their pardon for this ; but, alas, wo to them ; 
 their condition is far worse than that of the hardened 
 sinner, for he may be awakened to his danger. They 
 cling to this secret sin. It has become a part of their 
 nature. They cannot exist without it. Many of them, 
 indeed, are ignorant that it is a sin. It has become 
 so natural and so necessary, that they feel as if death 
 would ^nsue should they try to uproot it. And thus 
 they die and go to judgment, all .unprepared for the 
 stern, All-seeing eyes which have long since penetrated 
 the deceitful heart, and awarded it its doom. Let. me 
 entreat you then to search minutely the hidden im 
 pulses of your lives, and pray humbly and fervently 
 to God to preserve you from secret faults." 
 
 I pondered deeply on this sermon, all the way home, 
 and as I sat at my casement that evening, looking 
 forth upon the starry night, sad, solemn thoughts 
 came over me. The spirit in my heart said " give 
 thy heart to God," and I asked myself if I could do 
 this unreservedly ? If I could renounce all the plea 
 sures and affections of life, in obedience to that Divine 
 voice? If I could bow in submission to that Will,
 
 126 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 that ordered all things wisely and well ? If, in short, 
 I had a feeling, a passion, an earth-born interest, a 
 secret-dweller in my breast, which would make me 
 shrink from yielding myself up a willing sacrifice on 
 the altar of God, to be Chastened as He pleased ? 
 And in that quiet hour, there came a light as it were 
 from heaven, and shone upon me ; and I saw that my 
 spirit was earth-bound ; that my heart had, alas, its 
 secret fault. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " The sun is bright its golden rays 
 
 Gild mountain top and flower ; 
 O'er rock, and wave, and vale it plays, 
 
 From morn till evening hour. 
 Eut oh ! no beauty in its beams 
 
 My weary heart can see, 
 While rocks, and vales, and glancing streams, 
 
 Keep me away from thee. 
 
 The waves to others wear a light 
 
 More glorious than the sky; 
 To me earth's hues are only bright, 
 
 Reflected from thine eye. 
 The world may deem me dull and sad 
 
 I care not how that be ; 
 I never can or will he glad, 
 
 Mother, away from thce." 
 
 Was this reality? Was I, indeed, seated in the 
 cars with Mr. Woodville beside me, and little Flora, 
 and good, faithful Susan in front ? Yes, it was all
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 127 
 
 true ; I was on my way, and in a little while I should 
 reach my native city. I should see again the dear 
 ones I loved so fondly. But, alas, how different, how 
 changed was all since I left them. I had gone to the 
 South to seek for health. I was returning from it a 
 weak, fragile creature, that could not even do without 
 a nurse, for such, disguise the fact as you would, 
 Susan certainly was, though Mr. Woodville perti 
 naciously persisted in calling her my Abigail, for I 
 don't know what reason, without it was to make me 
 believe I was not sick. 
 
 We reached Charleston and took passage in the 
 steamship Southerner, for New York, having first 
 telegraphed to my mother, when she might expect me 
 home. On the morning of the third day we reached 
 our destined port in safety. While sitting waiting in 
 the ladies' cabin, for Mr. Woodville to go after a 
 carriage, a lady, dressed in deep mourning, ap 
 proached me, holding by the hand a little boy. She 
 threw back her veil. 
 
 " My mother, my brother," I exclaimed, as I threw 
 myself into her extended arms, and then fondly 
 clasped my brother to my heart. My mother said 
 
 " Alas, Marcia, my child, my darling, how pale 
 you are looking." 
 
 " Oh, I am much better now, mother. I have been 
 sick, but now I feel indeed like another being. This 
 is Flora Gray son, mother, one of my little pupils." 
 My mother kissed her. "Now, Benny," s&id I,
 
 128 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 "here is a little girl who loves you dearly, just be 
 cause she has heard me talk about you." 
 
 " Then you did not forget me, Marcia ?" he asked, 
 at the same time kissing little Flora. 
 
 " How can you ask me such a question, you blessed 
 little darling? Why, I should sooner forget to 
 breathe." 
 
 " Ah, but you have been with such nice little boys 
 and girls at the South. I expect they were a great 
 deal better than I," said he, archly. 
 
 " And so you were jealous of them ?" 
 
 "I don't know. I thought they might be very 
 good, and you would perhaps love them much more." 
 
 " Are you satisfied now, little rogue, that I don't 
 love any body more ?" I asked, pressing him fondly 
 to my heart. 
 
 " Yes, I know now I was foolish to think you could 
 forget me. I know I am very dear to you, because 
 you say so, sweet sister." 
 
 How gratifying to my sad spirit was this tribute of 
 love and confidence. Mothers and sisters, I entreat 
 you to act to your children and brothers in such a 
 manner that they may learn the beauties of truth 
 from your example. How holy is the sight of a 
 young child, who nobly and fearlessly speaks the 
 truth on all occasions, and who scorns all subter 
 fuge who would far rather confess -the evil done, 
 and be punished for it, than rest with the stain of 
 falsehood on its infant lips.
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 129 
 
 Mr. Woodville returned, and warmly greeted my 
 mother and Benny, and then we left the boat, and 
 having had our baggage strapped on the carriage, we 
 drove rapidly to our home, which is in the up-town 
 part of New York. Mother insisted that Mr. Wood 
 ville and Flora should stay with us, and after a long 
 argument they consented. 
 
 "Ah," said he, "Mrs. Walton, if you only knew 
 what a siege I have had with that girl. She is as 
 obstinate and crooked as, I don't know what. She 
 has done little else but fret to come home ever since 
 she left you, and that was ungrateful, to say the least 
 of it." 
 
 " Now, don't say ungrateful, Mr. Woodville. I am 
 sure I was not that." 
 
 " You are a saucy minx, and I suppose we shall 
 have plenty of airs and graces, now you have got 
 home to your mother, but I shall remove you from her 
 in a very little while, miss, for it is my intention to 
 start for Saratoga in a month or so, and I am re 
 solved to take you with me. How do you like that?" 
 
 " I don't want to go, indeed, I don't. I don't want 
 to leave my mother." 
 
 " Don't want to go, aye ? I see through it, as plain 
 as day. You hate me ; you can't bear the sight of 
 me. That is it." 
 
 " You know I don't hate you, Mr. Woodville. You 
 know that I think you one of the dearest friends I 
 have got on earth." 
 12
 
 130 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 " Poh, poh, all nonsense. I don't believe a word of 
 it. Nothing but flattery, deceitful minx." 
 
 Here a very significant look passed between him 
 and my mother. It was not intended for my eyes, 
 but I understood it. 
 
 That evening, news having gone forth of my arrival, 
 a number of friends came to see me. Among them 
 was my school-teacher and Mr. Johnson, an old friend 
 of my father. Miss Staunton, I may safely say, was 
 delighted to see me. Mr. Johnson, a tall, slender 
 man, of fifty, with as many curious tricks as a monkey, 
 greeted me with becoming pleasure. Mr. Johnson 
 was known and dreaded by all his friends, and when 
 he began to tell an anecdote, every body left the 
 room, or hastened to turn the conversation. He 
 asked me many questions about the South, but, gene 
 rally speaking, he answered them himself. At length, 
 raising his voice, he commenced to tell a story for the 
 edification of the assembled company. 
 
 " Now that you are all here, and Marcia has come 
 back, I will tell you something interesting that oc 
 curred some twelve years ago, when I was in New 
 Orleans. I remember that I went one day to 
 see ." 
 
 "Yes, we have heard all about it a dozen times," 
 said Miss Staunton. Marcia, do let us hear if you 
 found teaching to be an enviable task." 
 
 " There are many laborious duties in the life of a 
 teacher, yet I am pleased with it in numerous respects,
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 131 
 
 for I think in imparting instruction to others, our own 
 minds become exalted, refined and polished." 
 
 " Yet it is a vast responsibility." 
 
 " Oh, yes, but I think in guiding souls to heaven, 
 our hearts become purified and strengthened for the 
 task, and we are insensibly led along the path we are 
 pointing out to others. I acknowledge there are many 
 difficulties in the life of a teacher, and many trials of 
 patience. Many discouragements that weigh upon 
 the heart, and make her task heavy, and the burden 
 grievous to be borne. She needs, perhaps, more than 
 any other person, an abiding trust in that God who 
 has promised never to forsake the helpless, to raise up 
 those who fall, and to make the day ever sufficient for 
 the strength." - 
 
 " I am proud of you, my child," said Miss Staunton. 
 " This is, indeed, sweet fruit to gather from the soil I 
 have planted and nourished with such tender care. 
 Dear Marcia, you have repaid me to-night for the 
 labor of years. Who will say that a teacher has no 
 blessings to counterbalance all the evil of her lot?" 
 
 "It must be certainly pleasant," said Mr. Johnson, 
 " to find that Marcia has proved so dutiful, but for 
 my part, I must say, I like spirit. I remember when 
 I was a boy, I was considered the worst child in the 
 whole school, and I was universally acknowledged by 
 teachers and scholars to be the ring-leader. Well, 
 one day when the master was out ." 
 
 "Marcia, do play for us," said Miss Staunton, who
 
 132 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 had an unconquerable aversion to friend Johnson's 
 long stories, and invariably made it a point to nip 
 them in the bud. 
 
 I began to play. Mr. Johnson looked grave for 
 about five minutes. Then he commenced to hum an 
 accompaniment to the piece I was playing, in such 
 horrid bad time that I was forced to stop, leaving to 
 him the honor of executing the piece. 
 
 "Why do you stop?" he asked, in the most uncon 
 cerned manner. " Oh, I see how it is. You are 
 fatigued from the long journey you have taken. Miss 
 Staunton should have known better than to ask you 
 to play, for you are not only tired, but you keep 
 miserable time, and your voice is anything but mu 
 sical. I had a sister that sang as badly as you, and 
 yet she would not be convinced, but thought she had 
 a voice like a nightingale. One night, my mother 
 gave a large party, and all the fashion of New York 
 was there. Let me see, it was in the year 18 , no 
 that could not have been the year either. I guess it 
 must have been 18 . I was younger then than I am 
 now, and ." 
 
 Again Miss Staunton made a desperate effort, and 
 said, 
 
 " Do you remain long in New York, Mr. Wood- 
 ville?" 
 
 Poor friend Johnson looked daggers at first, then 
 he gave it up in despair, and in a few moments he 
 took a seat on the sofa, where Flora and Benny were
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 133 
 
 carrying on a nice little conversation of their own, and 
 I was soon satisfied, by the expression of their coun 
 tenances, that he was exerting himself to the utmost 
 to make them as miserable as possible. 
 
 I will not dwell longer on the events of this period, 
 for two months slipped away almost unperceived, and 
 the time arrived for us to start on our Northern tour. 
 I frequently asked Miss Staunton to tell me of whom she 
 had spoken in the postscript of her letter, but for some 
 reason inexplicable to me, she maintained a profound 
 silence upon the subject. It is useless for me to enter 
 into detail, and explain by what arguments Mr. "Wood- 
 ville prevailed upon my mother to let him take me to 
 Saratoga. It is enough to say, that at the end of two 
 months, we were comfortably fixed at the United States 
 hotel, in a handsome suite of rooms, and daily taking 
 the most delightful drives through the beautiful farm 
 ing country that surrounds the village. I believe the 
 water did me some good, and I might have felt happy, 
 but that I was every day annoyed t>y some ill-timed 
 exclamation of pity, from some ope of the many loun 
 gers about the hotel. I do think it excessively ill- 
 bred, to comment, in the presence of an invalid, upon 
 their delicate appearance, and frail hopes of life. 
 
 Mr. Woodville was ever at my side to cheer my 
 hours of weakness, and in pointing out to me the 
 snares and pitfalls of life, to lead me to a serene con 
 templation of that blessed land God has prepared for 
 12*
 
 134 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 His children. I always listened to him with attention, 
 and one day I said in answer 
 
 " What you tell me is no doubt correct and true. I 
 feel it, and yet I cannot bring myself to look upon it 
 calmly. I feel a terror of death, that I cannot over 
 come. The world looks bright and beautiful to me, 
 and I, who have never tasted of its pleasures and joys, 
 save on such a limited scale, long to sip of that cup of 
 pleasure I have heard so glowingly described, even 
 though I should feel certain that in the end its con 
 tents would turn to gall and wormwood. I feel within 
 me that irresistible desire and craving for life, which 
 is in fact our second nature." 
 
 " It may be perhaps the cravings of nature, but I 
 would think it more just to say it was the promptings 
 of the Evil One, who seeks to win you from that straight 
 narrow way, which leads its followers to heaven. But, 
 believe me, dear child, the first sweetness of the cup is 
 soon forgotten, amid the anguish caused by the bitter 
 dregs. Do not think that I deny the possibility of 
 human happiness. *I am not so unjust. Had the fair 
 love of my early years been true, I should have been 
 indeed blessed in the possession of her. If you, Mar- 
 cia, had loved Octave as dearly, as fondly as he loved 
 you, you might have drank sweet draughts of the pure 
 fountain of wedded love, and marriage is certainly the 
 highest and happiest state of existence permitted to 
 mortals on this earth." 
 
 " t can well believe it, and you must not chide me
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 135 
 
 when I confess to you, that I have sometimes indulged 
 in dreams of what my feelings would have been had I 
 been blessed with a love it was in my power to return, 
 and united for life to a being whose thoughts, im 
 pulses and wishes coincided with my own. When 
 sometimes I see the happiness of others, when I see 
 the gentle wife leaning on her husband's arm, and 
 looking up to him with all the confiding fondness of 
 devoted affection ; when I see the young mother, in 
 the full ripeness of her girlish beauty, holding her in 
 fant to her breast, and regarding it with eyes beautiful 
 and bright, with all the unutterable tenderness of 
 maternal love ; oh, chide me not that I weep, and say 
 I am an alien to all these holy emotions. I can never 
 be a wife or mother. I must go down to an early 
 grave, and the heart that might have loved fondly and 
 well, must cease its pulsations, and lie cold and still 
 within me; and all this is because I have been the 
 victim of another's crime." 
 
 "And do you, my dear child, allow this to fret 
 you ? I had hoped to find you more resigned. But 
 do not think that I ever forget it, or cease to mourn 
 that you are forced to suffer thus. All the tender 
 pity and countless enjoyments of a world should be 
 yours, if they were in my power to bestow. Do not, 
 dear girl, give way to this unhappiness. Seek rather 
 to raise yourself above the weakness of human nature. 
 It does seem cruel that you should have to suffer for
 
 136 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 others, but God Kas doubtless permitted it for a wise 
 and good purpose. He has called you to himself, and 
 that which if e offers in return for all you give up here, 
 will repay you amply. Let us seek, my dear girl, to 
 be worthy to enter the kingdom of heaven ; to sit 
 down in the blessed kingdom of Him who loves us, 
 and has called us both in an especial manner. He 
 loveth whom He chasteneth, and though the way may 
 be dark and stormy, and each moment we are tossed 
 upon life's troubled sea, yet if we trust Him, He will 
 never forsake us, but will lead us with a father's hand 
 to a home of peace and security." 
 
 "Dear Mr. Woodville, I know I am blessed with 
 such a teacher and friend. Pray do not get weary of 
 me, and think me incorrigible if I do not act in all 
 things exactly as you wish. Would that I could profit 
 better by all your kind advice. Indeed I will try to 
 throw off this spirit of rebellion which rises within me, 
 and urges me to arraign God for all I have suffered. 
 He has done it for the best, and I will strive to say 
 1 Thy will be done.' " 
 
 " Believe me, my child, if you will humbly pray for 
 strength, you will receive it. But you must pray with 
 faith. I remember when I first began to pray, I had 
 no just idea of what faith was. I prayed for content 
 ment and peace of mind merely out of curiosity, and I 
 promised myself I should see whether God would 
 answer my prayer ; but one day I came across a
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER., 137 
 
 hymn in the prayer hook, that opened my eyes upon 
 this subject. Doubtless you remember the lines, 
 
 ' Faith is the Christian's evidence, 
 
 Of things unseen by mortal eye; 
 It passes all the bounds of sense, 
 
 And penetrates the inmost sky ' 
 
 This faith, said I, is what I want. The prayer of 
 faith is answered. I must not question that which I 
 do not understand, but give myself up, in all humility, 
 to be dealt with as seemeth Him good. Here, then, 
 was the great secret, and when this barrier was broken 
 down, need I tell you how all the pride and coldness 
 of my nature faded away ; how I knelt and fervently 
 entreated that the wounds of my spirit might be 
 healed ? I did not ask so much for forgetfulness of 
 the past, for although she was false to me, was it not 
 better far to remember and forgive, than seek to bury 
 the sting and let it rankle in my heart ? 
 
 " At length, I gained some peace. I forgave her ; 
 and, perhaps, my greatest fault now is, that I have 
 attributed too much merit to the pardon, which was 
 wrung from me, as it were, by years of bitter anguish. 
 But, God knows the misery of years, a blighted man 
 hood, a desolate, sorrowful old age, are something for 
 a poor mortal to forgive ; for, as you well know, to 
 love those who love us is human and natural, but to 
 forgive and love those who crush us with their false 
 hoods, is not merely noble and just it is divine." 
 
 " Do not say your old age is desolate. 'Tis true it
 
 138 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 is not much that I can do to cheer it, but, believe me, 
 that little shall be done cheerfully, and will spring 
 from the purest and most disinterested affection." 
 
 " I know it, my dear child, and the consciousness of 
 your love is, indeed, a solace to my old age. I have 
 often lately thought of making a proposition to you, 
 and I may not, perhaps, find a more suitable opportu 
 nity than the present. Give me the right to love and 
 protect you. Permit me to adopt you as my daughter. 
 I will promise to obtain your mother's consent. What 
 say you, Marcia ? "Will you be my child ?" 
 
 " Are you in earnest, Mr. Woodville ? Would you, 
 indeed, take the poor child of sorrow to your heart, 
 and bless her with a father's love that love so long a 
 stranger to my path so earnestly longed for by my 
 lonely heart ?" 
 
 " I will, indeed, my dear child, and I promise myself 
 an endless source of happiness in my newly acquired 
 daughter. From this moment consider me your fa 
 ther will you not ? and you shall see how kind and 
 indulgent I will be, at all times, to my sweet child." 
 
 I rose from my seat, and was clasped to the noble 
 heart of the man whom I could call by the endearing 
 name of father, and I felt that the wanderer's way had 
 at last reached the banks of a cool, refreshing river, 
 whose lucid bosom mirrored forth a tranquil happiness, 
 before undreamed of, for my future lot. 
 
 I know not how it was, but from this period my 
 health seemed visibly to improve. Flora, laughingly,
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 139 
 
 assured me my cheeks were as rosy as her own. I 
 think that was an exaggeration. I was able to take 
 more exercise, and was not so sensibly affected by 
 fatigue. 
 
 My mother wrote, in answer to Mr. "Woodville, her 
 thanks to him for all his kindness to me, and assured 
 him of her gratitude. And then came a long letter 
 from Mrs. Woodville, telling me how happy she was to 
 hear that Mr. Woodville had acted such a part to me, 
 and assuring me of her unchangeable love and affection. 
 She begged me to recruit my health, and return to 
 them in the fall, telling me that from her I should re 
 ceive the warm welcome of a mother, and that every 
 member of the family joined her in sincere wishes for 
 my entire recovery and speedy return to their midst. 
 
 The season at Saratoga was very gay, and many 
 persons sought the acquaintance of the adopted 
 daughter of the rich Georgian, who, I suppose, would 
 have shrunk from the contamination of associating 
 with a mere governess. But there were others, again, 
 who nightly frequented our parlors, and who were 
 among the choicest spirits of the day. They met to 
 gether and contributed greatly to my amusement by 
 the highly intellectual and instructive tone of their 
 conversation. I was particularly delighted in the so 
 ciety of one lady, Mrs. Allen, who hovered around me, 
 and seemed to have formed an almost sisterly attach 
 ment for me. She was one of those persons who at 
 first sight appear quite homely, but who upon acquaint-
 
 140 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 ance so grow upon you, and gain your affections by the 
 inexpressible sweetness of their manners and conver 
 sation, that you end by thinking them beautiful, and by 
 prefering them to all others. 
 
 I had always imagined Mrs. Allen to be singularly 
 blessed in all the relations of life, and believed her to 
 be perfectly happy. One day, when I was indulging 
 in a few childish tears at the sickness that still clung 
 to me, Mrs. Allen entered. 
 
 "What, Marcia, in tears?" said she, kindly taking 
 my hand. 
 
 My heart was too full just then to reply. 
 "You must not give up to these feelings, my dear 
 little girl," she said. " You must try to be happy. 
 You can, if you will." 
 
 "You can very easily say that," I answered; "you 
 that have never known what trouble or sorrow are, in 
 all your life. 
 
 "Do you really think so?" she asked, in a tone 
 whose saddened cadence touched me. She put her 
 hand in her pocket, and drew forth a tiny book. She 
 handed it to me that I might read the title. It was 
 called " A Crook in the Lot." While I was looking over 
 it, she said, in a slightly faltering voice, " Know, my 
 dear child, that every heart has its own bitterness. 
 Sorrow is our portion here, and we should not repine 
 that it is so, but look around us, when we grow dis 
 contented, at the pictures of wo and misery presented 
 to us on every hand. If we will but contrast our situa-
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 141 
 
 tions with those of others less highly favored, we 
 shall learn contentment, and find that we have cause 
 for gratitude rather than repining. Above all, we 
 have never any right to make others unhappy by our 
 discontent and complainings. We have a sacred duty 
 to perform to our fellow-creatures. How can we dis 
 charge it, if every feeling of justice to others is swal 
 lowed up in the selfishness of our own sorrows. Alle 
 viate the woes of others, and your own will be deprived 
 of half their bitterness. Trust me, it is in entire ab 
 negation of self that the soul is prepared for another 
 and a better world. Self must be mortified, humbled 
 and debased, and the heart must dilate to receive the 
 tale of wo, and the hand be quick to relieve the suffer 
 ing stranger, before we may be pronounced candidates 
 for the blessings of immortality." 
 
 " And do you think, Mrs. Allen, that good works 
 will take us to Heaven ?" 
 
 " Far from it, and yet, I conceive it necessary that 
 faith and repentance shall be accompanied by good 
 works. There are doubtless instances where sinners, 
 after a life of crime, have been pardoned and received 
 at the hour of death, but, trust me, it is a sad moment 
 to look to, for repentance. Too many who have trust 
 ed to this last, forlorn hope, have awakened in 
 another world to mourn their irrevocable doom, and 
 the only words their dark despair could give utter 
 ance to were, too late, too late. And, again, we owe 
 it to God that we devote to him our youth, our days 
 13
 
 142 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 of brightness and joy, as well as the night time of sor 
 row and care. He never forsakes us in adversity 
 should we forsake him in our hour of prosperity ? In 
 the common friendships of life, how is this condemned? 
 How every body despises the fair-weather friends who 
 leave us when sorrow overtakes us ; and yet how often 
 do we thus neglect God, who loves us with a Father's 
 love, who guards us from evil and who watches over 
 us through the long hours of the day and night ; par 
 dons and forgives us our many short comings, and 
 loves and pities to the last. Yes, even when he con 
 demns the soul to the punishment it so richly de 
 serves, His love still extends to the cowering being 
 before Him, and with all due reverence do I say, He 
 cannot pronounce the words of doom, without pity for 
 the poor, lost, out-cast before him. Oh, yes, I do 
 firmly believe, dispute it who may, that the Mighty 
 God, Creator of all worlds, Author of Life, the Om 
 niscient, Omnipotent, and Omnipresent director of 
 all human events, loves and pities the poor weak 
 worm He has made; who, in battling with the 
 storms of life, has not had sufficient power to guide 
 his frail bark clear of the shoals and quick sands 
 that have surrounded and embarrassed him. Does 
 not such a God deserve the worship of our hearts ? 
 Should we not forget the trivial sorrows of our lot, 
 and serve Him with all the love, the devotion and 
 obedience, which are so richly His due ? Do not fear 
 God. Love Him, and serve Him because you love
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 143 
 
 Him, and not from fear of .being doomed to an eter 
 nity of punishment. It is a mistaken notion to work 
 upon the fears of people, to induce them to become 
 religious. Such conversions are seldom lasting. If 
 we are convinced how much God has loved us, surely 
 it will not be difficult to love Him in return." 
 
 "I should think not, indeed, and we are most un 
 grateful and sinful if we do not. Indeed, dear Mrs. 
 Allen, I will try to benefit by your conversation to 
 day. It has turned my eyes inward upon myself. I 
 sec that I have been very selfish, and I have no doubt 
 it will be a hard-fought battle to overcome all the 
 weakness that incumbers my spirit ; but, I will try to 
 win the victory, and if God will but bless the effort, I 
 am confident of success." 
 
 "And, believe me, my dear child, God will bless 
 the effort. He will raise you up, and give you 
 strength and courage. Trust Him for His mercy and 
 grace. He has called you, Marcia, now, in the spring 
 time of life, in an especial manner. Doubtless the 
 short-sighted wisdom of your friends has thought pru 
 dent to conceal from you, my dear girl, that which is 
 plain to every eye ; but in all the tenderness of a sis 
 ter's love, I would warn you of your fate. Marcia, 
 the fiat has gone forth. No earthly hand can save 
 you. I read in the sweet, childlike outlines of the 
 face before me, the seal which death alone impresses. 
 Alas, Marcia, you must die." 
 
 " Yes, poor Marcia shall die, but souls that we love 
 Have an endless existence and progress above."
 
 144 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 " In lonely str< ngth I stand, 
 E'en though Niagara thunders at my f. el, 
 And storms of spray upon my bosom l-eat, 
 I can their force withstand." 
 
 My dear father, for so I shall now call Mr. Wood- 
 ville, finding that I daily grew worse, resolved to take 
 me to Niagara, believing, in the fondness of his heart, 
 that all I needed was change. He seemed to banish 
 from his mind the thought that the effects of the 
 poison were slowly wearing out my existence, and 
 sapping the foundation of life. 
 
 Arrived at Niagara, we took rooms at the Clifton 
 House, on the Canajda side, which place we reached 
 by crossing the river on the suspension bridge, a short 
 distance below the Falls. Never shall I forget my 
 emotion, when, for the first time, I gazed on the stu 
 pendous phenomena. I was lost, in speechless won 
 der, at the mighty mass of waters that rolls, in one 
 endless torrent, over the ledge of rocks. One can 
 scarcely conceive it possible, that this great body of 
 water has been constantly supplied for ages. It 
 would seem as though even the ocean would be drain 
 ed to meet its demands. And then, again, the mighty 
 roar of the cataract, beside which all other sounds are 
 faint, the same hoarse, thundering voice that waked
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 145 
 
 the echoes of the Indian forest, ere yet a Christopher 
 Columbus had discovered a new world. The same 
 mighty tones as when unheard by all but God, in the 
 early ages of the world, proclaimed to earth and 
 sky the wonderous power of its maker, God. My head 
 reeled as I looked down into the abyss at my feet, 
 and I felt that singular temptation to jump off, which 
 has so often assailed older and wiser heads. Flora 
 clung to me for support, as if she feared being carried 
 over, against her will. 
 
 Here let me say a few words relative to the feeling 
 to which Marcia alludes. I believe it is most proper 
 ly termed a morbid impulse, or perhaps it might be 
 called, with equal propriety, a monomania. I know 
 there are many who laugh at the existence of such 
 things, but I can testify to actual personal experience 
 in the matter. 
 
 At one time I remember being at Cape Island, and 
 paying a visit, with a large party of young people, to 
 the Cape May Light-house. We all ascended, laugh 
 ing gayly and merrily, to the top. It seemed indeed 
 an interminable distance, but at length we reached it, 
 and were amply repaid for our trouble by the beauty 
 of the prospect around us. To the left of us lay Cape 
 Island, with its mass of hotels and beautifully pic 
 turesque cottages ; before us lay the ocean, bright 
 with the reflection of the setting sun, and at the foot 
 of the Light-house the surf dashed in upon the finest 
 beach in the world. Directly across the bay could
 
 146 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 be seen the Cape Henlopen Light-house, and, in the 
 offing, -were several ships of giant size, unfurling their 
 canvas, and standing out to sea. A number of small 
 craft were gliding up the bay, and the scene, including 
 the bright blue sky above us, was one certainly diver 
 sified enough to form a glorious picture. 
 
 It was now the hour of fashionable promenade, and 
 the beach was crowded with the gay and lovely belles 
 of New York, Philadelphia and Baltimore, and they 
 certainly presented a more beautiful appearance than 
 they ever do in Broadway, Chesnut or Baltimore 
 streets. Beside them the wild ocean was dashing its 
 spray over their thinly slippered feet. They were 
 attired in light flowing, summer drapery, and wore 
 on their heads those coquetish little caps made of 
 zephyr, some scarlet, some blue, some pink, some ca 
 nary color, and altogether the scene was a most witch 
 ing one to the eye, and beautiful from its imagery, 
 if from nothing else. 
 
 I stood long gazing at the picture, and suddenly 
 conceived the idea that I should like to see how it 
 looked straight down at the base of the Light-house. 
 I approached and looked down, but an intense desire 
 possessed me to jump. I combated it with all the 
 power I was capable of, but finding I could not con 
 trol! the impulse, I screamed to the rest of the party 
 to save me, and made a spring. In a moment I 
 should have been hurled to the bottom, but a strong 
 hand seized me. It was the keeper of the Light-
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 147 
 
 house, who had been watching me, and who assured 
 me it was no unusual thing for visitors to be affected 
 in that way, particularly ladies. 
 
 " How do you account for that ?" asked a pert 
 young lady. 
 
 I quickly answered her, "Because our heads are 
 so much softer than men's." 
 
 Upon another occasion, I remember I had been 
 very ill, and one of the medicines that had been used 
 in effecting my recovery was laudanum. The bottle 
 stood on a little table at my bed side. I had an 
 irresistible desire to raise it to my lips, and drink all 
 the contents. This was not a wish to commit suicide. 
 I doubted that it would have that effect, and wished 
 to prove to my mind whether it would kill me or not. 
 
 At length, one night, it seemed to me as if an evil 
 spirit had taken possession of me. Eleven, twelve, one, 
 two o'clock struck, and I could not sleep. I sat up 
 in the bed, took the bottle, deliberately uncorked it 
 and raised it to my lips. I know not how to describe 
 the conflict that now took place within me. It was 
 certainly a battle between two opposing principles, 
 perhaps Will and Passion, perhaps Reason and Mad 
 ness. I made one last desperate effort, and, rising 
 from the bed, went to the window and dashed the bottle 
 into the street. I felt that I had no power to resist 
 the temptation if I kept it before me, and I thus placed 
 it out of my power to do wrong. But, whither am I 
 straying ? I leave you to explain to your own satis-
 
 148 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 faction the singular feelings I have experienced, and 
 return to the artless presence of Marcia Walton, the 
 lone Wanderer of our story. 
 
 We crossed the Niagara river in the little steamer 
 "Maid of the Mist," ascended the Biddle staircase, 
 and the tower of the same name ; visited Goat island, 
 and then returned to the Canada side, and passed 
 two hundred and seventy feet behind the great falling 
 sheet of water, treading on slippery rocks, and con 
 stantly annoyed by the vast number of slimy water 
 snakes, that ran over our feet and often obstructed 
 our path. 
 
 Here we stood, with the spray dashing over us, the 
 roar of waters in our ears, and, if we attempted to 
 look up, completely blinded by the fall of the mighty 
 cataract. 
 
 As we came forth, drenched with water, we present 
 ed, in our garb of coarse oil cloth, quite a fanciful 
 appearance. But, there have been already so many 
 descriptions of this far-famed phenomenen, that I shall 
 not pretend to add my feeble attempts to the list, 
 more especially as I only refer to it, in order to point 
 out the way-marks in my life, and show you the lights 
 and shadows which have surrounded me. 
 
 I felt that I could never weary of this spot, which 
 had, for me, a charm in its awful sublimity, that coun 
 try scenery, however beautiful in its character, could 
 not possess. There was a music in the mighty roar 
 of the cataract that accorded well with the impulses
 
 ^ LIFE OF A WANDEREK. 149 
 
 of my nature. There was, within me, an echo to the 
 wild dashing of the water, caused by the passions 
 which hound me to earth, and which warred strongly 
 for the posession of my heart. If I knelt down to pray, 
 it seemed impossible to banish thoughts of the world 
 that constantly intruded themselves between me and 
 my devotions. My faith was weak, and removed from 
 the kindly teachings, and the sharp pruning-knife ar 
 guments of Mrs. Allen, I was in danger of falling 
 lower than ever, for my dear father made an idol of 
 me, and would not believe that I had a fault. Indeed 
 he loved me so tenderly, that he would have suffered 
 any thing rather than give me pain. But I had not 
 yet been chastened enough, and God, who loved me 
 better than any earthly friends, was pleased to bring me 
 lower yet. 
 
 I loved to sit at my window for hours, and as I 
 gazed forth upon the cloudless night, and watched the 
 bright and ever brilliant stars, to listen to the hoarse 
 voice of the mighty waters. Hour after hour often 
 passed in this way, till Susan would beg me to retire, 
 and tell me I would get my death, if I did not take 
 more care of myself. 
 
 Susan was a very good girl, but then, like other 
 mortals, she had her weaknesses, and it so happened 
 that there sprang up between her and the head waiter 
 of the hotel, quite an ardent affection. One evening 
 there was to be a grand display of fireworks, and 
 Susan, very modestly, asked my consent to go out
 
 150 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 with John, to the frolic. Nothing afforded me so 
 much pleasure as making others happy, and I told her 
 to go, and enjoy herself as much as possible. 
 
 I went to the snowy couch in the corner, and saw 
 that Flora was sleeping, sweetly. I took my seat at 
 the window, and was soon lost in reverie. Were I to 
 write all the brilliant phantasmagoria that passed 
 through my mind, at these seasons of quiet converse 
 with the stars, I should be looked upon, at the least, 
 as a lunatic. But I will positively assert that I was 
 at these times in possession of a second sort of exis 
 tence and life, entirely different in its feelings and 
 ideas from my every day reality. I had power to 
 concentrate the faculties of my soul, and assume a sort 
 of inward life, to which the outward body was insen 
 sible. You will perceive my meaning to be, that I 
 thus lost, to a certain extent, the consciousness of what 
 was passing around me. 
 
 I read in the stars, strange histories. I heard in 
 the roaring waters, unearthly music. Sometimes I 
 fancied I, heard the wild shriekings of despair, the 
 wail of wo and sorrow, as from damned spirits, who 
 thus sent forth the voice of their anguish, and rent 
 the troubled air. 
 
 But, again, the wild discord ceased, and the songs 
 of angels floated around me, filling my soul with thrill 
 ing emotions of happiness. My heart expanded with 
 pleasure, and I seemed to feel the presence of beings 
 from another world. Laugh as you may, ye skeptics,
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 151 
 
 I felt this presence, doubtless of the kind guardian 
 angels, -whom God permitted to watch over me. Does 
 not the text, taken from God's own book, prove that 
 angels were once permitted to visit earth and keep 
 watch over those he loved? " He shall give His angels 
 charge concerning thee." It is a beautiful, a hallowed 
 belief, and I would not, if I could, destroy my faith in it. 
 
 Regardless of the flight of time, and still gazing at 
 those worlds of light, which I seemed to see for the 
 first time, in all their beauty, Susan entered and 
 warned me that it was midnight. She begged me to 
 retire ; expressing, as her firm conviction, that I would 
 die of cold, and hustled me off to bed without further 
 ceremony. Of course I was perfectly passive in her 
 hands, and did not even think of resisting her authority. 
 
 The next morning, very much to my own surprise, 
 and none at all to that of poor Susan, I was very ill, 
 with violent inflammation on the lungs. For several 
 days, however, my dear father did not seem to feel 
 any alarm, but at last marking my difficult respira 
 tion, heightened fever, and entire loss of appetite, he 
 called in an eminent physician from New York, who 
 was boarding in the house. After bleeding me freely, 
 and ordering me some nauseating medicine, he left 
 me. The same evening he came again, and ordered 
 me blistered. Still I grew worse. The next morn 
 ing I was leeched, and then the violence of the disease 
 abated, and I was pronounced out of danger. But I 
 had suffered intensely, and complete prostration follow-
 
 152 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 ed, and for long weeks I lay hovering, as it were, 
 between life and death. It is a singular fact, that frail 
 and delicate persons frequently outlive diseases which 
 would soon have carried off the hearty and robust. 
 Notwithstanding my delicate health, I at last recover 
 ed, and as the summer was past, and Niagara at the 
 best, a cold place, my father determined to remove 
 me to Cincinnati, where I might have the benefit of 
 warmer air, and sunnier skies. 
 
 And now behold us fixed in that magnificent hotel, 
 -lite Burnet House, surrounded with comfort and 
 luxury, elegant large apartments at our service, and 
 introduced into the society of the loveliest women I 
 have ever met. I never loved and revered my sex, 
 so entirely and devotedly, as I did after becoming ac 
 quainted with these bright and shining examples of 
 it. There was one in particular, who, by the sweet 
 charm of her manner, the holiness and depth of senti 
 ment which characterized her every word, and the 
 kindly feelings she entertained for every human crea 
 ture, made her seem to me like an angel who had 
 assumed human form. Dear Mrs. B,**** } never, while 
 memory lasts, never, while this sad heart pulsates with 
 life, shall thy image become dim, or lose the high 
 place where I have enshrined it. 
 
 It was no sooner known in the house that an inva 
 lid was there, than one and all the ladies called upon 
 me, and surrounded me with their attentions. Ah, 
 how grateful to the heart of the stranger is the sym-
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 153 
 
 pathy of woman. They came to me with kindly 
 words and gentle voices, and seemed, around my sick 
 couch, like guardian angels sent to minister to my 
 sufferings. I would rather lose all honor the world 
 can give than forfeit the esteem, the love and the 
 favor of my own sex. Nothing can fill the void made 
 by her frown. Often, in the dark hours of my fate, 
 when bowed down by the weight of the sorrows that 
 encompassed me, women have cheered me with their 
 smiles and ready sympathy; they have shielded me 
 with their love, and by their powerful influence I 
 have seen all obstacles melt away from my path. No 
 man, however chivalrous and devoted he may be to 
 woman, can rival me in my admiration and high appre 
 ciation of those lovely beings who are indeed the 
 sweet flowers strewn along the pathway of the soul- 
 sick Wanderer. 
 
 I passed some time at Cincinnati, and at the close 
 of several weeks, my health had visibly improved, al 
 though I had long ceased to hope for a permanent 
 cure. The solemn words of Mrs. Allen could not be 
 forgotten, and all the bright visions fancy sometimes 
 presented, were sure to be banished in my sober mo 
 ments. Mr. Woodville and Flora never left me alone, 
 and it seemed, indeed, impossible to weary their 
 watchful love. I often expressed a .wish to re 
 turn to my mother, but the physician who attended 
 me, warned my father against taking me to New 
 York, and when I reverted to the subject my father 
 14
 
 154 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 seemed so pained by it, that I resolved never to speak 
 of it again. 
 
 We often drove out and enjoyed the beautiful 
 scenery that environs Cincinnati. It is absolutely em 
 bosomed in hills to the north, east and west, while on 
 the south the Ohio, " la belle riviere," as the French 
 call it, rolls at its base, dividing it from Kentucky, 
 and the beautiful Covington hills. To drive to the 
 top of these hills one gains a view of a truly interest 
 ing and beautiful prospect. This place, which a few 
 years ago was a mere village, built on a hill side, is 
 now a great city, extending itself, like a mighty giant, 
 in every direction. The citizens are great patrons of 
 the fine arts, and they have several fine galleries of 
 paintings, from which may be selected many produc 
 tions of real genius. 
 
 But, the most beautiful work of art I met with, 
 was a pair of adoring Cherubims, which were in the 
 Bishop's Palace, but which were intended for the su 
 perb building now in process of erection, called the 
 Cathedral. Nothing I have ever met exceeded the 
 beauty and truthfulness of these fine specimens of 
 statuary. They were cut in Italy from the purest mar 
 ble, and their divine and life-like expression made me 
 stand in silent awe, and gaze at the handiwork of 
 man. 
 
 Ah, thought I, what a soul, what a divine concep 
 tion, what a mighty power must that being possess, 
 who can impart. to the ice-cold marble all the reality
 
 LIFE OF A WANDEREB. 155 
 
 of life but the breath which can thus portray, in 
 stony lineaments, the emotions that agitate the soul. 
 
 The figures are kneeling, ^and with uplifted eyes 
 they are gazing upon the glory and majesty of God. 
 Their beautiful hands are clasped upon their breasts, 
 and the drapery falls around them so naturally, that 
 you fear a breath of air may displace its folds. To gain 
 a correct idea of all their beauty, one must take a side 
 view of the exquisitely modeled head, the lofty brow, 
 the fine Grecian nose, the small, beautiful mouth, -well 
 rounded chin, and full, swelling throat, seeming to 
 long to pour forth, in a burst of rapture and song, 
 the devotion and adoration of angels. I staid over 
 an hour gazing at these beautiful productions, and 
 had not my father hurried me, I could have remained 
 all day. Indeed, I never yet saw a well executed 
 collection of statuary that I could weary of. I have 
 gone, again and again, and always left with the inten 
 tion of returning at some fitting opportunity. The 
 polished and courteous Bishop conducted us into his 
 library, where the walls are ornamented with many 
 fine paintings and engravings. Over the mantle 
 hangs a small figure of Christ, cut in ivory. The 
 workmanship is exquisite, and was, I believe, executed 
 in Rome. 
 
 Let us not linger longer amid these scenes, but has 
 ten away, with giant strides, to that great city of the 
 far west, St. Louis, the garden spot in my memory of 
 the past, a city destined in a few years, to be second
 
 156 WAY-MAKES IN THE 
 
 only to New York, the great connecting link between 
 the two oceans, and doing now an amount of busi 
 ness almost incredible to those who live at a distance. 
 
 St. Louis \ what charm, what magic makes my soul 
 thrill with unutterable emotions, as I write the dear 
 word that awakens in my heart a thousand pleasant 
 memories. Linked with gratitude for the past, and 
 bright hope for the future, I set thy name within my 
 heart, and when I forget to love and pray for thee, 
 when I forget to ask God's blessings on thy noble sons 
 and lovely daughters, may God punish me for my 
 ingratitude by withholding His blessing from me. 
 
 Dear St. Louis, what "Wanderer's path was ever 
 lonely in thy midst? What widow or orphan ever 
 left thee unrelieved by thy noble bounty, and kindly 
 wishes? God knows that every inch of ground on 
 which thou art built is as dear to my fond heart, as 
 my own dear, native New York. 
 
 The eastern people have little idea of the civiliza 
 tion, refinement and commerce of the west, and I must 
 confess, that when I arrived at St. Louis and found a 
 great city, with its ninety thousand inhabitants, with 
 its stately rows of stores and warehouses, its numerous 
 churches and hotels, and its long, thickly built-up 
 dwelling streets, I was filled with astonishment. Edu 
 cation is encouraged liberally. Churches are hand 
 somely supported, and every charitable enterprise is 
 entered into with the kindliest sympathy by the 
 inhabitants. The daily papers are large, ably con-
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 157 
 
 ducted, and teem with interest, and they are all well 
 supported by an enlightened public. The society is 
 excellent, and there is an absence of that hauteur 
 which is the great bane of some of our older cities. 
 There is a courtesy and also a gentleness of manner 
 about the people, that go right to the heart ; and I do 
 not believe any one ever spoke ill of the city who told 
 the truth. 
 
 We remained in St. Louis some weeks, which I 
 regard as the happiest of my life ; but, for the pre 
 sent, I must vail the history of this time, and proceed 
 to New Orleans. As the weather was now getting 
 cold, my father was anxious to keep me in a warm 
 climate. 
 
 It was December when we arrived at New Orleans, 
 but the warm, balmy air, the fragrant flowers, and 
 the bright summer dresses of the ladies, made me 
 fancy I had slept the winter away, and awoke in the 
 beautiful spring time of the year. New Orleans is the 
 Paris of America. It is difficult to conceive a more 
 gorgeous picture, than a drawing-room presents, filled 
 with the lovely belles of Orleans. They have the most 
 exquisite taste in dressing, and the costliness and ele 
 gance of their toilets are quite equal to New York mag 
 nificence. Their beauty, too, is of .that dazzling kind 
 that bewilders the beholder. To visit the soirees 
 given every week at the St. Charles and Veranda 
 Hotels, one might form some conception of the bril 
 liant assemblages of fashion in Paris. The first time 
 
 14*
 
 158 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 I went to one of these re-unions, I felt convinced that 
 there was nothing in America like them. It seemed, 
 indeed, like a fairy scene, and I imagined every mo 
 ment I should awake and find it all a dream. 
 
 It was a great pleasure to my father to take me to 
 these gay parties, and here I became acquainted with 
 numhers of the wealthiest men and loveliest women of 
 Orleans. I was treated with great politeness and 
 courtesy, and found every where a warmth of feeling, 
 which seems natural to the South and West. Another 
 place of fashionable resort is the French Opera, 
 and we very often went there, for I was passionately 
 fond of music, and hoped to lose, in its holy influence 
 over my heart, remembrance of my sorrows. 
 
 At such times my father would sit and watch me, 
 seemingly delighted to read in my face the expres 
 sion of enjoyment which I know was there. Little 
 Flora always went with me every where, and I have 
 no doubt was improved greatly in her music, with such 
 excellent examples to imitate. 
 
 But that which was the greatest amusement and 
 pleasure of my life, strange as it may seem to you, 
 was my visits to the cities of the dead. I took a 
 melancholy pleasure in walking through the grave 
 yards about the city, and spent many hours in them, 
 I trust not unprofitably. I loved to wander along the 
 silent paths and read the epitaphs, and more than all 
 to mark the enduring love of the living for the dead, 
 evidences of which might be seen at the humblest
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 159 
 
 grave. The French are particularly celebrated for 
 this holiness and depth of affection, which survives 
 the tomb. 
 
 The people of New Orleans are forced, on account 
 of the marshy nature of the soil, to bury their dead 
 above the ground. Vaults are built sometimes of 
 brick, sometimes of stone, and oft times of the purest 
 marble, and here the bodies are laid in rows, one 
 above another. Standing in front of these graves are 
 rich and elegant bouquets, formed of the most superb 
 and costly flowers, and placed here by hands that 
 never weary of culling them in remembrance of the 
 'lost one. All the long year through, you will find 
 these garlands and bouquets. What can be more 
 sweet and touching than this simple utterance of un 
 dying love ? Death is thus disrobed of half its ter 
 rors, for the bitterest drops in the cup are the thoughts 
 of being forgotten. 
 
 I have met somewhere with an idea which I will 
 quote. I do not remember the precise words, but the 
 sentiment has a direct bearing on the subject in ques 
 tion. 
 
 " k You cannot justly say that that person is dead who 
 still lives in the hearts of his survivors. Every day 
 he is before them. His smiles, his words, his looks 
 of love are garnered up in the treasure-house of 
 memory, and at night, sweet visions of the happy past 
 float round the pillows of the bereaved, and they 
 awake, feeling that they have seen the loved form
 
 160 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 now an angel in the sky, which has been kindly per 
 mitted to hover near them and watch them as they 
 slept. 
 
 Is this death ? Is this that endless sleep ; that an 
 nihilation which the infidel fancies preferable to any 
 other state of existence ? Ah, no, believe it not. 
 What we call death is in reality but the beginning of 
 life. Where would be the use of this life, with its 
 toils and struggles, its long probation, its thorny and 
 difficult track, if that track did not lead to a beautiful 
 country, a land flowing with milk and honey, a para 
 dise, in short, where our thirst for happiness shall be 
 fully satisfied, and where God, Himself, shall wipe all* 
 tears from our eyes ?" 
 
 But there are grave-yards here, and long rows of 
 graves where no sweet flowers bear evidence of love ; 
 where no loved form kneels, and where no foot, save 
 that of the careless, ever strays. These are J;he 
 Strangers' graves, and you may read, in the simple 
 inscriptions, a whole world of meaning. Here, a 
 youth of nineteen, native of Boston, far from his 
 mother, his home and his friends. Yellow fever, '46. 
 There, a young man of twenty-three, Portland, Maine. 
 Yellow fever, '46, and so on you may count them by 
 the dozen, till the heart turns away, sick at the thought 
 of what their last, sad hours, might reveal. The ter 
 rible pestilence, stalking through the streets of the 
 doomed city at noon-day, the wail of anguish, sor 
 row and death ; the last, sad prayer for mercy, never
 
 LIFE OP A WANDERER. 161 
 
 sought till now ; the rumbling of the wheels of those 
 vehicles that bear away to the charnel house the loath 
 some corpse ; all this came up before me, and I turned 
 shuddering away. And, would you believe it, while 
 this horrible fever is ravaging the city, a bright, glo 
 rious sun shines high in heaven, and beautifully clear 
 skies hang over it, with an air that seems to be the 
 very breath of purity ? 
 
 But, let us turn from these melancholy scenes, to 
 where life, and light, and beauty have undisputed 
 sway. I was sitting one evening at the French opera, 
 witnessing the performance of Robert le Diable. 
 Deeply interested in the opera, I had not glanced 
 around the house. Our box door was suddenly open 
 ed, and I looked up, at an exclamation of surprise 
 from my father. In truth I was as much startled 
 as he, for Octave Woodville stood before me.
 
 162 WAT-MARKS IN THE 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 , " Oh, is it sin to love the very air 
 
 That onee had rested, Marcia, on thy brow? 
 To gaze in fondness on thy vacant chair, 
 
 And on thy books and flowers deserted now ? 
 Or turn with fond remembrance to thy face, 
 Whose sweetest looks the heart alone can trace ? 
 
 Is it a sin to live again each hour 
 Passed in thy presence ? to recall thy tones, 
 
 Thy playful words, thy serious thoughts, whose power 
 Thrills every nerve my quickened spirit owns ?" 
 
 We shall be forced to go back a little in our story, 
 in order to explain what may have appeared unintelli 
 gible. 
 
 Mary Jones was the only daughter of a wealthy 
 southern planter, whose residence was about ten miles 
 from the Woodvilles. She was twenty years old, 
 rather pretty, extremely coquetish, and believed hus 
 band to be only another name for tyrant. Octave 
 Woodville had long known her. He fancied he loved 
 her, or perhaps he did so, truly. He proposed to her 
 father, and was referred to his daughter. 
 
 Now nothing was more certain, than that Mary 
 really liked Octave, but she felt a delicacy about let 
 ting him know, all at once, how completely she had 
 surrendered her heart to him. Mary was a great 
 tease, and she thought if she was very tractable now,
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 163 
 
 her greatest delight in life would be taken from her. 
 In short, she resolved to torment Octave as much as 
 possible, and she began by imposing upon him a long 
 probation, telling him she would try and see if she 
 could not like .him a little. Really she had never 
 thought of it before. He had quite taken her by sur 
 prise, but she would think about it. Octave bore this 
 very well, and proved to the little tyrant what she 
 knew very well all the time, that he loved her ten 
 derly. But Mary was not content to let well enough 
 alone, and she thought she would try how far she 
 might go in provoking Octave's jealousy. Several 
 days in succession he met her out riding with a young 
 gentleman in the neighborhood, and her manner to 
 him was so constrained and formal, and to his rival 
 so friendly and kind, that, in a fit of rage, he told her 
 he renounced all pretensions to her hand, and left her 
 free to marry whom she would. Mary pouted her 
 saucy little lips, and told him he was a very small loss 
 to her ; laughed and chatted gayly, till he took his de 
 parture, and then she ran up to her room, and gave 
 vent to more bitter tears than had ever wet her rosy 
 cheeks before. She tried to convince herself that she 
 did not care, but conscience would not acquit her of 
 having trifled with the feelings of an honorable lover, 
 and poor Mary was unhappy, for the first time in her 
 life. 
 
 Octave, smarting under the disappointment, but 
 too proud to speak of it, had hidden it in his own 

 
 164 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 bosom, and concealed it from his mother, and it was 
 shortly after that, that Marcia Walton came to live 
 with them. Octave had spent most of his time in his 
 country home, and had never had opportunity to see 
 much of the fair beauties of the North. Marcia was 
 exquisitely beautiful. Her fine, pure complexion, 
 large, tender eyes, so holy and meek in their expres 
 sion, and yet capable of lighting up with the hidden 
 fires of intelligence ; her small, rosy mouth, fine class 
 ical head, and even her pale cheek, had all their charm 
 for Octave, not less lasting and dear on account of 
 their novelty. But there was that about Marcia, 
 which, even had she been homely, would have made 
 her lovely. She was pure-hearted, amiable and sin 
 cere. If she spoke you might know you heard the 
 truth, and her eyes seemed to mirror forth the feel 
 ings of a soul of spotless purity. She was kind to 
 every living being, and would not even tread upon the 
 humblest insect in her path. 
 
 Mary was a bright, rosy-cheeked picture of health 
 and enjoyment, and, indeed, no two persons could have 
 been more different. When together, which they often 
 happened to be, one would be struck by the perfect 
 beauty, and yet entire difference of their features. 
 Doubtless, Octave, having become wearied of the gay, 
 wild-bird-like Mary, turned with satisfaction to the 
 quiet Marcia. Certain it is, he admired her talents 
 and accomplishments, but still more than all else, he 
 was enchanted with the sweet gentleness of her man-
 
 OF A WANDERER. 165 
 
 ners. She was always calm and self-possessed. Her 
 voice was soft and low, and its tones thrilled to his in 
 most heart. In short, Marcia was a perfect specimen 
 of a refined and intelligent lady. 
 
 I would ask you, now, if it was strange that Octave 
 withdrew his heart from Mary Jones, and conceived a 
 violent passion for Marcia? and it was violent, just in 
 proportion as Marcia was cold and indifferent. Here 
 the struggle in the young man's heart was severe, for 
 he dreaded lest, by a careless wordj he should alarm 
 the delicacy of the fair girl, and place her under re 
 straint towards him. Sometimes he fancied that 
 Marcia was already plighted to some favored lover in 
 New York, and at this thought the bitterness of his 
 feelings was insupportable, and it became evident to 
 all his family that something was weighing on his 
 heart. But, then again, he would converse with her, 
 and gaze with delight at the pure spirit that shone 
 from her eyes, and seemed to confess they had no se 
 cret to hide, and he would chide himself for his own 
 weakness, and indulge sweet dreams of the future, 
 with Marcia for his bride. 
 
 Such was the state of things when Octave used that 
 ungallant expression, "confound Mary Jones." To 
 tell the truth, he regretted that he had ever fancied 
 he loved any one but the fair beauty he so wildly wor 
 shipped. He loved Marcia as man never loves but 
 once. He rested his every hope of happiness upon 
 her acceptance of his hand and heart, and the bright 
 15
 
 166 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 future he had power to offer her ; and we have seen 
 how she refused him, proving in the very act the high- 
 souled integrity that actuated her conduct. There are 
 too many girls who, dazzled by the offer of wealth 
 and position, would have accepted it for interests' sake, 
 but our Marcia was not of that mercenary stamp. 
 She was one of those beings we sometimes meet in our 
 wanderings by the way-side, who seem lent to us for a 
 little while, to teach us what Heaven is like, but who 
 are speedily called away to the bosom of the Father. 
 
 The anguish felt by the whole family, when Mary, 
 the slave, had committed her diabolical crime, has 
 been already depicted, and as it would be useless to 
 repeat it here, we pass over it to the time when 
 Marcia departed for the North ; thus depriving poor 
 Octave of the only pleasure that had remained to him, 
 the charm of her society. It was in vain that Mrs. 
 Woodville sought to relieve his sorrows by all the 
 'watchful tenderness of a mother's love. It was in 
 vain that John, his wild, young nephew, talked and re 
 lated anecdotes, and played off his numerous pranks. 
 Octave seemed sunk in hopeless despondency, and 
 Harry Percy was the only person who possessed any 
 power over him. Every moment Harry could spare 
 from the duties of his school was spent with Octave, 
 and in a short time they became as affectionate as 
 brothers. 
 
 That Marcia had been very ill was a fact well 
 known to Harry, but the cause of that illness had re-
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 167 
 
 mained a profound secret to him. It often seemed to 
 him, however, that Octave had something on his mind 
 he wanted to confide to him, but was not yet deter-, 
 mined how to act in the matter. The cause of this 
 mystery was an enigma to Harry Percy, and he would 
 not for worlds have sought his confidence, or tried to 
 fathom his secret, and yet that secret was one which 
 interested him deeply. 
 
 At length, Octave grew seriously ill. He was out 
 riding one afternoon, and a heavy storm came up. He 
 returned home through the drenching rain, and every 
 article of clothing he had on was saturated. The next 
 day he was confined to his bed, unable to move from 
 side to side, on account of the stiffness of his limbs, 
 and a long, tedious attack of inflammatory rheumatism 
 supervened. His mother watched over and nursed 
 him, and Gregory, who dearly loved his uncle, spent 
 long hours at his bed side, and never wearied of play 
 ing the part of an affectionate nurse. Harry Percy 
 brought his books, and read aloud or talked, and 
 strove, by every means in his power, to make the time 
 pass pleasantly for the invalid. 
 
 Every Saturday, April drove down to town, and 
 returned with letters from Marcia, Mr. Woodville and 
 Flora. Mrs. "Woodville, pitying his anxiety, always 
 allowed Octave to read them first, and he would 
 peruse, with the most intense anxiety, every line that 
 Marcia had penned, and every word in his uncle's let 
 ters that related to her. His heart bounded with de-
 
 168 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 light at the praise Mr. Woodville always bestowed 
 upon her, and, if possible, he loved her more and 
 *more, now that he might call her his cousin. He was 
 rejoiced that his uncle had adopted her, and he felt 
 that it would not be likely she would leave her adopted 
 father to go to New York, at present. He thought 
 that she would return to Georgia, live with them 
 again, recover her health, and in the end, perhaps, 
 all his bright dreams might be realized. 
 
 Then came another letter, dated at Niagara, and 
 Marcia was ill, very ill ; and he was sick a cripple. 
 He could not fly to her now, and watch her, as he had 
 done before. Oh ! the long sleepless nights, the in 
 terminable days, there were then in a week. A week 
 that used to pass so swiftly. How maddening was 
 the suspense till April came with the letters. Marcia 
 was better. She was not able to write yet, Mr. Wood 
 ville said, but she soon would be, he hoped. Two long 
 weary months elapsed, and then came a letter from 
 Marcia, dated at Cincinnati, written in her usual affec 
 tionate style, but breathing a tone so hopeless, so de 
 sponding, that the heart of the strong man was shaken, 
 and the tears, long strangers to his eyes, moistened his 
 sun-burnt cheek. 
 
 " Here, Harry, read this letter, and do not scorn the 
 weakness that prompts these tears. If you loved her 
 as I do, you, too, would weep ; for, alas ! it is I who have 
 caused her fate. It is my fault all my fault. But 
 read the letter. I will tell you about that afterwards."
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 169 
 
 And Harry Percy did read the letter, but neither 
 by word or look did he express the deep interest he 
 felt in the writer. Octave said : 
 
 " You may think me childish, Harry, but you do 
 not know all. Listen to me. These tears are shed 
 for the sad fate of the fairest girl that ever blessed 
 the sight of man. And Marcia is not only lovely be 
 cause she is fair, but she is as good as she is beautiful. 
 And yet, so young, so lovely, so well calculated to 
 adorn the most brilliant position in life, she is 
 doomed to an untimely grave ; and why, do you 
 suppose?" 
 
 "I know not. She came out here, I believe, in 
 delicate health, and after she reached here was taken 
 ill with some violent fever." 
 
 "Taken ill with a fever! Alas, she was; and a 
 red hot, intense, burning fever it was to be sure. Har 
 ry Percy, you will hate me, I 1 know, when I tell yea. 
 the horrid truth. I poisoned her." 
 
 "You POISONED HER!" said Harry, starting from 
 his chair with a look of horror, and a face as pallid 
 as death. 
 
 " Yes, I did. Not to be sure with my own hands, 
 or my own will, but had it not been for me the crime 
 would never have been committed. Lean your head 
 down, Harry, I will whisper the frightful tale to you, 
 lest it wake the echoes around my bed, and fill me 
 
 again with terror." 
 
 ****** 
 
 15*
 
 170 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 "And thus this lovely, innocent girl is paying the 
 penalty of another's crime?" 
 
 " She is; she is; and can you call me by any other 
 name than murderer?" 
 
 " Nay, Octave, do not thus accuse yourself. It is 
 terrible, but it is past. You cannot undo it. Try to 
 be patient. Soon, perhaps, you will see her again. 
 No doubt she wishes to be with you." 
 
 " Longs to see me ? pines for my presence ? Ah ! 
 no, no, never. You are quite mistaken, Harry ; Marcia 
 pitied me, but loved me, never. In fact, she refused 
 me decidedly. She told me she never could love me. 
 She gave me not even an atom of hope." 
 
 " Then I have been deceived, for I was led to be 
 lieve you were betrothed to each other. I supposed 
 some slight difference had arisen between you, and 
 stood in the way of your present happiness." 
 
 " Alas, how much you have been mistaken a burst 
 ing heart can testify. Such happiness never was in 
 tended for me. It was asking too much of fate. Ah ! 
 what a delight it would have been to me to nurse her, 
 to minister to her wants, to surround her with all the 
 delicate attentions of devoted love. How dearly I 
 should have prized her smiles; how tenderly wiped 
 away her tears. Oh ! I would have guarded her as 
 the miser does his gold; tenderly as a mother does 
 her first born, I would have folded her to my bosom, 
 next to the heart that beats only with its undying love 
 for her. But, why talk of this impossible happiness ?
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 171 
 
 Marcia, weak and feeble, doomed to die ; so young, so 
 beautiful, and yet food for the loathsome worm, and 
 / J, the cause ! Oh ! God be merciful to me. I am 
 suffering the penalty for my own crime. Alas, the 
 punishment seems greater than I can bear, but I see 
 in it Divine retribution. The measure I have meted out 
 to others, has returned to crush me to the very earth." 
 
 Do not, dear Octave, give up to these wild, self-up- 
 braidings. They can do you no good. You have, in 
 deed, deep cause for grief, I confess, and yet if you will 
 compare your lot with others, you will find many bless 
 ings granted to you which have been withheld from 
 others. Look rather on the bright side of the pic 
 ture. Try to get well speedily. Go to her, and per 
 chance your presence may be a solace to her, even 
 though you may not be as dear as you would wish." 
 
 " I am afraid to go to her. Must she not hate me, 
 when she reflects that it is my fault for which she is 
 forced to suffer such bitter expiation?" 
 
 "Ah! believe me, Miss Walton never hated any 
 body in her life. From her early childhood she was 
 remarkable for the sweetness and amiability of her 
 disposition." 
 
 " How should you know anything about Miss Wal 
 ton, when she was a child ? Surely, you met here as 
 strangers? What am I to think?" 
 
 " 'Tis very true, Miss Walton does not know me, 
 but I am acquainted with friends of hers in New York, 
 who never weary of praising her, and they all unite
 
 172 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 in pronouncing her first of her sex. Do not fear then, 
 that she has not forgiven you. Doubtless each night, 
 as she kneels before her Maker, she implores the mercy 
 and blessing of Heaven upon your head." 
 
 "Do you, indeed, think so? Oh! how happy such 
 a belief would make me. I have never ceased accus 
 ing myself from the time of the dreadful occurrence ; 
 but if I could feel she had forgiven it, I should be 
 much relieved." 
 
 " Try to be patient, and recover from your illness. 
 Then go to her, and hear your pardon from lips that 
 have dropped blessings on all around them. I feel 
 quite certain she will accord it, with all the nobleness 
 that marks her character, and makes her so worthy to 
 be loved." 
 
 "I will do so, but what an effort of patience it will 
 be to wait till I recover. Oh ! how wearisome it is to 
 lay here, as weak and helpless as a child, while my 
 soul pants to be free, and fly to her presence, which 
 alone is happiness to me." 
 
 " There is but one way to overcome impatience, my 
 dear friend, and that is by trusting to a higher power 
 than your own for strength to bear the sorrows of life. 
 The burthen, which now appears insupportable, would 
 be lifted from your shoulders, and contentment would 
 once more fill your breast, if you would but trust in 
 that God who has promised to sustain you in the dark 
 hours of adversity. School your heart to submission 
 to His Will, and restrain those emotions which must
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 173 
 
 necessarily increase your anguish "and suffering, both 
 of mind and body. I have often been astonished 
 to mark how much more patience, faith and endur 
 ance, women display in moments of intense anguish 
 than our own sex. This is, I think, very remarkable, 
 when we take into consideration our superior strength 
 of mind and body." 
 
 "But, then, you must recollect that the life of man 
 is active and exciting. It ill suits his impetuous tem 
 perament to be housed up in indolence and inaction. 
 With woman it is different. She passes her time in 
 quiet and retirement, and the monotony of sickness is 
 rather pleasant to her than otherwise, because she is 
 relieved from the necessity of all exertion." 
 
 "Ah, my friend, you do not give woman credit for 
 the noblest of her qualities, when you speak of her 
 thus. I have been considered, by all my friends, a 
 woman-hater; and why, do you suppose? Simply, 
 that I never condescend to flatter and whisper in her 
 ear the soft nothings that feed her vanity, but which I 
 consider beneath the dignity of a man. Yet, I admire 
 the sex. I have studied it well, and there is not 
 a being on the face of the earth who has a higher 
 regard for woman than I have. The veriest beggar 
 that crawls the street, covered with rags, is entitled to 
 my sympathy and kindly wishes, if a woman. It mat 
 ters not how low she is ; I have no right to scorn her. 
 She is the creature of circumstance.
 
 174 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 And again ; the poor, lost being, who is cast off by 
 her own sex, who is the sport and puppet of ours, who 
 has fallen, alas, so low that she ceases to blush for her 
 own shame, is still worthy of my pity, and of that of 
 every man who has not lost all human sympathy and 
 feeling. God forbid that I should add to her cata 
 logue of wo and misery, one atom of scorn. But pity, 
 the holiest pity, words and looks of encouragement, 
 kind advice all these she is entitled to, and I should 
 hate myself if I could look back on one act that had 
 brought fresh sorrow and pain to the heart of one 
 already crushed with despair and shame." 
 
 " There I must confess we must differ. I cannot 
 conceive that any kindness shown to such beings 
 could be appreciated. It would, in my estimation, be 
 throwing pearls before swine." 
 
 "Whether they appreciate your kind intentions or 
 not is another affair ; not yours. Perform your own 
 duty. Act from a sense of justice and right, and 
 leave the rest to God, and believe me it is far better 
 to err on the side of mercy, than to be too severe. 
 And, again, I would ask, who made you a judge over 
 your fellow man ? Are you perfect and without sin, 
 that you arraign him at your tribunal ? Ah, believe 
 me, if God punished us with the severity that we 
 award to our fellows, I fear we should never reach 
 Heaven. It is, indeed, well that our judge is removed 
 from all the weaknesses of humanity,"
 
 LIFE OF A WANDER EH. 175 
 
 <f Admiring the fair sex, as you do, it is singular 
 that I find you past thirty, and a bachelor. Why is 
 this, or is it a secret?" 
 
 "No, the reason is very obvious. My father died 
 soon after I reached the age of manhood. His pro 
 perty was considerable, but not more than enough to 
 support comfortably my mother and three sisters. I 
 relinquished all claim to it, and resolved to carve my 
 own way through the world. I went to New York 
 city, and devoted myself to the study of the law. 
 After close assiduity, for a term of years, I received 
 a diploma, but here an unforseen difficulty presented 
 itself, and I was obliged to postpone, for a period of 
 time, the practice of my profession. A circumstance 
 occurred that filled me with anxiety, and I resolved to 
 spend a year at the South to suit purposes of my own, 
 which shall, perhaps, at some future period, be ex 
 plained to you. I have never married, and it is not 
 likely that I ever shall do so, for I would not link the 
 fate of the woman I loved with my uncertain fortunes. 
 I could not endure to have the being who looked up 
 to me for support and protection, suffer from my in 
 ability to provide for her. It would break my heart. 
 I should have no energy, no spirit to meet the trials 
 of my life, which are surely arduous enough as they 
 are. Now, alas, my path is all too dark for happiness. 
 Then it would be far worse." 
 
 "You deserve a better fate, Harry, and I trust 
 fortune will shine upon you yet."
 
 176 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 " Rather say Providence, for I will not allow th'at 
 the fickle goddess has any power over us, save that 
 which God allows. There are too many circumstan 
 ces occurring every day, in the wise economy of 
 nature, to convince me of an over-ruling Providence, 
 to permit me for one moment to doubt of its exis 
 tence. I have an humble trust in His goodness. / If 
 He has not blessed me, as others around me are 
 blessed, doubtless it is for my good, and I bow in sub 
 mission to a will holier and nobler than my own. 
 But do not suppose I have gained this triumph over 
 the weakness of my nature in a day, a week, or a 
 month. Ah, no, I have suffered long and deeply, 
 and I know I should never have conquered had I de 
 pended upon myself for aid. God himself has seen 
 and blessed the effort, and all the victory is to be 
 ascribed to Him. If I can talk calmly and quietly to 
 you, while a deep and incurable sorrow sits at my 
 heart, believe me it is by the blessing of God." 
 
 Harry Percy paused, and covering his face with 
 his hands, remained silent for a long time. He 
 seemed to be overcome by the violence of some secret 
 grief. Octave was surprised at what he had told him, 
 but he was too well bred to press him for an explan 
 ation. He, however, profited by his kind and brother 
 ly advice, and after some weeks, he was able to walk 
 about the house. Gradually his strength returned, and 
 a letter arriving with the intelligence that our little 
 party was in New Orleans, he resolved to join it at once.
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 177 
 
 In a very short time, his arrangements being made, 
 he set out, promising to return as soon as possible, 
 and bring Marcia vrith him. It is thus we may ac 
 count for his appearance in the box at the Opera, at 
 the close of the last chapter. Leaving the party to 
 mutual congratulations and inquiries, we will, if you 
 please, visit the boudoir of a couple of pretty girls, 
 after the opera of that evening. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " They came and went like shadows, 
 
 The blessed dreams of youth, 
 And they left behind no impress 
 
 Or record of their truth. 
 Then the future was all sunshine, 
 
 In gorgeous robes arrayed ; 
 But ever as I reached it, 
 
 Its sunshine turned to shade." 
 
 " What a foolish girl you are. It is easy to be seen 
 you have lived in the country all your life," said a 
 fair young lady, at the advanced age of seventeen, 
 who was dressed in canary colored brocade. 
 
 "Have the girls in cities no hearts?" asked her 
 companion, in blue, contemptuously. 
 
 Well, no ; or rather, yes ; they have hearts but they 
 manage them and keep them in subjection. Now 
 really this little affair of yours" 
 
 "Don't talk to me and call it a little affair," said 
 16
 
 178 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 the young fairy in blue, stamping her little foot im 
 patiently. 
 
 " Oh, ho ! oh, ho ! she is getting in a passion, aye. 
 And with me, too, that she always pretended to love. 
 That is a pretty way to treat an old tried friend." 
 
 "Forgive me, Kate, pray do. I was vexed, and 
 you know I had reason for it." 
 
 "I don't think you had any reason at all, now, 
 you simple little dunce, to fret and feeze, and worry 
 about a naughty man, that wont even look at you, and 
 you sitting there dressed so charmingly in blue." 
 
 "Do you think, Kate, that that particular color 
 ought to have attracted his attention ? For my part 
 he seemed to have no eyes for any one in the theatre 
 but that pale girl with his uncle." 
 
 "Who is she?" 
 
 " Why, don't you remember her ? That was Marcia 
 Walton." 
 
 " Marcia Walton ? Is it possible ? Why, how she 
 has altered. I never should have known her in the 
 world. Where are they staying ?" 
 
 " I don't know, but you can easily find out by ask 
 ing your father." 
 
 " So I will, the first thing in the morning, and we 
 must call on her, Mary, at once. False delicacy 
 ought not to stand in the way in such a case. She is 
 sick, and a stranger here, and she is therefore entitled 
 to our warmest sympathies. I shall ask mother to go 
 with us."
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 179 
 
 "I don't like to go. I I might meet ." 
 
 " Nonsense, you might meet ? Well, what if you 
 did ? Treat him with such contempt that he will soon 
 see how you hate him." 
 
 "But I don't hate him, though." 
 
 "More dunce for your pains then. At all events 
 we will go. So now let us retire, that we may be 
 bright and fresh in the morning. I do love dear, old 
 Mr. Woodville so. Good night." 
 
 "And I do love dear, young Mr. Woodville so," 
 sighed Mary Jones, as her plump rosy cheek rested 
 on her pillow, and she composed herself to sleep, per 
 chance to dream of Octave. 
 
 ******** 
 
 Mr. Kennet, the father of the pretty Kate, was a 
 wealthy merchant of New Orleans. He resided in an 
 elegant residence on the Rue Royale, and had as 
 sembled around his wife and only daughter, an atmos 
 phere of luxury and elegance, which made them the 
 admiration of many of their acquaintances. Every 
 art had been employed to make his house spacious, 
 gorgeous and grand. Superb paintings hung on the 
 walls. Immense book cases displayed collections of 
 all the celebrated poets and authors of every age. 
 Rich carpets of velvet tapestry covered the floors. 
 Curiously carved chairs and sofas of rose wood, 
 covered with satin damask, graced the apartments, 
 and all the costly and rich little articles that betray 
 the presence of woman were scattered profusely about.
 
 180 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 The drawing rooms opened on a conservatory filled 
 with choice flowers, and its glass walls were com 
 pletely overgrown with vines of the heliotrope and 
 wax flower. The air was laden with perfume, and as 
 if to add new beauties to the scene of enchantment, 
 there were here and there bird cages suspended amidst 
 the branches of an oleander or orange tree, and through 
 the open door the brilliantly plumed songsters would 
 fly, to pour forth their thrilling melody from the thick 
 branches of some Indian tree. 
 
 Mr. Kennet had also a son, a young man of twenty- 
 one, and this made up all his family. When he was a 
 young man he had made the acquaintance of Mary 
 Jones's father, and the intimacy between the families 
 had always remained unbroken. They had been 
 schoolmates and inseparable friends in their youth, 
 and they had never allowed the cares of life to make 
 them forget each other. The winters, Mary spent 
 with her father in New Orleans. T*he summers, 
 always brought Mr. Rennet's family to Georgia, to 
 the plantation of Mr. Jones. 
 
 As may well be supposed, Kate, with her wild 
 spirits, dazzling beauty, and great fortune, was an 
 object of interest to many of the dashing beaux of 
 Orleans, but she remained perfectly indifferent to 
 them, for there was a certain mad-cap in Georgia, 
 named John Woodville, who possessed, in her childish 
 mind, some attractions, and it is very certain she was 
 always happier there, than she was at home. This
 
 LIFE OF A WANDEREE. 181 
 
 Kate very innocently attributed to the charms of a 
 country life, and as we have no right to doubt the 
 young lady's word, I suppose we must acknowledge 
 she knew best. 
 
 The next morning, true to her promise, Kate, ac 
 companied by her mother and friend, started out on 
 her visit to Marcia, Mr. Kennet having informed them 
 that they were staying at the St. Charles Hotel. They 
 found Marcia seated in an easy chair, with a velvet 
 cushion at her feet 1 , and Mr. Woodville beside her, 
 reading to her. Flora sat near her, and Marcia 
 amused herself by curling the child's long ringlets 
 round her fingers. She was looking very pale and 
 feeble, but she received her visitors with that easy 
 grace and dignity that never forsook her. Mrs. Ken- 
 net, who had never seen her before, was highly pleased 
 with her, and gave her a pressing invitation to visit 
 them. Marcia said : 
 
 "I shall get my father to take me, some day." 
 
 Mrs. Kennet looked surprised. She said, " I was 
 not aware that your father was ." 
 
 "I will set you right," said Mr. Woodville. Marcia 
 is my adopted daughter, and it is I she honors with 
 the name of father." 
 
 "Really, I am glad of that. I scarcely know which 
 I ought to congratulate most, but I think, Mr. Wood 
 ville, you have a prize in such a daughter. And you, 
 Flora, how do you like your cousin, Marcia ?" 
 
 "I can't say I like her at all, but I love her dearly." 
 16*
 
 182 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 " I fear, my little cousin Flora is a partial judge of 
 my good qualities, Mrs. Kennet. Pray do not appeal 
 to her, if you should wish to hear unbiassed opinions." 
 
 " I should be quite satisfied to rest upon her judg 
 ment, said Mrs. Kennet." 
 
 "How long do you stay in New Orleans?" asked 
 Kate. Mr. "Woodville said : 
 
 "Perhaps, a month longer. Then, we go to Mo 
 bile, and from there home." 
 
 "To Miss Walton's home, or Georgia?" asked Mary 
 Jones. 
 
 " Oh ! to dear, dear Georgia," said Flora, gaily. 
 
 Mary Jones and Kate expressed their interest and 
 kindly sympathy for the invalid. Marcia, smiling 
 sweetly, thanked them for their kindness, and told 
 them they must come every day to see her, and not 
 wait for her visit, as it was impossible for her to ob 
 serve ceremony with them. They gladly promised to 
 comply, and the hearts of the lovely girls warmed to 
 the gentle being whom they felt was slowly, but almost 
 imperceptibly, passing away from earth. There was a 
 charm in the society of the fair Marcia that drew all 
 hearts towards her, and there was a sweetness in her 
 manners that disarmed envy, and it might truly be 
 said of her : 
 
 " None see thee but to love thee, 
 None know thee but to praise." 
 
 Mary Jones looked around the room. She could 
 see no trace of Octave. Neither was his name men-
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 183 
 
 tioned by any of the party. "I am glad he is not 
 here," she thought. And then said, in her heart, "I 
 wish he were." 
 
 At that instant he entered the room. He spoke 
 politely to all three of the ladies, and, advancing to 
 Marcia, presented her with a fresh boquet of flowers. 
 She took them, and thanked him sweetly for his kind 
 remembrance of her, but there was nothing in her 
 manner that could give Mary the least cause for jeal 
 ousy. " He would be a monster if he was not kind 
 to her, poor thing," she thought. 
 
 "Well, Miss Kate," asked Octave, laughing; "how 
 comes on your trade of heart-breaking ?" 
 
 "Not very flourishing, I assure you. I believe 
 there are only six persons who have announced to me 
 their intention to die on my account this winter. Is 
 it not six, mother?" she asked, counting on her fingers 
 at the same time. " There was Joe Winters, one ; 
 Colonel Marks, two ; Doctor Stansberry, with the long 
 nose, three ." 
 
 "For shame, daughter," said Mrs. Kennet; "I 
 cannot permit you to ridicule your friends in this 
 manner." 
 
 " Well, but you know, mother, there is nothing in 
 the heavens above, or on the earth beneath, or in the 
 waters under the earth, that is secure from his ridi 
 cule." 
 
 "Two wrongs never make a right, Kate. Never 
 subject any one you recognize as an acquaintance and
 
 184 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 receive as a guest, to ridicule. You cannot expect to 
 be respected yourself, if you make little of your 
 friends." 
 
 " Kate is very young yet," remonstrated Marcia. 
 
 "And our dear little Marcia is very old. I believe 
 she has arrived at the advanced age of eighteen and 
 some months. Are you not ?" asked Mr. Woodville. 
 
 "Nearly nineteen," said Marcia. 
 
 "We all bow in reverence to your years," said Kate, 
 with a merry laugh. 
 
 " Ah ! you naughty girl, do you make fun of 
 Marcia?" asked Octave, shaking his finger. 
 
 "I should much prefer making fun of you," she 
 said, with a saucy curl of the lip. 
 
 " I would not care if you did, if it afforded one 
 particle of pleasure to that little, wicked heart of 
 yours." 
 
 " My heart is neither little nor wicked. You must 
 not judge of me by your great, big, wicked self." 
 
 " If you make such sweeping accusations, I shall 
 call for proof, Miss Kate. What did I ever do that 
 was wicked ?" 
 
 " I don't think it would puzzle me as much to tell 
 that, as it would to tell what you ever did that was 
 good." 
 
 That's not so bad, Kate, upon my word," said Mr. 
 Woodville, laughing. " A few more home-thrusts 
 like that, and your opponent will throw down his 
 weapons, ."
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 185 
 
 "And assume a virtue, though he has it not, of hav 
 ing discretion to surrender," said Octave. 
 
 " Really, we must go," said Mrs. Kennet. " I had 
 no idea it was so late. Marcia, do not forget to come 
 and see us, as soon as your strength will permit. I 
 shall be most happy to receive you, and show you 
 some of the beauties of our conservatory. I believe 
 you are fond of flowers." 
 
 "Oh! passionately, madam." 
 
 " Well, you will find at our house flowers of every 
 color and clime. I flatter myself New Orleans cannot 
 boast of a more beautiful collection of plants. Good 
 bye, my dear child. I hope to see you, very soon." 
 
 "Kate and Mary came to kiss their young friend. 
 Marcia drew Mary's ear close down to her face, and 
 whispered : 
 
 " Mary, dear, come to see me, very soon, alone I 
 have something to tell you. Now, don't forget." 
 
 Mary raised her head in a flutter of joy. Her 
 cheeks were suffused with a bright flush, but her color 
 faded as she saw the look of surprise, not unmingled 
 with displeasure, with which Octave regarded her. 
 Her poor, little, fluttering heart was chilled. Marcia 
 saw the look, and could not altogether repress a feel 
 ing of anger that Octave should treat with this chill 
 ing indifference the girl he had wooed, and had once 
 determined should be his wife. There was a plan in 
 her mind, however, by which she sought to reconcile 
 all these differences.
 
 186 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 That evening, Mr. Woodville dined out, and Flora 
 had gone to a little girls' party, to which she had been 
 invited. Marcia and Octave were alone together. 
 Seating himself near her, he said : 
 
 "At last, I have the opportunity I have so long 
 and eagerly sought. Will you listen to me, fair cousin, 
 for a few moments ?" 
 
 "With pleasure." 
 
 "I have, for some time past, had a confession to 
 make to you, which, although you already know all 
 the circumstances, it seems but proper you should hear 
 from my lips. 
 
 "You must know that your illness and consequent 
 debility have been caused by me. My mother told 
 you all, but I have come to you to seek your forgiveness 
 for the wrong I have done you. Tell me, if you have 
 no feeling of anger to him who has thus turned your 
 day into darkness who has strewn your path with 
 thorns, and who has, in short, been the bane of your 
 life ?" 
 
 "I have long since forgiven you, Octave, and have 
 never ceased to pray that God might extract from 
 your heart the bitterness of self-reproach. Oh ! be 
 lieve me, when I assure you that I do not cherish in 
 my heart one atom of resentment towards you, and I 
 have often regretted that I was forced to give you one 
 moment's pain. 
 
 " You give me pain, sweet cousin ? Ah ! you have 
 been the joy, the hope, the beacon-star of life. Do
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 187 
 
 not think there could be pain associated in my mind 
 with aught so fair and lovely." 
 
 " Listen to me, Octave, dear Octave. I have heard 
 you. Will you not listen to me, now, calmly, quietly, 
 dispassionately, while I tell you something that is on 
 my mind?" 
 
 She laid her delicate white hand on his. She gazed 
 at him with those gentle eyes, filled with a look of soft 
 entreaty. She had called him Octave dear Octave. 
 What could all this mean ? The blood coursed rapidly 
 through his veins. Did she love him, now ? he asked 
 himself. Were her feelings changed towards him? 
 Oh ! joy, joy. He could not restrain his emotions. 
 He raised the tiny hand to his lips. He pressed burn 
 ing kisses upon it, and again, in a voice broken with 
 emotion, poured forth his tale *of love. 
 
 Marcia listened quietly. For a moment a deep flush 
 passed over her face, leaving it again paler than before. 
 She felt that she had been misunderstood, and was 
 about to explain herself, when a sigh sounded in her 
 ear. She looked up, surprised, and saw Mary Jones 
 standing before her, trembling with the intensity of 
 her emotions. How much of the scene she had wit 
 nessed, Marcia could not tell, but it was evident she 
 had seen enough to rouse her jealousy. She cast a 
 look of mild reproach upon Octave, and then abruptly 
 left the room. 
 
 The whole had passed so quickly that no one had 
 spoken a word. Poor Marcia realized to the full all
 
 188 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 the unpleasantness of her situation, and making a 
 strong effort to control her feelings, she said : 
 
 "Alas ! Octave, see what you have done." 
 
 "What have I done? Mary Jones is nothing to 
 me. I owe her nought but cold politeness." 
 
 "Nay, but you owe her more than that; and, if she 
 is not now offended past recall, I hope to persuade you 
 to regard her as I do. I fear she will not forgive this 
 last, however." 
 
 " That would be a matter of great indifference to 
 me." 
 
 "Nay, Octave, hear me. I have that to say to you 
 which regards your own happiness as well as Mary's. 
 Cast aside all those unkind feelings, and listen atten 
 tively to me. 
 
 "You sought the love of a young, innocent girl. 
 She gave you her heart, but she was too proud to con 
 fess all at once that it was so. Some of her playful 
 tricks piqued your vanity. You were jealous, and in 
 a fit of haughty disdain you left her. You saw me. 
 Your heart was idle. You needed some stimulant, 
 some excitement to keep you from dwelling upon 
 the past. You had promised to wrap yourself in 
 your mantle of pride, but your efforts were ineffec 
 tual, for the ghost of your past happiness was before 
 you." 
 
 "How have you thus acquired the power to read 
 my heart ?" 
 
 " It matters not. Do not interrupt me. It suffices
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 189 
 
 for us both to know that I have read aright. You saw 
 me, and loved me, not with the same love you had felt 
 for Mary, but a devotion which would have made you 
 sacrifice your life to my whims. Had I attempted to 
 make you jealous, you would have borne it patiently, 
 and never have sought to blame me, or call me to ac 
 count for it. It would have been sufficient to you that 
 I did it, to make it right in your sight. In a word, 
 you looked upon the poor governess as your superior, 
 and you venerated her as you should have revered and 
 woi^iped your God." 
 
 "Tell me how it is that you unravel the secret 
 workings of my heart, and seem to know me better 
 than I do myself?" 
 
 "By a simple effort of will, I have made myself 
 acquainted with your thoughts. But, let me go on. 
 This impiety, this devotion to the creature that was 
 due to the Creator, met its punishment, and you found 
 coldness where you had hoped to meet with love. 
 Hoped, did I say ? Nay, that were a poor word to 
 express your feelings. You had fiercely resolved to 
 find love. Every power of your soul was concentrated 
 in your passion, and you would not hear the reply I 
 gave you. You impiously believed that God would 
 not have permitted such an idolatry to take possession 
 of your heart, if He did not intend to crown your love 
 with success. Poor man, to believe that God had 
 anything to do with the passion of your heart. Had 
 I married you, do you suppose God would have made 
 17
 
 190 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 the union ? I have often thought of the words in the 
 marriage ceremony: 'Whom God has joined.' Sure 
 enough, 'whom God has joined, let no man put asun 
 der.' But how are you going to find out whom God 
 has joined? 
 
 " Wealth, station, every blessing was in your favor. 
 You cast all upon the die, and you lost all., 
 
 " Let me analyze, if possible, the feelings that influ 
 enced me in that refusal. There had been no coquetry 
 on my part to lead you on, and then reject you. I 
 call God to witness that I would have scorned the 
 thought. I was ignorant of your motives and feelmgs, 
 and your actions oft-times appeared strange to me. I 
 had heard it tacitly admitted that you were to be mar 
 ried to Mary Jones. I never thought much about it, 
 for the subject was not one of interest to me, but, I 
 believed at times, from observations you made use of, 
 there had been a kind of lover's quarrel between you. 
 It was not my affair, however, and I soon banished the 
 subject. 
 
 " When, upon that memorable morning, Mary con 
 cealed in the forest, heard your declaration of love, and 
 I was first awakened to a sense of my position, I must 
 confess to you that my emotions were of a most pain 
 ful nature. It grieved me to give you pain, and yet, 
 I was well convinced that love had never yet existed 
 in my heart, and love alone could induce me to be 
 come a wife. But I do not wish you to suppose that, 
 because I had never loved, I was entirely ignorant of
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 191 
 
 the nature of the passion. The many books I had 
 read, had sufficiently developed in my $iind an appre 
 ciation of the sentiment, to make me regard you with 
 pity, for, said I, suppose it was I who loved as he does, 
 and loved hopelessly, how desolate and sad I should 
 feel. Poor Octave, I thought, would that I could return 
 your affection. But this was impossible. Pity, in this 
 instance, would not give birth to love, and although 
 I manifested towards you all the affection of a sister, 
 yet you lacked the faculty to rouse the dormant 
 powers of love. 
 
 "I now felt that my position would be unpleasant 
 in your family, and I sought to find some reason to 
 return to my mother. But God, who sees not as man 
 sees, and who moves in a mysterious way, had another 
 fate reserved for me. I was stricken down on that 
 very morning, and in a few hours I was looking death 
 in the face. But let me pass over these details, dear 
 Octave. They cannot fail to give you pain. I come 
 to your second declaration, made and seconded by your 
 mother. Here was a renewal of all the feelings that 
 had before caused me so much uneasiness. Alas ! I ex 
 claimed, I am then doomed to make the misery of those 
 who love me. 'Not so,' said a still small voice within 
 me. 'Be patient, be firm and true, and you shall 
 become a blessing, where now you seem the reverse.' 
 Octave, the hour is come. The hour dimly fore 
 shadowed to me then, has now arrived, and I see in it 
 the fulfilment of the promise. Happiness is before
 
 192 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 you. You have but to reach forth your hand and the 
 prize is yours ; and to see you happy will be one of 
 the greatest pleasures this world can give. 
 
 "I have but one thing more to say to you. Mary 
 Jones loves you now, and always has. Go back to the 
 first warm affection of your heart. It is, perhaps, 
 less devoted, more selfish than your last, but I doubt 
 not you will be blessed in it, and at all events you can 
 make the happiness of a true-hearted girl, who loves 
 you with all the self-sacrificing devotion of a woman. 
 Go seek her pardon, dear Octave, for the past, and be 
 happy." 
 
 " Noble-minded, excellent woman, and do you think 
 that after having doomed you to a life of sorrow and 
 sickness, I could leave you desolate and not seek to 
 surround you with all the delicate attentions of love ? 
 Do you think, my poor Marcia, I could revel in the 
 happiness of wedded life, with a gay, rosy-lipped bride, 
 all smiles and blushes, while you sat, pale and stricken, 
 with your young innocent heart crushed within you? 
 Oh! no, Marcia, never." 
 
 " Then, Octave, you refuse to accord me the only 
 boon I ever craved at your hands ?" 
 
 " I would make any sacrifice in the world for you, 
 Marcia. I would lay down my life, at this moment, if 
 it could restore you to health. I am free. Bound by 
 no ties, I can love you. I have a right to do so. 
 Although you remain indifferent to me, it is a pleasure 
 to me to be near you, to wait upon you, to indulge my
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 193 
 
 affection toward you, and I make no secret of it. I 
 care not who knows it. But were I married, you must 
 see how widely different the case would be. I could 
 no longer indulge these emotions of tenderness, which 
 in honor would belong to my wife. My love for you, 
 and my duty to her, would be a constant warfare 
 within me, and I should end by being more miserable 
 than ever. 
 
 "And then, again, I should be debarred from the 
 pleasure of your society. You would very justly be 
 shocked at the sight of the man who gave you his 
 heart, and swore with his lips to love another. Oh, 
 no, Marcia, I cannot make this sacrifice of myself, 
 even to please you." 
 
 " But, Octave, I will not banish you from me. On 
 the contrary, I will have you and Mary constantl 
 with me. Indeed, if you knew how I had set my 
 heart on this match, you would not refuse me. I see 
 now the weakness of the feelings you nrofess for me, 
 since you will not please me even in this small mat 
 ter." 
 
 " Come, cousin, I will compromise with you. You 
 will acknowledge Mary to be a girl of spirit. Let me 
 go to her, and tell her frankly all you say. I will tell 
 her how I love you, and you only. If she will marry 
 me under these circumstances I will wed her. Does 
 that please you?" 
 
 "Nay, Octave, consider. Do you not owe some 
 thing to the girl who has loved and cherished your 
 17*
 
 194 WAY-MAKES IN THE 
 
 memory ? You it was who first sought her affection. 
 Do not trample in the dust, the fond loving heart she 
 has given you." 
 
 " What, then, would you have ? Must I go to her 
 and tell her I still entertain the same feelings for her 
 I did when first I sought her for my bride, and that I 
 have come to claim the fulfilment of her former pro 
 mise ? Now, Marcia, you know this would be abso 
 lute falsehood." 
 
 " Surely, Octave, you must have tact enough in 
 these matters to proffer your suit in gallant terms, 
 without being guilty of the sin of falsehood, and with 
 out wounding the feelings of a lovely girl, whose only 
 weakness is her attachment to you." 
 
 "Doubtless, you consider it a great weakness for 
 one even to like me, you hard-hearted girl ; but 
 no, I will not say that. I will be just, and acknow 
 ledge that you are the loveliest of your sex. Oh ! 
 Marcia, could I have been blessed with your love, I 
 should have been indeed happy. I cannot calmly 
 make up my mind to lose you forever. But I will do 
 your bidding. You shall see how obediently I will 
 ; sacrifice myself to please you. I will make my de 
 claration to Mary Jones, but I think I will honestly 
 confess to her what I should think she must know 
 already. Indeed, she ought to know that she has you 
 to thank for her happiness. And now, having dis 
 missed this subject, let us talk of something more
 
 LIFE OF A WANDEREK. 195 
 
 pleasant. Have you no questions to ask about the 
 children ? They sent you a world of love." 
 
 " Oh ! yes. I have longed for an opportunity to 
 talk about them all. I should like much to see them 
 again. How is my sweet Laurestina ? Has she for 
 gotten me ?" 
 
 "You would not think so, if you could hear her 
 talking about you. She is fat and rosy, and learns 
 rapidly. She seems quite fond of her teacher, who, 
 by the by, is a most excellent man. I feel a friend 
 ship for him, different from any one else. I consider 
 his character worthy of imitation." 
 
 " So I thought from the first." 
 
 " Then you were pleased with him ?" 
 
 " I judged from what I saw of him, he would be 
 conscientious in the discharge of his duties to the 
 children. You have not told me any thing about 
 Gregory; I think that boy is a prodigy. He has 
 talents that- will lead him to great ^minence, and a 
 heart that will win him the friendship of all who 
 know him." 
 
 " Gregory is certainly an uncommon boy. He is 
 making great progress at school. It pleases me very 
 much to know that you admire him, for he is my 
 favorite. Would you believe that John, lazy, harem- 
 scarem John, the terror of all sober matrons, is ac 
 tually settling down quietly, and studying with a zeal 
 and faithfulness, you would scarcely believe possible, 
 without you witnessed it yourself."
 
 196 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 " Indeed. I am glad to hear it. Has he at last 
 succeeded in mastering those Greek characters that 
 were such a terror to him?" 
 
 "Long since, and he has been translating, for 
 months, quite handsomely. To tell the truth, Harry 
 Percy has a way of teaching, that wins the hearts of 
 his pupils. I consider that he has achieved a miracle 
 in the case of John Woodville, and I do regret ex 
 ceedingly, that at the end of the year he leaves us 
 and returns to New York." 
 
 "And why does he do so?" 
 
 " I know not. There is a mystery about it, that I 
 have never been able, or rather, I should say, have 
 never sought to fathom." 
 
 " How does your mother like the idea of another 
 niece, Octave ? Was she pleased to learn that father 
 had adopted me as his child?" 
 
 " Indeed she was, sweet cousin mine ; and she bade 
 me tell you she ^ould count the days till you returned 
 once more to her presence, never to leave it again." 
 
 "Excellent woman. I am not ungrateful for her' 
 affection, and there is only one thing I could ask for 
 more." 
 
 " And what is that, my cousin ? You must not 
 hide your wishes from me." 
 
 "Nay, it is no great secret, that you should care 
 for the possession of it, as if it were a matter of im 
 portance to you. It is simply my desire to be with 
 my mother and brother. I cannot reconcile myself to
 
 LIFE OP A WANDERER. 197 
 
 this painful separation, and I feel as if the few months 
 I spend on earth would be much happier if blessed 
 with my mother's smiles, and my dear little Benny's 
 artless affection. When father talks of taking me 
 back to New York, the doctor looks grum, shakes his 
 head and says nothing, but then, you know, Octave, 
 there is a great deal expressed in this ominous shak 
 ing of the head." 
 
 "Don't pretend to mind what the doctors say or 
 do. Many of them are about as wise as so many apes, 
 and as to this notion you have got about dying, it is 
 all nonsense. You cannot die in this genial climate, 
 and with this balmy air. It is impossible for death 
 to reach you here." 
 
 "You mean kindness by what you say, cousin, but 
 do not seek to unnerve me and make me regard with 
 terror what is inevitable. I need rather your support 
 and encouragement, and I must learn to look boldly 
 in the face that doom which is written in characters 
 of living fire on my heart." 
 
 " Oh ! Marcia, how can I hear you talk thus, and 
 not suffer all the torturing anguish of remorse ? Ah, 
 Mary, Mary, I could curse you now." 
 
 " Do not upbraid her. Poor girl, she has had her 
 punishment ere this in her own conscience, without 
 doubt. Forgive her, Octave, and remember that 
 
 " To err is human; to forgive divine." 
 
 We need but to look within our own hearts to find 
 enough to reform and improve. Let us leave to God
 
 198 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 the punishment of others, and recall the beautiful 
 lines, entitled, 'Speak kindly to the erring;' which 
 close thus 
 
 " Speak kindly to the erring 
 
 Thou yet mayst lead him back, 
 With holy words, and tones of love, 
 
 From misery's thorny track : 
 Forget not thou hast often sinned, 
 
 And sinful yet mayst be ; 
 Deal kindly with the erring one, 
 
 As God has dealt with thee." 
 
 But tell me, Octave, when will you go to Mary 
 Jones and make her happy ? The quicker the better, 
 you know." 
 
 " I will go, to-night the instant my uncle comes 
 in." 
 
 "That is right. There is nothing like dispatch. 
 Then you must come to me, early to-morrow morning, 
 and tell me the success of your mission, will you not ? 
 Now don't look so disconsolate. One would suppose 
 you had suicide in contemplation. ' It is droll to see 
 a man look so solemn when he is on the eve of com 
 mitting matrimony." 
 
 " And it is still more droll for a man to marry a 
 woman he does not love, merely to please the woman 
 he does. This is an enigma, but it is your wish, and 
 I know no other law. But, Marcia, are you not afraid 
 to urge me to take these false vows ?" 
 
 " Not in the least, for once married to Mary you 
 cannot help but love her, and the affection you bear
 
 LIFE OF A WANDEREE. 199 
 
 me will grow holier and purer in its character ; and 
 you will at last regard me as a sister. When I have 
 thus succeeded in reconciling your two passions, so as 
 to do violence to neither, I shall be indeed happy, 
 and shall feel that I have not lived altogether in vain, 
 for perhaps without my interference you might have 
 followed your uncle's example, and lived to be a child 
 less old man." 
 
 " That is not such an unblessed life with Marcia 
 for my daughter;" said Mr. Woodville, entering the 
 apartment and kissing her affectionately. 
 
 " I go to fulfil your request, Marcia," said Octave, 
 and raising her hand to his lips, he breathed his bles 
 sings upon it and was gone to fulfil his destiny. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 " Deal gently then and suffer me to feel 
 The vestal flame I vainly sought to quell ; 
 It shall not wrong or pain thee ; but in need 
 Shall be thy comfort, and shall serve thce well. 
 Though timid as the fawn that loves the wood, 
 1 will defy all powers to do thee good. 1 ' 
 
 I do not know what will be thought of the feeling 
 that prompted our heroine to act in the manner she 
 did. It is sufficient to me that she did it, for it to 
 gain my approval, knowing, as I do, that her only 
 motive was a pure and disinterested desire for the 
 happiness of others.
 
 200 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 Octave took his way, with a wild recklessness of 
 manner, down the Rue Royal in the direction of the 
 residence of Mr. Kennet. He had not proceeded far, 
 when some one called him by name, and when he 
 turned to see who had accosted him, he recognized a 
 young merchant of the town of D., in Georgia, who 
 stood conversing with a tall gentleman, that he pre 
 sented to Octave as Doctor Stansberry. The very 
 same before-mentioned personage who figured in 
 ate Rennet's conversation of the morning. The 
 party were soon conversing gaily together, and agreed 
 to repair to a neighboring hotel, to have a regular 
 lark. Two hours passed by, and at length Octave, 
 elated with wine, recalled his promise to Marcia, to 
 go at once to seek Mary, and nerved to his task, 
 which he could not help feeling to be a hard one, tore 
 himself away from his gay companions, and started 
 once more on his errand. He reached the house and 
 rang the bell. A negro slave answered the summons, 
 "is Miss Jones in?" 
 
 "She is would massa please follow him to the 
 drawing room?" 
 
 Octave entered this fairy scene, which I have al 
 ready described. Kate and her father and mother 
 were there.1 ^Gay, brilliant, sarcastic, she sat, queen 
 of beauty, surrounded by a circle of the most eligible 
 young men in New Orleans, all striving to please the 
 capricious beauty, who regarded them with much less 
 respect than she did her pet monkey.
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 201 
 
 ; f 
 
 Mr. Kennet expressed his pleasure at Octave's 
 visit. Mrs. Kennet received him graciously, and Kate 
 with a demure smile ; but Mary was no where to be 
 seen. 
 
 For a moment Octave was glad that such was the 
 case, but the next he regretted it, for he had made up 
 his mind resolutely and firmly how to act, and the 
 sooner he got through the unpleasant business the 
 better. He determined not to retract, but to perform 
 Marcia's wishes at all hazards. Putting a bold face 
 on the matter, and willing even to risk the quizing 
 of the merciless little torturer, Kate, he asked her 
 where Miss Jones was, this evening ? 
 
 " She retired to her room quite soon after tea, with 
 a sick head-ache. Shall I tell her you want to see 
 her?" 
 
 " Oh no, do not disturb her now upon my account ; 
 but please say to her that I will call to-morrow morn 
 ing, and that I wish to see her particularly." 
 
 "I will certainly do so, but pray do not hurry away 
 so, merely because Miss Jones is not visible." 
 
 " I would stay with great pleasure, but Miss Walton 
 is an invalid you know, and I don't like to neglect her, 
 so you will please excuse me to-night." 
 
 Octave made his adieu and retired to return at 
 once, to Marcia and Mr. Woodville, and he sat up till 
 a late hour amusing them with the wild gayety of his 
 spirits. Marcia thought she had never seen him ap 
 pear to so much advantage, and she was at a loss to 
 18
 
 202 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 reconcile his mirth with the sacrifice she had imposed 
 upon him. She knew not that he was dissembling his 
 real feelings, lest he should give her pain. 
 
 When, at length, they separated for the night, Octave 
 in the solitude of his own chamber, gave himself 
 up to the bitterness of his feelings, and walked, with 
 wild impatience up and down, muttering to himself, 
 and exciting his already agitated mind. But, after a 
 time, he grew calmer, and sitting down by his writing 
 table he leaned his face upon his hands, and fell into 
 a fit of musing. Could we have looked into his heart, 
 we might have seen some such thoughts as these : 
 
 " Let me imitate her example, and think less of self. 
 Has she not acted nobly? What motive could 
 have prompted her, but Mary's happiness and my 
 own ?" 
 
 Oh, Marcia, you are too good for me. I feel that 
 sensibly. Dear girl, your lonely heart pines for your 
 mother's presence, and it shall not pine in vain. Let 
 me see how I shall manage the affair. Ah, I have it." 
 
 Octave unlocked his writing desk and wrote two let 
 ters. One was to his mother, the other to his cousin 
 John. I will copy them, in order that you may be 
 come acquainted with their contents. 
 
 NEW ORLEANS, January 20th, 18 . 
 My dear Mother : 
 
 I have arrived, as you see, at my journey's 
 end, and have seen Marcia, Flora, and my uncle.
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 203 
 
 The two last are in excellent health, but the former I 
 cannot help trembling for. I fear not only from what 
 I have seen myself, but from what the physician has 
 told me, that a few months at most must close her pil 
 grimage on earth. The anguish I experience as this 
 truth forces itself upon me, will doubtless be under 
 stood by your affectionate heart, and I will not at 
 tempt to dwell upon my feelings. 
 
 Marcia bears her fate with a resignation and obe 
 dience to the Will of God quite touching in one so 
 young. My heart, that has always rebelled against 
 religion, begins to acknowledge its wonderful power, 
 at the sight of this young girl, so fitted by her superior 
 accomplishments to adorn the world, so constituted to 
 enjoy its pleasures, and yet resolutely, and with a 
 heroism worthy of her high intelligence, looking calmly 
 in the face a doom, sad enough to intimidate the 
 stoutest heart. Sometimes she gives way to the de 
 pression of her feelings, but oftener, to amuse my uncle 
 and make him light-hearted, she mingles in conver 
 sation with all the playful grace which is so natural 
 to her, and seems for the moment to forget the heavy 
 sorrow which has mingled itself with every drop in 
 her cup of life. 
 
 You know, my dear mother, it is our duty as well 
 as our wish to make every atonement in our power to 
 one who suffers thus severely for my crime. Marcia 
 told me to-day that she had only one thing left to 
 wish for, and with me her slightest wish is a com-
 
 204 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 mand, as you well know. She longs for the society of 
 her mother and brother, and as it is impossible for her 
 to go to New York, I have been thinking of another 
 means to bring them together. 
 
 From what I can glean of my uncle's intentions, he 
 will only remain here a few weeks longer, until Marcia 
 is weary of the place. We shall then visit Mobile, 
 and after remaining there some weeks, will return to 
 Georgia. Now, it is my desire that you write, as deli 
 cately as you can, your wish that Mrs. Walton should 
 visit us about the first of March, by which time we 
 shall either have returned, or be on our way home. 
 It will be neccessary to hint, in delicate terms, Marcia's 
 failing health, and endeavor to prepare her mind for 
 the loss she must sustain ; and yet I would not have 
 you altogether deprive her of hope. None can know 
 better than yourself, my dear mother, how to word 
 such a letter. When written you can intrust it to 
 John, and I will write him, by this mail, full instruc 
 tions how to act, in going on to bring her. I think it 
 would be useless for him to start till late in February, 
 allowing time for the journey there and back by the 
 first of March. Should any alarming symptoms occur, 
 I will, however, instantly apprise you, and then he 
 can set out at once. 
 
 I am aware that I need not urge upon you,, any 
 reason why you should perform my request, satisfied 
 as I am in my own mind that your kind heart fully 
 sympathizes with your affectionate son, 
 
 OCTAVE.
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 205 
 
 P. S. I forgot to say that I am going to be married. 
 Were it not for that, I would go myself to New York 
 after Mrs. Walton, but indeed I cannot endure sepa 
 ration for a moment from my tenderly-loved Marcia. 
 
 0. W. 
 
 The other letter, to John Woodville, ran thus : 
 
 NEW ORLEANS, January 20th, 18 . 
 My dear John : 
 
 Although you are such a wild boy, I have 
 deemed it expedient to intrust you with some busi 
 ness, which, if well performed, will not lose its reward 
 in a certain quarter indicated by two K's and I sin 
 cerely trust that the natural kindness of your heart 
 will induce you to throw aside for a time your charac 
 ter as a madcap ; and merge all your energy in the 
 business I set before you. 
 
 It is a melancholy fact, my dear boy, that the lovely 
 girl who left her Northern home to find health and 
 healing in our sunny climate, is fast fading away 
 from earth. Nothing can save her. The fiat has 
 gone forth, and the sands in the life-glass are daily 
 wasting. I shall pass over all my own feelings in 
 this matter, and come to speak of the duty which 
 you are called upon to perform. 
 
 It is necessary for some one to go for Mrs. Walton, 
 and break to her, in delicate terms, the continued ill 
 ness of her daughter. I have chosen you for this 
 mission, and I want you to be her traveling companion 
 18*
 
 206 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 to Georgia. You must try, by every possible 
 means, to soothe her distress, surround her with com 
 forts, and pay her every delicate attention, that you 
 would your own mother if she were living. 
 
 I depend upon you, John, to take this matter in 
 your hands, and to act with all becoming dignity and 
 propriety, and I do not fear that you will fail in any 
 part of your duty. Mother will tell you when to start 
 for New York. 
 
 Give my respects to Harry Percy, and tell him I 
 will write to him in a few days. In the meantime as 
 sure him of my high regard. Give love to all the 
 children, and believe me 
 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 OCTAVE WOODVILLE. 
 
 The letters written, sealed and directed, and sent 
 by a waiter of the hotel to the office, Octave retired, 
 to gain in sleep some hours of oblivion from a fate 
 which he considered hopeless and sad beyond com 
 pare. 
 
 The next morning, after breakfast, with his uncle 
 and cousin, he left the hotel and went to call on Mary 
 Jones. He was shown into a little, private parlor, 
 and after waiting some considerable time, Mary, pale 
 and dejected, entered noiselessly and approached him. 
 
 Octave rose and advanced towards her with a smile, 
 which was instantly checked however, by the serious 
 manner with which she received him. The usual
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 207 
 
 common-places of the day were canvassed, but Octave, 
 anxious to please Marcia, resolved to open at once the 
 object of his visit. He said 
 
 " Let us forget the past, Mary, and be the friends 
 we were when first I sought your hand. Ah, we 
 were happy then, for the world was bright with hope, 
 and oft 
 
 "At noon 
 
 We sat beneath the arching vines and wondered 
 Why Earth could be unhappy, while the Heavens 
 Still left us youth and love." 
 
 Since then Mary, I have been cold to you. You have 
 suffered much on my account and I come to make you 
 every reparation in my power. I sought your love, 
 and then left you in a fit of jealousy. I ask your 
 pardon for all the harshness I have used towards you. 
 I come to you this morning to renew my vows at the 
 shrine of your faithful heart, to ask you to be my 
 wife, and I promise to make you as happy as I possi 
 bly can. Will you accept me now, Mary, and be 
 content to waive coqueting for the present?" 
 
 Although the words were all that they should have 
 been on the occasion, yet the manner was cold, stern 
 and haughty, that of a person who confers a favor 
 rather than of one who seeks it ; but Mary was blind 
 to this, or rather she imagined she saw in it a contri 
 tion for the past, which his proud spirit felt and yet 
 struggled against acknowledging. She believed the 
 scene she had partly witnessed the last evening was
 
 208 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 misunderstood on her part. Perhaps she thought 
 Octave was at that moment showing his love for her, 
 by a reconciliation Marcia had proposed between 
 them. She gave herself up to the joyous emotions 
 that filled her heart, and crowned her girlish love. 
 
 Do you accuse her of want of spirit ? Remember 
 that Octave had purposely avoided saying aught to 
 her that could wound her feelings, and he concluded 
 to make a compromise with his conscience, that he 
 might spare her the pain of knowing that his love for 
 another had alone brought him to terms with her. I 
 believe, with very good reason, that if Mary had 
 known the state of his feelings, she would have spurn 
 ed him from her in righteous anger; nor could you 
 have blamed her if she had. 
 
 "Dear Mary," asked Octave, "will you accept or 
 refuse me ? I want yes or no, and I think you will 
 not try to tease me any more, now that you have found 
 out the weakness of my temper." 
 
 " This is my answer, then," said Mary, and she laid 
 her innocent head upon his shoulder, and burst into 
 tears, not tears of sorrow, but joy, joy so great that 
 her full heart was forced to seek relief. A woman's 
 remedy, 'tis true, but who shall say it was not a good 
 
 o 
 
 one : 
 
 Now, although Octave had steeled himself against 
 softness; although he no longer loved Mary Jones, 
 and though by his very present offer of marriage ho 
 was only obeying a mandate of the passion which
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 209 
 
 reigned supreme in his heart for another, yet he could 
 not, all unmoved, behold her tears, the cause of which 
 he could not interpret ; neither could he resist the 
 gentle emotions which stole over him, as he felt the 
 touch of her innocent head upon his shoulder, laid 
 there in the holy trust and confidence of her girlish 
 heart. Thoughts of earlier days crowded around him. 
 He recalled the time when, pure and innocent, he had 
 shrunk from every thought of evil. Since then his 
 soul had become contaminated, but still the old feel 
 ings of innocence and truth hovered around him. His 
 heart softened as he gazed on the gentle girl at his 
 side, and yielding to the tender emotions of his soul, 
 he passed his arm around her waist, and turning her 
 face towards his own, he kissed away the tears that 
 sullied her cheeks, and pressing his lips upon her pure 
 white brow, he promised himself that he would seek 
 her happiness always in preference to his own, and 
 never suffer aught of sorrow to cloud the pathway of 
 her life. 
 
 An hour quickly passed away, and Octave, rousing 
 himself, said he must return to Marcia. She would 
 be lonely without him. 
 
 " Do you know," sg,id Mary, playfully, " I was half 
 inclined to be jealous of Marcia, last night ?" 
 
 Mary could not have chosen a mone unfitting sub 
 ject. A scowl, black as midnight, passed over Octave's 
 face, and he said sternly, 
 
 "If ever a thought of that kind presents itself
 
 210 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 again, I pray you will hide it from me. Indeed, 
 Mary, nothing will please me more than to see you 
 devote yourself and your kindest attentions to that 
 sweet girl. She will not be spared to us long and 
 I I love her as a sister. (God forgive me the 
 story.") 
 
 "You have scarcely need to mention your wish, 
 dear Octave. I look upon Marcia as something better 
 than human. She seems to me like an angel, re 
 moved from all the failings and short-comings of poor 
 human nature." 
 
 "You say well, she is an angel, or like one. I 
 must return to her at once. Come and see her to 
 day. Stay with her as much as you can. Poor thing, 
 she misses and pines for her mother." 
 
 "I will come after dinner; this evening." 
 
 " That is right. Now good bye. Be a good girl." 
 
 " One word before you go, Octave. Do you love 
 me with your whole heart ?" 
 
 " Oh ! exacting woman. I will not satisfy your 
 curiosity. Be satisfied that I think you a very nice 
 little girl." 
 
 A hurried kiss, a pressure of the hand, and he was 
 gone. Gone to the presence of her, before whom 
 Mary, and all the devotion of her true heart were for 
 gotten. Ah ! had she but known how cold and in 
 different he was to her ; what a struggle it cost him 
 to marry her ; but why this list of arguments ? She 
 did not know she was deceived in him, and such
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 211 
 
 things happen every day. This is no overdrawn pic 
 ture. I will depict you one that happened a short 
 time ago in New York, which I know to be strictly 
 true. 
 
 I knew a young man, a few years ago, a gay, wild, 
 high-spirited fellow, the life of every party. His 
 face was always lit up with smiles, and he seemed 
 formed for the enjoyment of earth's greatest happi 
 ness. His mother was dead, but his father doated on 
 him and indulged his every whim. There resided in 
 the family a young girl, who had been left an orphan, 
 in destitute circumstances, by a cousin or some other 
 relation, and the two children had been brought up 
 together like brother and sister. 
 
 One summer, young Graham was attacked with ill 
 ness, and after having recovered from it, he went, by 
 the desire of his father, to Canada, where he got ac 
 quainted with a young and lovely girl, to whom he 
 became very soon warmly attached. He proposed 
 and was accepted, and the young lovers gave them 
 selves up to all the happiness which was to be ex 
 pected from their sincere affection. 
 
 But, alas, the dream of love was of short continu 
 ance. One day, Graham received a letter from his 
 adopted sister, stating that the cholera had broken 
 out in New York, that his father had been attacked 
 with it, and was then lying very low, and wished to 
 see his son immediately.
 
 212 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 Graham took an affectionate but hasty farewell of 
 his betrothed, and promised her soon to return. He 
 then started for home, which he reached just in time 
 to receive his father's dying wish and blessing. The 
 old man's eyes brightened as he saw his son. Taking 
 his hand, he placed it in that of his ward, and said, 
 " Take her, my son, and God bless you." The next 
 moment he was a corpse. 
 
 There was a struggle in the heart of that poor boy 
 which for some time made him miserable. He dearly 
 loved his father, and he called to mind his many acts 
 of kindness and affection, and wept at the remem 
 brance. And again, he found that his fair young 
 cousin was very much attached to him, and regarded 
 him as her future husband. He resolved upon his 
 duty, conquered his love and sacrificed his own happi 
 ness and that of the fair English girl on the altar of 
 filial duty. He married his father's ward, and I know 
 he has striven to make her happy ; but he often leaves 
 her to visit a quiet spot, far away to the north, where 
 a slab of pure white marble, bearing the simple in 
 scription of "Helen, aged seventeen," marks the last 
 resting place of his first and only love. 
 
 But, to return to our story. Octave entered the 
 room where Marcia sat, and throwing himself upon 
 the sofa, said, 
 
 "Well, there, I have done it." 
 
 " Done what ?" asked Mr. "Woodville.
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 213 
 
 "Proposed to Mary Jones and been accepted," said 
 Octave, with the air of a man who is just going to be 
 led to the stake as a martyr. 
 
 " That was the best thing I ever knew you to do. 
 Who put it into your head?" asked Mr. Woodville. 
 
 " Do you mean by that to intimate, uncle, that no 
 good thing could originate in my head?" 
 
 " On the contrary, I know a great many have ori 
 ginated there, but none, I believe, so self-sacrificing 
 as this." 
 
 "Then you appreciate it, uncle?" 
 
 " I do, my boy, I do, and I trust that you may be hap 
 py in your wedded life, and I doubt not that you will." 
 
 " Blessed with the love of such a girl as Mary Jones, 
 you cannot well help being happy," said Marcia, with 
 a smile so sweet that it soothed Octave's spirit, and 
 reconciled him to his duty. He drew up a chair and 
 took a seat beside her, and Flora said to him, with a 
 mischievous smile, 
 
 " So, Mary Jones is to be my aunt, after all ?" 
 
 " Be quiet, you tease, or I will tangle all your 
 worsted." 
 
 " You would be afraid to do it, before Marcia, and 
 besides you would not find it much to your interest in 
 the end, for I would give these slippers I am working 
 to somebody else." 
 
 "And that is the way you would punish me, you 
 spiteful thing. Now, pray be quiet. Marcia, talk to 
 me, wont you?" 
 
 19
 
 214 WAY-MAKKS IN THE 
 
 "What shall I talk about, Octave?" 
 
 " Tell me how you feel, what you think ; any thing, 
 in short, that relates to yourself, and will fill my ears 
 with the sound of your voice." 
 
 " I feel well, Octave ; indeed I can complain of 
 nothing but this extreme weakness. I can not ride or 
 walk, and sometimes talk without feeling fatigued; 
 but I do not think that, in this sensible decay of my 
 physical powers, I feel the least weakness of my mind ; 
 on the contrary, my perceptive powers seem to be 
 quickened, and things that formerly appeared obstru 
 ent and intricate to me, are now clear as the sun at 
 noon-day." 
 
 "And to what do you attribute the change?" 
 
 " I know not, unless it be that the soul, as it throws 
 off its mortal tenement and soars higher and nearer 
 its native heaven, partakes more and more of the 
 divine nature from which it emanated. Indeed, I 
 think this must be the case, for ever since I have 
 looked upon death as certain in a short time, I have 
 felt within me an intelligence which amazes me. I 
 look back with wonder at the ties that bound me to 
 earth, and seemed so dear, and dear they are still ; 
 but infinitely more precious to me is the love of the 
 Savior who has redeemed, and the God who has up 
 held me. Beyond this vale of tears, there is no more 
 time, and it will seem but like the twinkling of an eye, 
 when all I leave behind me here, will join me in that 
 better world to which I go."
 
 LIFE OP A WANDERER. 215 
 
 " And must you go ? Must you leave me, my poor 
 child?" asked Mr. Woodville, deeply affected. 
 
 "It must be, dear father, and it is better thus. 
 What is life at the best. Is it not a stormy sea on 
 which we are tossed from the cradle to the grave ? Of 
 what avail are its honors, its gold or fame ? Are they 
 not all perishable ? Does not the experience of old 
 age daily teach us, that happiness is not to be found 
 in aught earth can bestow ? Ah ! believe me, the 
 human soul was created for a higher destiny. No 
 thing this world has to give, can satisfy the yearnings 
 of the deathless spirit, and hence it is that happiness 
 is a phantom that smiles but to deceive us, for God's 
 own presence is necessary to the perfection of the 
 bliss which shall fill to the uttermost the spark that 
 emanated from Himself: or in other words, the soul 
 is incapable in itself of realizing its own capacities, 
 and can be awakened to clear perceptions only by the 
 animating presence of its Maker, God. 
 
 " Thus it is, that, failing in health, knowing that I 
 must leave this world, ere I have tasted of its cup of 
 pleasure ; ere I have strayed through its flowery walks 
 that look so tempting ; or plucked one of the beautiful 
 blossoms that grow on the way-side, I can say, with a 
 pious trust and holy confidence in the Father, I 
 loved the dear ones thou didst give me ; I might have 
 chosen at least to live till I had tried the realities of 
 life, and proved to my mother a solace in her declin 
 ing years ; but, by thy holy revealings of the spirit-
 
 216 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 land ; by the glimpses of heaven thou hast shown me 
 through the starry skies ; by all I know of thy infinite 
 love, I can say, let me die let me die. 
 
 ' The world can nevor give, 
 
 The bliss for which we sigh ; 
 'Tis not the whole of life to livo, 
 
 Nor all of death to die.' " 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " Go, gladly, with true sympathy, 
 
 Where want's pale victims pine ; 
 And bid life's sweetest smiles again, 
 
 Along their pathway shine." 
 
 There was joy and merriment in Mr. Rennet's 
 house. Many lights shone through the richly em 
 broidered curtains. The hall door was thrown open, 
 and as the numerous carriages drove up and deposited 
 their occupants on the side walk, they were received 
 by liveried servants, and shown into the dressing 
 rooms. 
 
 " Pray, what is going on here?" asked a young lady 
 who was passing, leaning on the arm of a gentleman. 
 
 "Nothing but a wedding," was the reply. 
 
 Let us enter. You and I are privileged charac 
 ters, you know. Let us see for ourselves the interior 
 of this splendid mansion.
 
 LIFE OF A WANDEREK. 217 
 
 You have already been introduced to the elegant 
 drawing rooms of Mr. Kennet. Imagine them lighted 
 with gas burners, incased in richly cut shades of rose 
 color, diffusing that dreamy light so inexpressibly 
 soothing to the senses, and you may form some idea 
 of the exquisite beauty of the scene. The paintings, 
 with their superb frames and gorgeous coloring, the 
 rich carpets and elegant furniture, covered with yel 
 low satin damask, and then, opening before you, the 
 conservatory, lighted with its Chinese lanterns of blue, 
 pink and yellow silk, hanging amid the clustering vine 
 leaves, formed a picture of dazzling splendor. But 
 let us not except that portion of the scene which was 
 like the stars are to the dark and rayless night, name 
 ly, the splendid, bewitching, black-eyed, raven-haired 
 belles of Orleans. None but those who have seen 
 them, can form any idea of the perfect clearness of 
 complexion, rich beauty of the thick, waving hair, and 
 bewildering brightness of the intensely black-eyes 
 which characterize these houries of the sunny South. 
 And now to see them dressed in a style only under 
 stood by the French ; a mingling of elegance and sim 
 plicity ; a perfect adaptation of color and style to the 
 peculiar appearance and figure of each; to see the 
 glistening of diamonds from amid the black, braided 
 hair ; the thousand fires of rubies, strung in chains and 
 twined around the most exquisite throats in the world ; 
 the rich beauty of emeralds, with their superb settings 
 of gold, was enough to make you think that earth has 
 19*
 
 218 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 really charms, notwithstanding all that has been said 
 to the contrary. 
 
 But see here comes a vision of beauty, not such 
 as I have been describing, but the very reverse, and 
 yet not less lovely from contrast. Light auburn hair, 
 blue eyes, and a fair wax-like face, rarely seen but in 
 the children of the North. Such was Marcia. Her 
 dress was of the purest white, and her only ornament 
 that of a meek and quiet spirit. Her cheek seemed 
 to rival her dress in snowy whiteness, and yet she was 
 the loveliest of the lovely, and the fairest of the fair. 
 Like those light, airy beings of the imagination, that 
 flit around us in dreams, she walked among them, and 
 the gay crowd parted to let her pass, with that instinc 
 tive delicacy which is ever paid in the circles of the 
 rich and nobly born, to those whose virtues more than 
 beauty make them pre-eminent. 
 
 Will you forgive our fair heroine, if, as she took her 
 seat, and her beautiful eyes wandered over the scene 
 of elegance and taste which surrounded her, she 
 thought, for one moment, of the sad contrast her own 
 fate presented, and wept one tear, wrung from the 
 memory of departed hope ? Had she not done so, she 
 had been either less or more than human. 
 
 Many of the gay assemblage knew Marcia, and had 
 met her previously at the soirees of the hotels, but 
 there were others who pressed around with eager curi 
 osity, and beseiged their more favored friends for in 
 troductions. Nothing pleased Mr. "Woodville so much
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 219 
 
 as these marks of attention to the fondly-loved child 
 of his adoption. 
 
 It is a singular circumstance that these Southern 
 men, surrounded as they are by the most brilliant 
 beauty, often turn from it wearied, to welcome the fair 
 Northerner, who is not, in my opinion, half so lovely. 
 I think it must be novelty that attracts them, for it 
 seems to me that our Northern beauty becomes quite 
 tame and common-place beside her Southern sister. 
 Of course, I do not speak individually, for I have 
 found specimens of beauty in every city I have visited. 
 
 The Reverend Mr. S. was announced, and imme 
 diately the bridal party entered and took their places 
 before him. Mary looked lovely, as all brides do, and 
 the snowy veil, and wreath of orange blossoms, culled 
 from Mr. Rennet's conservatory, became her well. 
 Octave stood erect and manly beside her, and Marcia 
 thought she never had seen him look so well. The cere 
 mony was performed that was to bind them together 
 for life, and the fair, blushing bride received the con 
 gratulations of her friends, foremost of whom was 
 Marcia. 
 
 If you supposed in the commencement of this story, 
 that all difficulties and differences of opinion would be 
 cleared away, and Marcia would become the bride of 
 the wealthy planter, you have now learned your mis 
 take. In works of romance it is quite necessary that 
 some suitor, possessed of immense wealth, should ap-
 
 220 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 pear and wed the heroine, but as this story is written 
 from real life, where this rarely occurs, you will par 
 don me if I disappoint your expectations in this parti 
 cular. 
 
 At an early hour, Marcia, fatigued with the amuse 
 ments of the evening, stole away, accompanied by her 
 father, and as she left far behind the brilliant scene, 
 the happy bride, and the gay crowd of fashion and 
 beauty, she had an inward satisfaction at the thought 
 that it was her exertions which had brought about 
 this happy issue. If she felt a little pride at her suc 
 cess, I think she may be forgiven, when we call to 
 mind that her only object in the whole matter had 
 been the good of others. 
 
 When quietly seated in their parlor at the St. 
 Charles, Marcia sank into one of those reveries, which 
 were for her another state of existence, in which she 
 forgot the presence of her friends. Mr. Woodville, 
 anxious to arouse her, said, 
 
 " Come, my daughter, let me know your thoughts. 
 If they are pleasant, I will share them; if the con 
 trary, I will seek to dispel them." 
 
 "I was only trying, dear father, to look through 
 the vail that separates us from the future, and see if 
 happiness will be the lot of those young beings I saw 
 married to-night. Sometimes I reproach myself for hav 
 ing urged Octave on to the decisive step, knowing as 
 I did that he loved me. Do you blame me, father?'
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. . 221 
 
 " Surely not, my child. Had I seen aught amiss 
 in the course you pursued, I would have warned you 
 before it was too late." 
 
 " So I thought, and I have rested in the hope that 
 Octave would soon transfer to Mary, the love he 
 lavished hopelessly on me." 
 
 "That he will certainly do, and in the meantime 
 give yourself no uneasiness whatever. In a few weeks 
 he will be madly in love with Mary, and will wonder 
 how he could ever have been indifferent to her beauty. 
 Depend upon it, these young men have seldom any 
 stability of character. They do not known their own 
 minds two hours together. At one moment they kneel 
 at your feet, and swear eternal fidelity to you, and at 
 the end of a week or a month, they are a thousand 
 miles away, repeating the same words, with the same 
 looks of tenderness and devotion, to some other fair 
 beauty, they had never before seen or heard of." 
 
 "And is it thus with all your sex?" 
 
 " On the contrary, there are many true-hearted 
 men who never forget their first love, and whose hearts 
 know but one passion, that which comes to them in 
 youth, a vision of beauty and innocence, which be 
 comes the guiding star of existence, the sharer of all 
 their joys and sorrows, the fond and faithful wife, ten 
 der, earnest and true, kind and affectionate in the 
 bright noon-day of prosperity, and unchanged amid 
 the storms of adversity. Together they journey on, 
 and progressing beyond the days and years of youth
 
 222 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 and middle age, grow old and feeble, with hair whi 
 tened by the snows of many winters, yet, turn they 
 ever to each other with all the fond affection of early 
 youth, consulting each others wishes, and loving deep 
 ly, to the last. Ah, this is love, indeed ! 
 
 Happy season of youth : bright dreams of boyhood, 
 rain-bow tintings of hope, sound visionless sleep, care 
 less heart, elasticity of limb, gay, wild, reckless spirit 
 of joy, I ask, where are ye now? and echo answers, 
 where ? 
 
 Oh ! youth, how in my wintery age, I recall thee ! 
 How my heart goes back to those blissful hours of 
 youth and love, when all the future was bright, and 
 with what fond remembrance do I dwell upon them ; 
 and yet I awake to find myself a desolate old man, 
 wandering upon the shores of time, with the waves of 
 eternity dashing at my feet, and all their gay pictur 
 ing dissipated forever ! Is it for this we live ? Only 
 to see our brightest hopes withered, our dearest ties 
 broken, and the heart seared and blighted, craving 
 the only rest it has hope left for : the cold, silent sleep 
 of the dead !" 
 
 " And is there not, dear father, another land where 
 you shall drink of the fountain of Eternal youth ? Do 
 you weary of waiting for the hour when you shall 
 quench your thirst in that fountain, and rise a beauti 
 ful, glorified spirit, with the impress of endless . youth 
 upon your brow?" 
 
 " There is another land, my daughter, and there is,
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 223 
 
 too, a fountain of eternal youth ; but when I see you, 
 with your holy devotion, your spotless purity, and 
 your many sufferings, I feel that you are, indeed, cho 
 sen for that world of glory, and I tremble lest I, an 
 old sinner, who has often hardened his heart to the 
 warning voice, and committed so many sins against 
 God, will never reach that Heaven which will be your 
 home, my spotless child." 
 
 " Say not so, dear father, for my heart, like your 
 own, is wicked and prone to evil, and, alas, how often 
 have I strayed from the path of duty. How often 
 wandered from the God I love. But a hand of mercy 
 has been extended to me, and I have been led back 
 by the tenderest affection. Never, never, have I been 
 forsaken. In the darkest hours of my life, when 
 
 " Hope came back with worn and wounded wing 
 To die upon the heart it could not cheer," 
 
 and all around me was sorrow and dismay, and my 
 heart failed me for fear, suddenly God stretched 
 forth His hand and upheld me with a father's love. 
 Oh, what do I not owe him ! All the fond devotion 
 of my soul, all its tenderest affection ; aye, a thousand 
 lives, if I had them, and even then I should still be 
 a debtor to his boundless goodness. Do not then draw 
 comparisons, and believe me more worthy of mercy 
 than yourself. God judges not as man judges, and to 
 him the secrets of all hearts are known. Confide in 
 his grace and love, and do not believe these insuffi-
 
 224 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 cient to open the gates of heaven to you. And then, 
 to tell me that you are desolate ! Dear father, is 
 Marcia nothing to you, that you talk thus ?" 
 
 She twined her arm about his neck, rested her 
 pale face on his shoulder, and looked up. As she did 
 so, with all a daughter's winning sweetness of manner, 
 Mr. Woodville felt that he had not been sufficiently 
 thankful to the God who had given him this blessing, 
 even though he was to keep it but a short time ; and 
 as he drew her close to his manly heart, he offered up 
 a prayer of gratitude that it had been his lot to meet 
 with the Wanderer'; to cover her pathway with flowers, 
 and oft-times bring joy to the lonely heart. 
 
 Oh, ever in your wanderings along the way-side of 
 life, if you meet with the sick, the desolate and forsa 
 ken, close not your heart to the tender emotions of 
 pity, but share with the stranger, the blessings God 
 has given to you; and then the Way-marks in the 
 lines of the heart-broken, may be bright spots, dear 
 to memory, and often the Wanderer's heart will turn 
 to them with gratitude and prayers. 
 
 Octave and his happy bride came to the St. Charles 
 hotel, and there spent the first few weeks of their 
 married life. It was astonishing to see how naturally 
 Octave transferred his affections to his bride. Indeed, 
 no one could have helped loving her, she was so art 
 less, so confiding, that she won her way at once to the 
 heart. Little Flora flitted about, perfectly delighted 
 with her new aunt, and the whole party seemed as
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 225 
 
 happy as they could well be. The weather was beau 
 tiful, and many little riding parties were made up, in 
 which Marcia joined, and her friends almost began to 
 hope that she would eventually recover. 
 
 One day, the waiter brought in a letter and handed 
 it to Octave. It was from Mrs. Woodville, and ran 
 thus. 
 
 PINE GROVE, Georgia, February, 18 . 
 My dear Son : 
 
 I received your letter of the 20th of January, 
 and I must say the contents of it filled me with 
 surprise. Do not understand me, that I find fault 
 with your sending for Mrs. Walton. On the contrary, 
 I heartily approve of the plan, but what amazes me is 
 that Marcia has at last given her consent to marry 
 you. What could have induced her to change her 
 sentiments at this time, is to me an enigma I cannot 
 solve. Possibly you can do so, when we meet. I do 
 not wish you to think that I disapprove of your choice. 
 Indeed, with all a mother's partiality on your side, I 
 do not think you worthy of Marcia. She is so pure- 
 hearted and sincere, so affectionate and winning, that 
 I am ready to take her to my heart, as fondly as if 
 she were my own child; but, my son, have you con 
 sidered all the consequences of this step? How do 
 you know but marriage may hasten the death of the 
 poor girl ? and, at the best, you must look forward to 
 being a widower. Do you not think it would be bet- 
 
 20
 
 226 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 ter never to disturb the pure current of a life so holy ? 
 Would not the blow come less heavily if you lost her 
 before she became your wife ? Think of all this, my 
 son, and do not, for any selfish consideration, take 
 one hour from the life of the sweet girl, who we all 
 love so tenderly. "Write me soon, and let me know 
 your determination. In the meantime John shall be 
 in readiness, and will go the moment you desire him. 
 
 Mr. Percy has grown to be the strangest, moodiest 
 man you ever saw. He very often passes a whole 
 day without eating, and if I inquire if he is sick, he 
 answers so mournfully and hopelessly, that I cannot 
 but pity him. I fear he has some secret sorrow prey 
 ing on his mind. The other evening he was sitting 
 with his head leaning on his hand, apparently in deep 
 thought. Suddenly he asked me when you would 
 return? I told him about the first of March. "I 
 fear," said he, "it will be a strange bridal party. I 
 should not wonder if your son was a widower ere 
 then." The words, in themselves, were simple enough, 
 but his lips were white and quivering, and his face 
 expressed intense suffering. I asked him if he was 
 ill? "Ill in mind, madam, but not in body," and 
 taking up his candle he retired to his room, but not to 
 rest, for I heard him walking up and down his cham 
 ber till long after midnight. Now, what can be the 
 reason of all this ? My son, can you explain it ? It 
 seems to me there is a mystery about it, which, of 
 course, I should not desire to fathom for any purpose
 
 LIFE OF A WANDEREE. 227 
 
 but to assist him with my advice and warmest sympa 
 thies, for he is certainly a most excellent young man. 
 Write me what you think, and above all hasten home 
 as soon as you can. You have so spoiled your mother 
 by staying with her so much, that home is no longer 
 home without you. 
 
 The children join me in love to Marcia, brother 
 Woodville and Flora. Take good care of the invalid, 
 and above all do not urge anything upon her that 
 she disapproves of. I have every confidence in her 
 purity of thought, and clear unbiassed judgment. 
 
 Good bye till we meet, and believe me, always, your 
 affectionate mother, 
 
 S. L. WOODVILLE. 
 
 To account for this singular letter one has only to 
 call to mind the postcript where Octave had stated he 
 was going to be married, and could not leave Marcia 
 long enough to go after Mrs. Walton. He had not 
 even mentioned Mary's name in the letter, and hence 
 arose the mistake, which was a natural one on the 
 part of Mrs. Woodville. 
 
 Octave went at once to write an explanation to his 
 mother, telling her that he was already married. 
 Weeks glided by, and our party still lingered in Or 
 leans, seeming to think that Marcia was better pleased 
 there, than she would be to return to Georgia. They 
 little knew her heart, poor girl. She went no more 
 to the opera, or the soirees, but she rode out every
 
 228 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 day a short distance. She never repined at her lot, 
 but treated every body with the kindness and gentle 
 ness that seemed a part of her nature. She was 
 keenly alive to the sufferings of others, and could 
 never see a case of distress without making efforts to 
 relieve it. 
 
 One day, as she rode along enjoying the fine balmy 
 air on the New Shell road, she saw a poor woman sit 
 ting at the road side, weeping bitterly. She held in 
 her arms an infant, and a small child sat beside her. 
 They were clothed in rags, and their entire appear 
 ance betokened the most extreme misery. Marcia 
 stopped the coachman, got out, and went to the poor 
 woman. She listened to her sad story, which was the 
 old one of the poor Irish emigrant. She had left her 
 home to seek her fortune in the western world. Her 
 husband had died on the passage out, and here she 
 was, a widow, with her two helpless infants ; a stranger, 
 without one friend to aid her. Marcia, having heard 
 her through, went, with tears in her eyes, to Mr. Wood- 
 ville, who never refused his purse on such occasions. 
 Having given the poor woman a considerable sum, she 
 returned and took her seat in the carriage, and they 
 continued their drive. Mr. Woodville said 
 
 "I never like to refuse these people, and yet many 
 of them are terrible impostors. New York, particu 
 larly, swarms with them. I remember one cold bit 
 ter night in January, I started with several friends 
 from the Astor House to go to the Broadway Theatre.
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 229 
 
 We crossed Broadway, and as we were proceeding 
 along by the Park, my attention was attracted by a 
 miserably clothed creature, who walked in front of us, 
 hugging to her breast a tiny baby, not more than a 
 month old." "Poor creature," I exclaimed, "what 
 a night to be abroad with an infant !" 
 
 "You are not up to their tricks," said one of my 
 friends, " or you would not be so lavish of your 
 pity." 
 
 "I think," said I, "her misery is obvious enough, 
 and I am going to relieve it." Stepping up to her, 
 I asked if she stood in need of any assistance. She 
 told me a most pitiful tale ; said her husband had 
 beaten her and put her out into the street, with her 
 young infant ; that she had no money, and knew not 
 where to go. At this moment my friends declaring 
 that their patience was exhausted, told me they would 
 go on to the Theatre and I might follow when I was 
 ready. I called a carriage, helped the woman into it, 
 and told the coachman to drive to a boarding house 
 on Greenwich street, which I knew to be perfectly 
 respectable, though rather plain. When we reached 
 it I Avent in, and took a nice room for the poor crea 
 ture, and paid two weeks board in advance. I gave 
 her money to buy the child some clothes, for there 
 was not enough upon it to keep it from freezing. As 
 I turned to leave her she burst into tears, declaring 
 that she would never forget my kindness. I told her 
 not to speak of it that I was only too happy to be 
 20*
 
 230 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 able to afford her any relief. I promised to call upon 
 her in a few days and see how she was getting along. 
 I left her and joined my friends in the theatre. They 
 laughed heartily when I told them what I had done, 
 and declared me to be as green as my native groves 
 in Georgia. I bore their jests for awhile with per 
 fect good humor, but at length declared against it, 
 and the subject was dropped. 
 
 Business matters engrossed my attention for nearly 
 a week, and although I often thought of the poor wo 
 man with the deepest sympathy, yet it was eight days 
 before I called upon her. I asked the landlady how 
 Mrs. Williams was, and if I could see her ? 
 
 " Why, la," said she, " the creature said you wanted 
 her to go to another place, and she left here the next 
 morning, after I had given her back the money you 
 paid me, only keeping enough to defray the expenses 
 of the night's lodging." 
 
 "Is it possible," said I, " she could have been an 
 impostor?" 
 
 "Indeed she must have been, sir." 
 
 I turned away, disgusted with human nature, and 
 retraced my steps to Broadway. As I walked leisurely 
 down, I met, on the corner of Franklin street, an 
 old friend, who had long been a resident of New York. 
 He linked his arm in mine, and we continued our 
 promenade together. 
 
 "Surely," said I, "that is her?"
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 231 
 
 "Who?" said my friend. "Is it possible, Wood- 
 ville, you are in pursuit of the fair sex?" 
 
 " Not exactly, but you see that woman, there. Ah, 
 she sees me and colors. She is just turning down 
 Chambers street." 
 
 " Has she been trumping up a story to move your 
 sympathy?" 
 
 " I met her, the other night, with a young baby in 
 her arms. She was wandering about the streets, and 
 told me she had no home to go to. I took her to a 
 house where I obtained boarding for her, and paid for 
 it, in advance. The next morning, she got the money 
 back from the landlady and decamped. 
 
 That is what you might have expected. She bor 
 rows the baby to move people's pity, begs all she 
 can, and then, with a worthless husband, repairs to a 
 tavern, gets intoxicated, and after exhausting all her 
 means, starts forth again with her borrowed baby." 
 
 "Ah," said I, "I see; I see." 
 
 The story just told is strictly true, but do not let it 
 close your heart to pity. All are not impostors, and 
 from the plenty God has blessed you with, always 
 strive to help and succor the poor and distressed.
 
 232 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Mobile ! .Sweet city of the Sunny South ! Among 
 thy kindly people, the Wanderer found a warm wel 
 come, and many friends. Few persons at a distance, 
 would be likely to form a correct idea of the charms 
 of this place. The society is excellent, and the people 
 are enlightened and refined. 
 
 One lovely evening, our little party started out for 
 a walk, and proceeded up Government street, which 
 is the Broadway of the city. The street is very 
 broad, and on either side of it are built the houses of 
 the wealthiest inhabitants. Every house has a garden 
 in front a.nd at the sides, where, through the winter 
 months, may be found flowers of every hue, blooming 
 in the open air. Long rows of trees make the street 
 a pleasant promenade at noonday, and in the evening, 
 as our party walked beneath them, the silvery light 
 of the moon played amid the branches, and threw 
 fantastic shadows on all the surrounding objects. Let 
 us listen, and hear what our friends' opinions are of 
 Mobile. Marcia said, 
 
 " What beautiful moonlight. Surely there is a 
 softened brilliance in this light, never seen in our 
 northern climate."
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 233 
 
 "It is not equal to Georgia moonlight," said Oc 
 tave. 
 
 " Ah, you are prejudiced in favor of your native 
 State," said Mary. 
 
 " With what fanciful figures those columns seem to 
 be covered, and yet it is only the leaves of the trees 
 reflected there," continued Marcia. 
 
 " You are quite romantic about moonlight, my 
 child," remarked Mr. Woodville. 
 
 " Do you think, dear father, love for the moon and 
 the beautiful stars, is romance?" 
 
 "I do not know that it ought to be considered so, 
 and yet one is apt to condemn it, and connect it with 
 the young and foolish portion of our life, when we 
 view all nature though a false medium." 
 
 "It is not romance that makes me love them, 
 father. It is because they are the work of God. He 
 placed them high in heaven. He studded the azure 
 vault, with diamond-like constellations, and I never 
 look up at them, that I am not lost in wonder at the 
 mighty power that formed the heavens and the earth." 
 
 " Did you ever choose a star, fair cousin, and call 
 it your kindred spirit, and watch eagerly for it every 
 night, as you would for the coming of an old familiar 
 friend?" 
 
 "Yes, Octave, I have done so from early childhood. 
 Doubtless you will think it childish, but sometimes 
 when clouds have obscured it for several days, and 
 then, at last, a clear evening would come, and it
 
 234 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 would shine in my casement. I have wept tears of wel 
 come at its appearance, and thrown kisses from the 
 tips of my fingers to the beautiful star of my hopes." 
 
 "Marcia, dear, it will not be prudent to walk 
 further in the night air. Shall we return?" 
 
 " Certainly, father, but there is Flora, nearly half a 
 block ahead. You will have to call her back. There 
 was a time when she could not have walked faster 
 than I." 
 
 Our party returned to the house, and talked about 
 making arrangements to leave for home the next day, 
 but the arrival of a note put a stop to this proceeding, 
 at least till the day after. It was an invitation, to 
 the whole party, to visit a lady who lived a few miles 
 out of Mobile on one of the most beautiful plantations 
 in the State of Alabama. 
 
 At an early hour they set out and reached, just in 
 time for dinner, the home of Mrs. Vandeventer. An 
 elegant repast was prepared, and after dinner the visi 
 tors set out to walk through the lovely grounds be 
 longing to the establishment. Visiting groves of orange 
 trees, immense graperies and green-houses, filled with 
 choice flowers, occupied the afternoon. Marcia was a 
 great admirer of flowers, and she took a seat beneath 
 the spreading branches of an orange tree, now forced by 
 artificial means into full bloom. There was something 
 in the delicious fragrance of these blossoms that stole 
 over her senses and filled her with a sort of intoxica 
 ting happiness. I think fine perfumes have much the
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 235 
 
 same effect over one that exquisite music produces; 
 and I have sometimes found persons to agree with 
 me. 
 
 Having at length visited all the objects of interest, 
 our party returned to the house, much pleased with 
 all they had seen. It had been determined that they 
 should remain a day longer, and visit a place called 
 "the Ruins," about five miles further up the country. 
 Now, for a description of our hostess. 
 
 Mrs. Vandcventer was a widoAV lady, middle aged, 
 and still remarkably handsome. There were traces 
 of sorrow on her face, which spoke plainly of the 
 storms of earlier life, but now, a sweet smile mellowed 
 all harsher lines, and it was evident that she was no 
 longer unhappy. Two charming daughters and one 
 son, made up the family, and they lived in an elegant 
 house, and were surrounded by all the appliances of 
 wealth and luxury. 
 
 In the society of this interesting family, the even 
 ing passed rapidly away, and at length our friends 
 retired to rest. The next morning they started on 
 their expedition to the romantic Ruins, and the curiosi 
 ty of our little party was much excited by the promise 
 of Mr. Woodville to relate to them a story connected 
 with the possessors of the place now gone to decay. 
 
 Upon a slight elevation, and surrounded by a thick 
 growth of tall trees, were the remains of what had 
 once been a handsome residence. Tottering walls 
 covered with moss, richly cut pillars, which had once 

 
 236 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 supported a handsome balcony, remnants of turrets 
 fast crumbling into dust, and old sashless windows, 
 told the sad story of departed hopes. Who shall tell 
 of all the young, gay spirits, once living within these 
 walls? How many bright, happy faces, had once 
 looked forth from these windows, upon the rich scenery 
 around ! How many gladsome feet had passed 
 lightly over the once well-kept gravel walks, now over 
 grown with weeds and tangled brush wood ! And 
 now, where are they ? where are the merry voices that 
 once echoed far and near? where are the graceful 
 forms that peopled this solitude ? Alas, if you will 
 listen to Mr. Woodville, as our party proceed on their 
 way to town, that evening, you will hear the story 
 of the once rich and happy possessors of the Ruins. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 "Alas, they have pleaded, the friends that are round thee; 
 
 Alas, they have warned thee, entreated and wept; 
 They have shown thee the sin in the spell that hath bound thee, 
 
 And the serpent whose coils round thy spirit have crept." 
 
 Marcia, I know you are impatient to hear me re 
 peat the story I promised you this morning. Shall I 
 begin now ? 
 
 " Oh yes, father, do."
 
 LIFE OP A WANDERER. 237 
 
 "Well, I will tell it you, but I warn Octave and 
 Flora not to interrupt me with questions. 
 
 When I was a young man I knew intimately John 
 Twickham, the owner and proprietor of the Wood 
 lands, which was the name of the place you visited 
 to-day. He was handsome, high-spirited, and the 
 delight of all his young acquaintances. He was rich, 
 and as both of his parents were dead, he was undis 
 puted possessor of all their wealth. He spent his 
 money freely, and his reckless habits soon drew 
 around him a set of men who played upon his weak 
 nesses, in order to advance their own interests. He 
 loved wine, and soon acquired a taste for brandy, and 
 while under the influence of the poisonous cup, he 
 would play largely and lose immense sums. Every 
 body said that Twickham was a fine fellow, but that 
 he was going to ruin headlong, and you know what 
 every body says must be true. It so happened in this 
 case, however, that ruin was put off for an indefinite 
 period of time by the advent of a new personage upon 
 the scene. Emily Vincent was the only daughter of 
 a clergyman who lived a few miles from the Wood 
 lands. Her beautiful face, slender form, modest 
 manners, and affectionate disposition, made a deep 
 impression upon the mind of the gay Twickham. He 
 offered her his hand, promising, if she accepted him, 
 never again to touch the dangerous chalice, which he 
 knew, though wreathed in flowers, to be laden with 
 death. And the young, innocent creature trusting in 
 21
 
 238 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 his plighted word, became his wife, and bade a last 
 adieu to happiness. For a few months, it is true, he 
 abstained from the frolicksome life he had led as a 
 bachelor, and seemed to find in Emily all the 
 amusement his heart pined for, but gradually he re 
 lapsed into his old habits, and long after midnight the 
 loud laugh, and the rude jest, echoed from the spa 
 cious dining-room and pierced the hallowed precincts 
 of his wife's chamber. She never repined, but always 
 met him with a smile, and in the long years of sorrow 
 that she passed, no one ever knew her to upbraid for 
 one moment the husband who had so cruelly blighted 
 her youth. A family of sons and daughters grew up 
 around them, and in these Emily might have found 
 comfort, but her husband, in spite of her entreaties 
 and prayers, would insist upon learning the boys how 
 to drink. He declared they would never be men till 
 they had been completely intoxicated, and from child 
 hood up they were placed at their father's side, and 
 made to drink the health of all present in the lisping 
 accents of infancy. 
 
 God knows what the poor wife. Buffered. He was 
 with her, when through the long hours of the night 
 she wept and entreated him to change her husband's 
 heart, and poured forth to him the sorrows of her 
 wounded breast. But there was one trouble which 
 had as yet been spared her. She had never wanted 
 for money, but had been plentifully supplied from the 
 first day of her marriage. Now, however, her hus-
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 239 
 
 band's lavish expenditure had drained his coffers. 
 Creditors would wait no longer, and an execution was 
 served in the house, and all the furniture was sold. 
 Previously the plantation had been mortgaged, and 
 now house, home, and every thing were swept from 
 them. In a fit of maddened phrensy he set fire to 
 the house, and nearly every part of it was consumed 
 before the flames could be extinguished. .Poor Twick- 
 ham was conveyed to prison, and died, while waiting 
 his trial, of that terrible disease, mania-potu. 
 
 Emily, surrounded by her children, her father, long 
 since dead, took refuge in a miserable cabin which 
 had once served for a negro quarter. Here on the 
 bare ground, the fair and lovely child of ease and 
 luxury sat with her children in utter desolation. 
 Many blamed her and said, "a good wife makes 
 always a good husband;" others, more charitable, 
 pitied her, but more seemed inclined to leave her to 
 her fate. 
 
 A new voice now came to swell the chorus of suf 
 fering ; another mouth presented itself to be fed. 
 Months dragged on wearily, and one after another 
 the children, reared in the lap of luxury, died of dis 
 ease, of want and privation. None now remained but 
 the desolate Emily, and her three youngest children. 
 
 One day, a lady who lived in Mobile, was taking a 
 ride through the country, and it so happened that a 
 violent storm of rain, accompanied by thunder and 
 lightning, drove her to the poor cabin for shelter.
 
 240 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 She had a heart to feel for the sorrows of others, and 
 she was struck with the evident polish and refinement 
 of manner of the gentle Emily. She longed to know 
 by what circumstances one so lady-like had been re 
 duced to her present abject condition, and yet she 
 could not bring herself to ask any questions that 
 might wound the delicacy of one who had already 
 suffered so much. 
 
 After the storm had abated she returned to town, 
 promising that she would come again and see her. 
 True to her promise, she often visited our poor Emily, 
 and one day they walked forth together to the graves 
 of her lost children. And here was a tie to bind the 
 rich lady forever to her poor friend, for a short dis 
 tance off were laid also two of her own dear children in 
 their last quiet sleep. Pride was thrown aside, reserve 
 was forgotten, and the poor heart-broken Emily wept 
 upon the bosom of the rich and elegant Mrs. S., and 
 poured into her listening ear the history of her sor 
 rows. 
 
 Emily Twickham Ho longer suffered for bread, no 
 longer lived in the miserable cabin and wept in lone 
 liness at her sad fate. In the elegant mansion of Mrs. 
 S., she had found a home, a sister, and all the luxury 
 to which she had been accustomed from her early 
 youth. The roses of health bloomed again on her 
 cheeks, and many friends and admirers surrounded 
 her with their attentions. One elderly gentleman, 
 possessed of immense wealth, formed an attachment
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 241 
 
 for the lovely widow, and asked her to marry him. 
 Emily went to Mrs. S., and having obtained her 
 opinion upon the subject, accepted the offer, and in a 
 few months she was a second time a wife. 
 
 Some time after her marriage, her husband told her 
 he had something to impart to her, which he had 
 previously kept secret for reasons of his own. He 
 said that when he was a young man, he had a perfect 
 passion for strong drink, and spent all his wages in 
 taverns. He declared that for two years he never 
 once went to bed sober. 
 
 One evening he was returning home, as usual, in 
 toxicated, when he passed an open door where a small 
 number of friends had met together to hold prayer 
 meeting. He paused and listened. For the first 
 time in his life his eyes were opened to his own open 
 disobedience of God's law. He entered the room and 
 knelt down. He was deeply moved. At the close of 
 the meeting he went away, but returned again the 
 next night, and the next, and at length became 
 thoroughly reformed. He joined the church, and 
 had never touched liquor since. 
 
 Here was a case of perfect reform, and that man 
 lived and died a Christian, and left his widow in easy 
 circumstances, with her three children handsomely 
 provided for. 
 
 " Now I know the reason, father, that Mrs. Vande- 
 wenter would not join our party to-day to the ruins." 
 
 "What was it, daughter?" 
 21*
 
 242 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 " She thought it would revive unpleasant recollec 
 tions ; scenes which she would far rather forget." 
 
 "What in the world are you aiming at, Marcia?" 
 asked Octave. 
 
 "I can tell what Marcia thinks," interposed Mary. 
 " She believes" 
 
 "That Mrs. Vandewenter and Emily are the same 
 person," said Flora. 
 
 "Are you all witches or fairies," asked Mr. Wood- 
 ville, "that you should so easily arrive at the truth?" 
 
 "Oh no, uncle," said Flora, "we are only good 
 guessers." 
 
 "Here we are at home already. Well, that seemed 
 like a short ride. We will take supper and retire 
 early, for we shall leave to-morrpw morning for home." 
 
 "Dear uncle, I am so glad to hear you say so. I 
 am so anxious to see little Laurie, and Gregory, and 
 Albert, and grandma, and all the folks." 
 
 "And is my sweet Marcia glad?" asked Mr. Wood- 
 ville. 
 
 "Perhaps I should be more so, were my dear 
 mother and brother there awaiting my arrival." 
 
 "That is but natural, my child, but you must try 
 to be happy with us, and forget them." 
 
 "Forget them! Ah, I never can do that." 

 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 243 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 " Come back, oh come ! The past shall be 
 
 A cloud fore'er removed ; 
 Come back, and in my welcome see 
 
 How thou art still beloved." 
 
 Far away, over many weary miles of distance, to 
 the great metropolis of the United States; to the 
 fashionable and far-famed Saratoga ; to the great and 
 tremendous Niagara ; to Cincinnati, St. Louis, New 
 Orleans, and Mobile, we have wandered side by side 
 with the pale heroine of our story. ' We have listened 
 to her artless conversation, and have possessed our 
 selves of her secret thoughts and imaginings. We 
 have not hesitated to follow her into her chamber, 
 and watch over her through her weary sickness. Tell 
 me if she has now your heart? Tell me if you would 
 not be better pleased that a better fate awaited her ? 
 Have her sorrows awakened in your breast emotions 
 of pity? For her sake will you deal mercifully with 
 the desolate ones you may chance to meet in your 
 daily walks? If so, I have not in vain repeated to 
 you the Way-marks I found marked down in the life 
 of the Wanderer. 
 
 Arrived at her journey's end, Marcia found a glad 
 surprise Awaiting her, afforded by the presence of her
 
 244 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 mother and tenderly-loved brother. Mrs. Walton 
 subdued her emotions as she gazed at her wasted 
 child, but little Benny could not control or hide his 
 sorrow. "Dear sister," he said, "what makes you 
 look so pale? They tell me you are going to die. 
 Oh do not die and leave me, sister, I would miss you 
 so much." 
 
 "Do not weep, darling, when I tell you I must die. 
 'Tis true I shall leave you, but only for a little while. 
 You know that heaven is a bright and glorious place. 
 Are you sorry that it is my home?" 
 
 "Ah no, I am glad of that, but I cannot bear you 
 to leave me. Are you not my only sister? Who will 
 love me when you are gone?" 
 
 "Mother will, dear brother, and you must try to be 
 a comfort to her declining years when I am taken 
 away. When you grow up will you not work hard, 
 and earn money, and give it to her to buy every thing 
 she wants?" 
 
 " Oh yes, indeed I will. Poor mother, she will only 
 have me then to love her.'* 
 
 " That is all, and you must not add to her sorrows 
 by mourning after me. Try to remember that it is 
 God who has done it, and he does all things for the 
 best." 
 
 "Why is it best that you should die, sweet sister?" 
 
 "Such things are hidden from our eyes, and we 
 have no right to question God. He is beneficent and 
 good, and studies our eternal happiness when he
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 245 
 
 removes us from earth. At first I thought it was 
 very hard to leave my dear mother, and you, my little 
 darling. I wept many bitter tears at my hard fate. 
 I wanted to work for, and take care of my dear 
 mother, and to send you to school and educate you. 
 But tears will not avail to change my lot. I know 
 that I must die, and I pray God daily to give me 
 strength to obey his mandates, and bow to his will, let 
 it seem ever so hard." 
 
 Octave broke in on this conversation, by asking 
 Marcia if she would see Harry Percy. He was wait 
 ing without, he said, and was anxious to see her. 
 Marcia signified her assent, and Octave left the room 
 and returned in a few moments with Harry Percy. 
 
 The human eye never rested upon a more perfect 
 form than that of Harry Percy. Tall, er"ect, and 
 dignified, he stood before our heroine, and inquired 
 after her health in tones that thrilled to her heart. 
 At last he took a seat beside her, and led her on to 
 talk of her travels, the curiosities she had seen, and 
 the various people she had met. Mr. Woodville, Mrs. 
 Woodville, senior and junior, Octave, and the children, 
 all joined in the conversation, and the evening passed 
 pleasantly away. 
 
 Little Laurestina introduced upon the scene a new 
 character not before brought into notice. It was a 
 kitten, which was her constant companion, and which 
 amused all present by its innocent gambols. It 
 seemed particularly to fancy the toe of Marcia's shoe,
 
 246 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 and ran round it in evident delight, biting at it, and 
 rolling over her foot. Laurestina watched it with an 
 air of childish pride, and when she saw Marcia laugh 
 ing at it, she ventured close up to her, and whispered 
 in her ear, 
 
 " It is my cat. Aint it pretty ? It sleeps with me 
 every night." 
 
 " Does it ? Pray tell me what is its name ?" 
 
 "I named it Marcia, after you." 
 
 "I feel quite pleased that you honored me so much. 
 Does it eat any thing?" 
 
 "Oh yes, it eats milk. I give it as much as it 
 wants every time we eat our meals. I feed it out of 
 my little saucer." 
 
 I shall have to make it a present to testify my plea 
 sure at having it named after me. Come to my room 
 to-morrow morning, and I -will give you a blue ribbon 
 for its neck." 
 
 Laurestina skipped away to bed, with her cat in her 
 arms, telling it as she went how good and kind Marcia 
 was, and what a beautiful present she was going to 
 malje it to-morrow. Pussy listened attentively, but I 
 am not able to state whether the emotions which kept 
 her silent were those of gratitude or remorse, for she 
 had, inadvertently I dare say, scratched Marcia's foot 
 when playing with her. 
 
 The days passed pleasantly away, and but one sor 
 row now lingered at the fire side of the Woodvillcs, 
 and that was Marcia's still failing health. Every
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 247 
 
 thing that could tend to divert her mind and amuse 
 her, was cheerfully performed; but alas, they felt it 
 was hoping against hope to believe she would ever 
 recover. It seemed as though Mr. Woodville, in 
 adopting her as his daughter, had walked naturally 
 into all the affection and devotion of a father, and he 
 never wearied of amusing her and waiting upon her. 
 
 One day the family all rode out, to pay some^ visits 
 to neighbors and friends who had called upon Mary 
 to make her the usual calls of ceremony. Marcia was 
 no longer equal to the fatigue of riding, and Harry 
 Percy voluntered his services to remain with her and 
 wait upon her. Mrs. Walton was in her room with a 
 sick headache, and little Benny accompanied our 
 friends upon their ride. 
 
 For the first time Marcia was left alone with Harry 
 Percy, and what, you may ask, has that to do with 
 the story? If you will listen to their conversation, 
 perhaps you will be able to judge for yourself. 
 
 For a long time Harry sat perfectly silent, watching 
 the lights and shadows as they played over the sweet 
 face of the invalid. 
 
 Suddenly he sent Susan away, upon some slight 
 pretext, and said 
 
 "Miss Walton, do you fear to die?" 
 
 "Oh, no." 
 
 " Is there nothing on earth you cling to ? Nothing 
 that makes life dear, and death dreadful ?"J 
 
 "It is long since I permitted the things of time to 
 enchain my affections. I have fixed them above."
 
 248 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 " Miss Walton, pray pardon me, and do not think 
 it impertinence that prompts me to ask you a simple 
 question. Will you?" 
 
 " Certainly not." 
 
 "You know I am a plain man. That I am thought 
 to be a hater of womankind, &c., but you know I am 
 sincere at least. Now tell me frankly if you have 
 ever loved?" 
 
 A burning blush suffused the pale pace of the in 
 valid for a -moment, that then receded and left it paler 
 than before. She replied calmly, 
 
 "I know not why you question me thus, neither do 
 I recognise any right by which you should seek to 
 fathom my secrets." 
 
 " Oh I have a right, Miss Walton. A right you 
 would acknowledge if you knew all. Now tell me 
 frankly, did not Miss Staunton, your school teacher, 
 ever mention to you the existence of a certain person 
 who watched you every Sunday in church, who fol 
 lowed you like a shadow, who loved you, and yet dared 
 not, on account of his poverty, make known his love 
 to you ? Have you never thought you should like to 
 behold the person who for four long years has lived 
 but in the hope of possessing you ? Has that person 
 no right to ask you if you ever loved?" 
 
 "What strange thing is this?" exclaimed Marcia, 
 starting up. "Is it possible that I behold" 
 
 "The lover who followed you from New York to 
 Georgia. Who, hearing that you were ill, flew to be
 
 LIFE OP A WANDERER. 249 
 
 your comfort and protection, but who fancied upon 
 his arrival he saw in you the future bride of the rich 
 Octave Woodville." 
 
 " Oh, Harry Percy, what strange spell attracted me 
 to you at the first ? Alas, it is all explained now. In 
 the first dawning of your smile upon my heart, I loved 
 you. I know not why it is, but yet in all my wander 
 ings your image has been constantly before me. I 
 blushed to own to myself that this sudden feeling had 
 taken possession of iny heart. I strove to banish it ; 
 and when I heard the minister preach the ever to be 
 remembered sermon on secret faults, I felt that the 
 earthly sin that existed in my breast, was love for you, 
 and I prayed God to give me strength to banish it." 
 
 "Do I indeed hear these sweet words from your 
 lips, my own Marcia? Nay, do not strive to banish 
 love. Who knows all its mighty power ? You may be 
 saved. You may live to be the joy of my heart, and 
 the past will then seem to us but the dim remem 
 brances of an unpleasant dream. Look up, sweet 
 love. You are too young, too beautiful to die. Nay, 
 vail not those brilliant eyes. Let me read in them the 
 affection which blesses my lonely heart. What, weep 
 ing ; and now, at this moment when I am so happy ? 
 So happy in the thought that Marcia is here beside 
 me, and that I possess the warm devoted love of her 
 guileless spirit." 
 
 "Why did you tell me all this? Oh, Harry, was it 
 kind to wish to unnerve me ? Do you not know that 
 
 22
 
 250 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 it is worse than vain to hope I can recover? Oh, do 
 not seek to make another tie between me and earth. 
 It was a struggle, ah, such a struggle, to give up all, 
 and now I am weaker than I was then ; it breaks my 
 heart to see my mother's sorrow, my brother's tears. 
 The love and attention of my father and all my 
 friends, are so many things to attach me to life ; and 
 now this last, greater than all else beside, my dream 
 of hope, my vision of happiness, love of my soul, I 
 must tear thee from me. Duty bi<Js me give my heart 
 to God. I thought I had long since done so, but I 
 awake to find that I have deceived myself; for, dear, 
 dear Harry, with all the ardent devotion of woman I 
 have loved you, only you." 
 
 Forgetful of all save his love, Harry knelt beside 
 the sofa, laid her beautiful head, with its mass of au 
 burn curls, upon his shoulder, and passed his arm 
 around her delicate form. He gazed upon the sweet, 
 pale face, and yielding to an impulse he could not re 
 strain, pressed upon her cheek and brow the first 
 warm kisses of love. 
 
 Do not blame him: who that has felt as he did 
 would have done otherwise. He might have said with 
 truth, in loving and losing her, 
 
 " The world is crumbled at my feet ! 
 
 She was my world ; filled up the whole of being 
 Smiled in the sunshine walked the glorious earth 
 Sat in my heart was the sweet life of life. 
 The past was her's ; I dreamt not of a future 
 That did not wear her shape !" '
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 251 
 
 For an hour more the lovers sat, breathing those 
 sweet vows of tenderness and devotion which, alas, 
 were so useless, and yet which seemed to them the 
 perfection of human happiness. Would that I could 
 describe to you how charmingly beautiful they looked 
 as they sat there, upon the entrance of the family 
 party. Harry, with his hair thrown back, the light 
 of love beaming in his eyes, the tender smiles of de 
 voted affection on his lips; and Marcia, usually so 
 pale and wax-like, but now bright, radiant and rosy, 
 with the happiness of acknowledged love. 
 
 "Why, my sweet girl, Harry has proved an excel 
 lent nurse. We must often call upon him," said Mr. 
 Woodville. 
 
 "I shall be willing always to obey the summons, 
 that is if Miss Walton will permit me." 
 
 Miss Walton did not appear to notice Harry's re 
 mark, however. She was playing with the kitten that 
 bore her name, and still sported the blue ribbon, which 
 had been her gift. 
 
 The first wild emotions of her heart, at finding her 
 self beloved by the only man who had awakened an 
 interest in her breast, precluded all thought, or calm, 
 sober reason. But left to herself, in the quiet of her 
 chamber, she reviewed her feelings and actions during 
 the past day, and bitterly accused herself of having 
 strayed away from the path of duty. She went to 
 her mother, and hiding her face in her bosom, told
 
 252 WAY-MARKS IN TfiE 
 
 her all that had passed, and asked if she did not think 
 she had acted wickedly. 
 
 "I cannot blame you, my daughter, for any thing 
 you have said or done, for it seems to me as if God 
 permitted you this one star of hope to shine on your 
 lonely pathway. No one could he more worthy of your 
 hand and heart, if you should live to bestow them, and 
 I do not see that your aifection for him who has so 
 fondly loved you, need interfere with your duty to 
 God." 
 
 " And you will not chide me, if day by day he sits 
 beside, and reads to me, and talks to me, and tells me 
 of the bright future he had hoped was ours ? Shall I 
 listen to the musical tones of his voice, read in his 
 beautiful eyes his tender love for me, and dream of 
 the happiness that might have been mine, had not 
 death stood in the way?" 
 
 "You can do all this, if you will but promise not to 
 repine, but to believe that God knows what is best for 
 you in removing you from earth. Be happy in this 
 love, in the hope that in another and a better world 
 the friendship began here shall be perfected." 
 
 "But, I fear I shall not be submissive. Ah, mother, 
 my heart is throbbing wildly at the thought of what a 
 happy life I might have led. It seems to me I should at 
 least like to try the realities of the love Harry has 
 offered me. It is this that makes me fear I am farther 
 off from heaven than ever. I will pray to God to 
 direct me, for strange hopes of life are within me, and
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 253 
 
 I am no longer the calm, resigned Christian, waiting 
 for the hour when I shall be called home." 
 
 Long and fervently she prayed, and she rose from 
 her knees with the traces of tears upon her cheeks, 
 but the calm peace of God was on her brow, and the 
 struggle was past. 
 
 How well she might have said with the exquisite 
 poetess 
 
 " Had we but met in life's delicious spring, 
 When young romance made Eden of the world ; 
 
 When bird-like Hope was ever on the wing, 
 In thy dear breast how soon had it been furled. 
 
 Ah, had we then but met ! I dare not listen 
 
 To the wild whispers of my fancy now ! 
 My full heart beats my sad drooped lashes glisten 
 
 I hear the music of thy boy-hood's vow." 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 " Mistake me not ; nor let one shadow fall 
 
 Upon thy heart, already worn with pain ; 
 Let me but love thee, serve thee ; this is all ; 
 Grant me but this, and I am blessed again; 
 Blessed for to love thee ; though thou art not mine, 
 Is to my homeless he irt an altar and a shrine." 
 
 Do you think that my story is sad, and do you 
 dread to approach that last sad hour which shall close 
 
 22*
 
 254 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 the eyes of the Wanderer? Methinks it was the most 
 beautiful period of her existence, and had it not been 
 for her terrible fits of shortness of breath, she might 
 have been said to suffer but little. Ah, how she 
 pleaded at those moments of agony for God to release 
 her from the frail tenement subject to so many ills. 
 
 But these dark hours were few, and soon forgotten 
 in the dear presence of him who ever lingered near 
 her, and read to her all the choice gems of poetry 
 and prose, which many years of study had enabled 
 him to collect. He unvailed to her the riches and 
 beauty of a highly cultivated mind, and Marcia felt 
 how worthy he was of her affection. 
 
 In the still hour of twilight, just as the stars came 
 forth and shone in heaven, Harry always sat beside 
 her, and holding her hand in his, conversed fondly of 
 his past love and present happiness. Alas, he dared 
 not speak of the future. 
 
 "Dear Harry, do you believe the angels look down 
 upon us, and know our thoughts and wishes, and hear 
 our conversation?" 
 
 "I know not how that is, but I should suppose it 
 very possible. Often in the dreams of my father, 
 which have visited my pilloAV since his death, I have 
 seen him, and conversed with him as naturally as I 
 ever did during his life." 
 
 "And yet, does it not seem to you that the freed 
 spirit, leaving behind its imperfections and sorrows, 
 should soar away to the presence of God, and forget
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 255 
 
 all that could give it pain? Is it likely to suppose 
 the dear ones we have loved, and who are now in 
 heaven, are still agitated by the emotions of human 
 ity?" 
 
 "If heaven be a place of perfect happiness and 
 enjoyment, I should think it unlikely that sorrow or 
 pain could influence its angels. And yet, does it not 
 seem hard that all the tender ties that unite us here, 
 should be rudely snapped asunder that all the fond 
 devoted love of a life time, should in a moment be 
 forgotten ?" 
 
 " Let us not believe that love and affection cease, 
 dear Harry. You may if you choose deny the exis 
 tence of sorrow in that land of peace, but it is not 
 necessary to exclude all the holier and happier emo 
 tions of life. God is love. He is filled with love to 
 all his creatures. He studies their happiness, and 
 doubtless all the bright spots in their checkered exis 
 tence, are spared to them when they reach his pre 
 sence. Oh, Harry, I hope it may be so, for I could 
 not bear to die forgetting all I love on earth. No, 
 no, I shall hope to know, and love them all in heaven, 
 far from the sorrows which cloud my happiness 
 here ; but if, dear Harry, I can leave that bright 
 world to which I go, if I know that you are lonely 
 and sad, and mourn my absence, be assured my spirit 
 will fly on the wings of love to cheer you in your 
 loneliness. I will hover around you when the storms 
 of sorrow roll over your soul, and speak words of
 
 256 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 peace and comfort in your ear. I will tell you sweet 
 tales of that happy clime where sin never enters; 
 where sorrow is unknown?" 
 
 " Nay, tell me no more, dear girl, or I shall end 
 by wishing that you may come back, and that will 
 not be resignation to the will of God. I know that I 
 must lose you, and my only happiness now, is sitting 
 in your presence, and listening to the dear voice 
 which so soon will be hushed. I dare not trust my 
 self to dwell upon the future, for life seems so lonely 
 without you. But now that you have promised to 
 come back to me, if it be possible, who shall tell but 
 that you may come and smile upon me as of old ? 
 The belief in guardian angels is so pure and holy, 
 that I chide myself for doubting it." 
 
 " Harry, I have something on my mind which for 
 some time past I have been going to ask you. Will 
 you listen to me, now ?" 
 
 " Do I not listen to you always, sweet girl?" 
 
 " I know not, but I should suppose you would often 
 weary of my childish talk. I want to ask you if you 
 will love little Benny, when I am gone ? It was the 
 dearest wish of my heart to educate him, and shield 
 him from all the hardships of the rude world ; and you 
 know he is so tender and delicate." 
 
 "I will be all to him you can wish. Trust him to 
 me. You know not how honored I shall feel by the 
 confidence thus reposed in me. I will be father, 
 brother and friend to him as long as I live. I will
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 257 
 
 lavish upon him the affection and tenderness -which now 
 belong to you." 
 
 " Spoken like yourself, dear Harry ; but suppose 
 when he is growing up he seems to be wayward and 
 disobedient, and repays you with ingratitude for all 
 your love and kindness say, will you turn against him 
 then, and pronounce him utterly worthless, and regret 
 the day you undertook his protection?" 
 
 "Never, never. I will remember that he is but 
 mortal, and knowing my own infirmities I shall be 
 better able to palliate his. Let him be ever so wick 
 ed, I declare to you I will never turn against him, or 
 withdraw my affection and counsels. In him I will 
 cherish the dear remembrance of you, my first and 
 only love. Do you think I can ever treat with harsh 
 ness, one who has your blood running in his veins? 
 Ah, no. He shall fill the vacant place in my heart. 
 I must needs have something to love and protect, and 
 my heart warms to your baby brother. Poor boy, he 
 has never seen a father's smile or heard his blessing. 
 God has given him no brother to love and protect 
 him, but I will be father and brother, and never will 
 I forget the sacred charge you, my sweet love, com 
 mitted to me." 
 
 " One has only to hear you say so to believe it. 
 Nobody that hears you speak, could for a moment 
 doubt your word, for there is the impress of a spotless 
 soul upon your brow, and I can read truth in every 
 lineament of your face. I trust you will impart to
 
 258 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 Benny the same beautiful reverence for truth that in 
 fluences you. I think it one of the noblest traits of 
 character a human being can possess." 
 
 "It certainly is. Nothing in my estimation can be 
 more contemptible than a person who, dead to all the 
 loveliness of spotless integrity, thinks nothing of as 
 serting that which he knows to be false. You cannot 
 respect a person if you are not able to depend upon 
 his word." 
 
 "Certainly not, and I think that this one point 
 gained, all other virtues follow in train. I remember 
 hearing a minister once discoursing upon this subject, 
 and he made use of the following beautiful words. 
 'What,' said he, 'would you destroy the temple of 
 truth? Then take down the stars, shroud the sun, 
 let the moon be hidden from our sight.' But see, it 
 grows quite dark. Are not the family returning from 
 their walk?" 
 
 "I think I see the flutter of the children's light 
 dresses, up the avenue. I will go out and listen, and 
 try if I can hear them. Yes, they are coming, and 
 laughing merrily, too." 
 
 " Oh ! how I long to go forth and inhale the fresh, 
 pure air of heaven, and feel strong and well again. 
 But that can never be again on earth; and my spirit 
 yearns to be free, to soar far away from this vale of 
 tears, and to put on that glorious body which shall be 
 exempt from all infirmity." 
 
 "Well, my sweet child," said Mrs. Walton, enter-
 
 LIFE OP A WANDERER. 259 
 
 ing with the whole family party who had been taking 
 a walk, "have you missed us much?" 
 
 " Very little, for you know, dear mother, that had 
 I been left alone, my thoughts are not unpleasant 
 companions at the twilight hour." 
 
 "I don't like to be left alone for a moment," said 
 Octave. 
 
 "You are such a coward, I suppose you are afraid 
 in the dark?" said Mary. 
 
 " Certainly, that is it, and I look to you for pro 
 tection." 
 
 "You depend then upon a broken reed." 
 
 "He is a brave young man, at all events," said 
 John Woodville, with a merry laugh. " He would not 
 ride over to Carrol's with me the other night, and 
 why, do you suppose ? He was afraid of the runaway 
 negroes hiding in the woods. I have seen the time 
 he'd brave an army of fugitive slaves, but alas ! that 
 day is past, and it remains for me to uphold the honor 
 of the Woodvilles." 
 
 "A pretty looking fellow you are, to be sure," said 
 Mr. Woodville. 
 
 "Don't make fun of John," interposed Mrs. Wood 
 ville. "He thinks himself quite a man, I assure you." 
 
 "Never mind what they say, John," said Mary. 
 "Our new house will be finished this week, and a 
 certain little Kate will be there on a visit, next week ; 
 and you know we shall always have room at our house 
 for you."
 
 260 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 "I have no doubt Miss Kate will shorten her visit 
 if she hears I am coming." 
 
 "Surely, that would be nothing strange," remarked 
 Octave. 
 
 " Ton my word, you are too hard upon John; I pro 
 test against it," exclaimed Mr. Woodville. 
 
 "What did you say, Flora?" 
 
 "Laurestina said her cat had eyes just the color 
 of mine, and I say it is no such thing." 
 
 "I thought pussy's eyes shaded on the green." 
 
 "So they do, uncle." 
 
 " Well, I don't think yours do. Laurie, what are 
 you trying to make the kitten do?" 
 
 "I am only teaching it to give me its paw, and 
 shake hands with me, like Willie Hinchman's dog." 
 
 "I think you may spare yourself the trouble, for as 
 a general thing pussy adheres to the beaten track, and 
 scorns all innovations, and I do not remember to have 
 heard shaking hands classed in the list of her accom 
 plishments. Marcia, what strange thing is little 
 Benny repeating to you?" 
 
 " Only telling me of a monstrous big bug he picked 
 off mother's frock; and about a crowd of cats he 
 saw in the woods ; which crowd, upon strict inquiry, 
 turned out to be merely two." 
 
 " That is the way that children begin to tell stories, 
 my son," said Mrs. Walton. "I do not know why it 
 is that you have such a disposition to exaggerate.
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 261 
 
 Would it not have sounded equally -well had you said 
 two cats, at first?" 
 
 "I suppose it would," answered Benny. 
 
 "Another time, then, remember to tell nothing but 
 the truth. It is much more noble in a child to tell 
 a straight unvarnished fact. Embellish falsehood as 
 you will, still it is falsehood, and every body shrinks 
 away from you, and whispers that your word is not 
 to be taken. Seek rather to establish a character for 
 truth, and when you speak you will be listened to 
 attentively. You will be respected wherever you are 
 known, and many persons will seek to make you their 
 friend." 
 
 "Please scold me some, too," said Laurestina. "I 
 tell a great many stories, and mother says, she be 
 lieves it is more natural for me to tell falsehood than 
 truth ; and I really believe she is right, for when I 
 do wrong, my first thought is, what shall I say to hide 
 it, and my next is, mother told me always to confess, 
 and I should not be punished if I spoke the whole 
 truth fearlessly and boldly. So you see I am quite as 
 wicked as poor little Benny." 
 
 Benny stood with his large blue eyes fixed in an 
 earnest gaze upon his mother. He was ashamed to 
 have been reprimanded in the presence of others, and 
 yet there was that in the child's spirit that made him 
 hide what he felt. His little heart swelled within him, 
 but he repressed his tears, and no one would have 
 23
 
 262 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 supposed, who glanced casually at his face, how deeply 
 he was mortified. 
 
 But Marcia knew his feelings. In her own child 
 hood she recalled scenes like the present, when pride 
 had restrained all the gentler emotions of her heart. 
 She well remembered how she had been called 
 hardened, when in reality her heart was bursting 
 with sorrow and shame ; and she gently stole her arm 
 round his waist, and drew his little golden head down 
 to her face, and whispered in his ear 
 
 "You will never tell stories again, will you, dear 
 Benny? I know you are sorry now, and wish you 
 had not done so. When sister dies, and you see her 
 laid in the grave, will you not think that she wept and 
 prayed for you when she knew you had told a false 
 hood and displeased God?" 
 
 Little Benny burst into tears, and he promised 
 never to tell another story; and I think from that 
 time to the present he has never forgotten his sister's 
 affectionate reproof.
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 263 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 "I would not die in Spring time, 
 
 When all is bright around, 
 And fair young flowers are peeping, 
 
 From out the silent ground ; 
 When life is on the water, 
 
 And joy upon the shore; 
 For Winter, gloomy Winter, 
 
 Then reigns o'er us no more." 
 
 Spring, lovely, beautiful spring, was abroad. The 
 trees were covered with their young, bright livery of 
 green. The peach and apple trees were thick with 
 blossoms. The woods were over-grown with wild 
 flowers and herbage, and the birds caroled forth their 
 hymns of gratitude and adoration to the Creator. 
 "Well might one believe, while wandering beneath the 
 cloudless skies of Georgia, inhaling the soft pure air, 
 and enjoying the rich scenery around them, that earth 
 Avas indeed a Paradise till Sin entered, and planted 
 within every lovely flower a thorn. 
 
 Oh, why was it, most Omniscient and Omnipotent 
 God, that thou didst permit the serpent to tempt our 
 mother Eve ? How beautiful is the home thou hast 
 given us. How blessed and happy might we have 
 been, if thou hadst ordained, in thine Infinite wisdom, 
 that the Evil one should have no power over man.
 
 264 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 Thou didst know our weakness. Oh, why was it 
 placed in our power to sin ? I never yet committed a 
 sin that I did not repent of the next moment; and yet 
 upon occasion I sinned again, and again sought par 
 don for the offence. 
 
 My mother leans over me as I write. "What," 
 she exclaims, "is it possible that the child of so many 
 prayers; the child whose mind I strove so hard to fill 
 with the divine truths contained in the Bible, thus re 
 pays my love ? thus questions the Supreme Wisdom 
 of God?" 
 
 " Pardon me, mother. I do not doubt God's Wis 
 dom or his goodness, but I cannot understand why 
 Sin was permitted to come into so beautiful a world, 
 and sow the seeds of all horrible crimes, diseases and 
 death. Think how fair and lovely is the face of Na 
 ture. Think what perfect happiness might have been 
 our lot. What boundless, illimitable love might have 
 united the whole human family in one unbroken cir 
 cle. But I will not question the goodness of that God 
 you have taught me to adore. In another world I 
 shall know what my finite mind is incapable of appre 
 ciating here." 
 
 Let us return to the beautiful Spring, from which I 
 wandered ; the season emblematical of the gay visions 
 of youth, when the future seems to contain so much 
 of joy, and when the heart trusts to the friendships of 
 life, and is unsuspicious of evil. Was it not hard for 
 our sweet heroine, calmly to contemplate death amid
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 265 
 
 the gentle breathings of the spring? The soft air 
 kissed her cheek, the sweet flowers "smiled in the 
 sunshine," and clustering roses grew over her case 
 ment, and spread through her chamber delicious per 
 fume. The sweet warbling of birds filled her ears 
 with melody, and woke within her heart wild yearnings 
 for the happiness which seemed to be the burden of 
 their songs. 
 
 Such were the beauties of the day, but those of the 
 night were still more dear to her lonely heart. The 
 calm, quiet stars, shining upon her like the eyes of 
 angels, the deep blue of that heaven which vailed her 
 from the mysteries beyond, and the soft bright moon 
 that filled her chamber with its holy radiance, and 
 rested on her brow like the glory on that of the Ma 
 donna; these, all these she loved, and she wept at the 
 thought of closing her eyes upon them forever. 
 
 One evening she sat, or rather reclined upon her 
 couch, and gazed through the clustering vine leaves, 
 at the starry night without. That day Octave and 
 Mary had gone to their new home, about five miles 
 distant, and the perfect happiness and brightness of 
 their hope and expectations, all crowned with such 
 full success, made in the mind of poor Marcia a sad 
 contrast. Why was it that she, who had never wrong 
 ed a human creature, whose only hope in living was 
 to be a comfort and joy to others, must . be cut off 
 now, in the early spring-time of life? Why could 
 she not live, and bring happiness and comfort to the 
 23*
 
 266 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 hearts of her mother and brother ? Why could she not 
 be a world of blessings to him who loved her so ten 
 derly ; whose existence without her seemed a blank ? 
 She clasped her hands upon her brow, and the tears 
 fell through her pale, wasted fingers, and dropped 
 upon the snowy pillow. Her mother watched her 
 for a few moments in silence, and then, gently bend 
 ing over her, she asked 
 
 "Why do you weep, my sweet child? Tell your 
 mother what sadness fills your heart? What op 
 presses your breast, and wrings from you these silent 
 tears?" 
 
 " Oh ! mother, it is so hard to die." 
 " I know it dear one, yet it is the will of God." 
 "Yes, mother, but do not chide me for repining. 
 Is it not natural that I should do so. To die so 
 young, so much in life to make me happy ; so many 
 blessings, my dear, kind father, you, my sweet, gentle, 
 beautiful mother ; my darling brother, and and dear 
 dear Harry, who loves me so tenderly ; who I love in 
 return with all the wild, passionate devotion of my 
 sex. Oh, mother, mother, do not blame me, but it is 
 harder to leave him, than all beside. To bid him 
 farewell ; to tear from my heart the sweet memories 
 of his love ; to feel that we must part ; we who love so 
 tenderly, so devotedly, with the first and only affec 
 tion that our virgin hearts have ever known ; oh, 
 mother, I cannot be calm and think of it. Go forth 
 mother, dear, and bring Harry here. Let me weep
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 267 
 
 myself to sleep upon his bosom. Let me lay my poor, 
 weak head upon his manly breast, and feel the fond 
 beatings of his noble heart. I am not his wife, but 
 surely in my last hours of waning life, it will be no 
 sin, no shame to lie upon his breast, and die within 
 the folds of his caressing arms." 
 
 " Surely not, my daughter. I will call him, and I 
 doubt not he will gladly obey the summons." 
 
 "My own, sweet love, did you send for me? I was 
 reading in my own room, not daring to intrude upon 
 the privacy of your chamber. I am here at your 
 mother's bidding." 
 
 "Dear Harry, how kind of you to come. Sit down 
 beside me. Hold me in your arms. Let me clasp 
 my arms about your neck. Let me weep myself to 
 rest, closely nestled to your heart." 
 
 " Nay, do not weep, sweet love. Look up, and be 
 happy. See how beautifully the moon plays about 
 your face. See how it rests upon your mother, as she 
 sits there in her snowy drapery. Is it not an earnest 
 of future happiness? Will not the present night of 
 sorrow be followed by a glorious morning? This is 
 the beautiful season of spring. The time for hope 
 and joy. Nay, believe me, you will be spared till the 
 lovely spring has passed away." 
 *"Do not hope it, dear, dear Harry. Do not so 
 sweetly whisper what can never be. Ah, no! the 
 flowers of this very spring shall bloom over my grave. 
 It is sad to die when all the world is so beautiful. It
 
 268 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 is sad to leave you, my own, dear love. Teach me 
 how to bear patiently my fate. Teach me how to 
 trust more faithfully, more devotedly in God. Never, 
 never did I stand more in need of your counsels and 
 advice. My soul shrinks with cowardly fear, as I feel 
 myself drawing nearer to the cold waters of the ocean 
 of Eternity. Oh, Harry! shield me with your strong 
 arm from the scythe of the Reaper, whose name is 
 Death." 
 
 " Calm yourself, dear girl. Call in the powers of 
 your own strong mind to aid you, for alas ! I have no 
 power here. Trust in God. He will sustain you. 
 Oh ! I know it is dreadful for you to contemplate your 
 fate; but, dearest, do not shrink from what you can 
 not avoid. You must die. Fearful words, because 
 irrevocable; but do not fear them. Sooner or later 
 we all must die. What matters it that you are re 
 moved a short time before us ? Life at the best is a 
 checkered scene, where the dark features of the pic 
 ture are most prominent. Look around you at those 
 who seem to you so happy and contented. Ah ! be 
 lieve me, if you could read their hearts you would find 
 they all had a crook in the lot, or a skeleton in the 
 house. We will go with you to the entrance of the 
 valley of the shadow of Death. We will comfort your 
 weary heart with all the solaces of affection; for 
 dearly, dearly are you loved by all, my own, sweet 
 Marcia; but turn your heart in its wretchedness to 
 God. Only God can aid you. Only God can support
 
 LIFE OP A WANDERER. 269 
 
 you in that trying hour which makes cowards of the 
 stoutest hearts. Weak indeed are the friendships of 
 life at such a moment. You have no sins to bar your 
 entrance to heaven; or, if you have, it can only be in 
 loving me too much, and God will forgive you that, 
 and bear you tenderly in his bosom, through the cold 
 waters of death." 
 
 "Mother, dear, pray for your daughter. Harry 
 says truly, I have loved him too much. Oh ! pray for 
 me that God may have mercy on me, and teach me 
 how to look calmly in the face, the fierce struggle 
 through which my soul must pass." 
 
 The sad mother knelt beside her child, and offered 
 up her fervent prayers in a broken and faltering voice. 
 Little Benny awoke, and creeping from his bed, knelt 
 by his mother and joined his childish tears and prayers 
 to hers. Surely the aspirations of that widow's heart 
 went up as a memorial to the God of Heaven. Surely 
 the Father of mercies pitied the fatherless child, who 
 wept at sorrows he could not understand. And 
 surely he would stretch forth his hand to the Wan 
 derer, who after a short but troubled journey through 
 the pathway of life, was called to give up all her heart 
 held dear on earth, and try the dark realities of 
 Eternity. 
 
 The prayer was answered, and peace came to the 
 Wanderer's heart. Light as from Heaven fell upon 
 her pale face, and she lay, calm, quiet "and resigned 
 to the will of God.
 
 270 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 Who will say there is no mighty power in prayer ? 
 God has wisely ordered that we should seek at a throne 
 of grace for all the blessings that we need. His ear 
 is ever open to the sincere petitions of his children, 
 and if he withhold a blessing that we crave, it is for 
 . our own good. We, poor, weak, short-sighted mortals 
 that we are, but too often ask for that, which if 
 granted, would but turn to gall and wormwood in our 
 possession. 
 
 It is the duty of the Christian to ask what to pray 
 for. Lord, teach me how to pray. It is very hard 
 for us to bid farewell to those we love : to close their 
 eyes in death. It is hard for the mother to part from 
 her child : to lay it in the cold ground, water the grave 
 with her tears, and go back herself to life, lonely and 
 desolate. It is hard to meet the contumely of the 
 world, while the heart breaks in silent anguish within. 
 
 It is hard to find cruelty, reproaches and insult, 
 where the heart has lavished its wealth of affection 
 and confiding love. It is hard to trust in the bosom 
 of a sworn friend, who in return betrays and deceives 
 you; but do not repine. Do not ask God to change 
 it. Ask him to remove your affections from earth and 
 center them in Heaven. To give you a heart to love 
 and fear him. To give you submission to all thatjie 
 directs. 
 
 Are you a wife, whose happiness is centered in your 
 husband ? Are you a mother, whose hopes cluster round 
 the dear ones that encircle your fireside? Are you a
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 271 
 
 sad, lonely one, that trusts in the friendship of man 
 for support and comfort? Are you a fair, young girl, 
 betrothed to him you trust and love ? Ah ! believe me, 
 if you are either one or all of these, you will find your 
 dream of happiness rudely broken : you will be taught 
 to look for a husband that can never forsake you, 
 children that are angels in heaven, and cannot die, 
 friends beyond all the weakness and frailty of hu 
 manity, and lovers only in that God and Savior who 
 will never betray your love and confidence. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 " I am resigned. What'er my fate may be, 
 
 In storms or sunshine to thy will I how ; 
 Anil be the fruit that Jiangs on life's green tree, 
 
 Or sweet or bitter, it is welcome now. 
 All things are equal to the heart that bears 
 A faith uriblenching through earth's thousand cares." 
 
 Toward the close of a lovely day, a carriage wound 
 its way along the hilly road that led from the town 
 of D. to the plantation of Mrs. Woodville. Its occu 
 pants were two persons, a gentleman and lady. A fat 
 Irish coachman sat on the box, and lazily told his 
 horses to " get up," fifty times in an hour. Poor 
 beasts, they looked as if they had not spirit enough 
 left in them to breathe.
 
 272 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 "I am afraid we shall not reach there before 
 night," said the lady. 
 
 " It will not matter much, for there is a moon to 
 night," answered the gentleman. 
 
 "A moon to-night, is there? And pray what time 
 do you suppose the moon rises, Mr. Wiseacre?" 
 
 "I should think about seven o'clock." 
 
 "Well, that shows how much you know about it, to 
 be sure. The moon will not rise to-night till nine 
 o'clock, and we shall surely be there before then." 
 
 "Lhopeso, indeed." - 
 
 "Hope so ; and I should like to know what there is 
 to prevent it. How far do we have to go yet ?" 
 
 " Some four miles." 
 
 " Some four miles," said the lady, who seemed de 
 termined to echo all her companion gave utterance to, 
 and equally bent upon contradicting every assertion 
 he made. " Some four miles, indeed. On the con 
 trary, it is not more than two miles. Now ask the 
 coachman, and see if I am not right." 
 
 The gentleman very obediently did as he was direc 
 ted. The coachman said the distance was three miles 
 and a quarter. 
 
 "There," said the lady, "did I not tell you so? 
 You always think you know better than me. Some 
 of these days I hope you will find out how little you 
 know, and how much better it is always to trust en 
 tirely to me."
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 273 
 
 " I thought you said you believed the distance to be 
 two miles," said the persecuted gentleman. 
 
 "And I should like to know what business you have 
 to think ? You thought, did you ? Well, another 
 time I will thank you not to think any thing about it. 
 Pray leave the thinking to me." 
 
 " Yes, dear," meekly replied the poor man. 
 
 " I should like to know who it was that first thought 
 of coming to see Marcia ? I suppose you will be ta 
 king the credit of that to yourself?" 
 
 " I believe I mentioned it, dear." 
 
 " You believe you mentioned it, do you ? Perhaps 
 you did, but I know very well who thought of it first. 
 Had it not been for my untiring energy, I should 
 never have got you off. Oh, you ungrateful man. 
 You will never be sufficiently thankful for the wife 
 Godias given you, till you lose her." 
 
 " When will that be, my dear?" 
 
 " When will it be, aye ? Not for a long time yet, 
 I can tell you, Mr. Johnson. So if you have been 
 building up schemes, and thinking who you will have 
 for a second wife, I can just inform you they will 
 crumble into dust, for my family are remarkably long 
 lived. Do you hear that?" 
 
 Husband, aside, "Alas! alas!" 
 
 " What is that you are grumbling about, you cross- 
 grained, ill-natured, hard-hearted old tyrant, you?" 
 
 "My dear, what did you marry me for? You 
 24
 
 274 WAT-MARKS IN THE 
 
 seemed to be aware of all my faults before you asked 
 me to have you.." 
 
 "I asked you to have me ? Oh, you dreadful, terri 
 ble man. How can you 'shock the delicate sensibility 
 of a young wife in that horrible manner? I shall die, 
 I know I shall die." 
 
 "Pray do, dear?" 
 
 " What do you say ?" 
 
 " Nothing love, only you know you told me you were 
 growing old, and the duties of your school were so ar 
 duous that you thought you could not stand them 
 much longer. And then some of the children wound 
 ed your sensibility by calling you an old maid, and" 
 
 "What?" screamed the lady so loudly that the 
 coachman reined in his horses, and turned suddenly 
 around in amazement, to see what was the matter ; but 
 perceiving it was only a matrimonial quarrel, hejvent 
 on with his " get ups," as before. 
 
 " Pray now, dear, don't excite yourself. You know 
 I was only telling you what you told me yourself. I 
 would not wound your feelings for the world. Are 
 you not my own, little wife?" 
 
 "Oh, you .cruel, black-hearted monster. To add 
 insult to injury in this manner. To pretend that you 
 have got one spark of human feeling in your heart. 
 To call me your own, little wife. Oh, dear, oh, dear," 
 and the little lady went off in a fit of hysterics ; but 
 seeing they had arrived at the head of the avenue, 
 and hearing the slave tell the driver they had only a
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 275 
 
 mile further to go, she concluded to save her fit for 
 the special benefit of her husband, when they retired 
 that evening. 
 
 Are you anxious to be made acquainted with our 
 charming travelers, or have you already recognized 
 in them, Marcia's school teacher and her father's old 
 friend, Mr. Johnson ? I know not how it was, but the 
 patient, long-suffering teacher, had thrown aside all 
 the patience which once had characterized her, and 
 seemed to set herself to work to make her husband 
 miserable. She had in reality popped the question to 
 Mr. Johnson, and he, not knowing very well how to 
 refuse, was obliged to comply with her offer, and 
 never was there a more perfect specimen of a poor 
 hen-pecked husband. 
 
 The meeting between Marcia and her old friends 
 was ^fecting indeed ; and the ill-tempered wife seemed 
 to lose in her presence the austerity which had marked 
 her conversation in the carriage. Mrs. Woodville did 
 the honors of her house, with the hospitality always s 
 met with in the South and West ; and Mr. Woodviller 
 exerted himself to please the friends of his child. 
 
 One after another, Mrs. Johnson called up the chil 
 dren to her, and inquired if they knew the Catechism 
 by heart, the ten commandments, and the Lord's 
 prayer. Having satisfied herself upon this point, she 
 made numerous inquiries about their studies, and rep 
 rimanded them severely for knowing so little ; telling 
 them the children at the North knew more when they
 
 276 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 were born than they did now. In the midst of this 
 conversation Harry Percy entered. He had been 
 taking a ride, and knew nothing of the arrival of the 
 strangers. He received Mrs. Johnson with an eager 
 welcome, which was prompted by the affection he felt 
 for her, for her first sympathy in his devotion to 
 Marcia. Thus this hard, cold woman, who had per 
 mitted all the gentler emotions of her soul to freeze 
 who was leading the best-natured and most innocent 
 of men a miserable life, who felt no sympathy with 
 the wretched, the poor, or the wicked, still had 
 one trait of goodness ; one green spot left fresh and 
 beautiful, amid all the parched and arid dryness of 
 her heart. 
 
 Do not chide her. Do not condemn her. Go and 
 take a number of scholars of all ages, from seven to 
 seventeen. Shut yourself up for years with Aem. 
 Go through the routine, day after day, of teaching 
 them what you know yourself, and let the children be 
 as amiable as children ever were known to be, still you 
 jfill come out of that prison-house, for prison a school 
 room is, say what you will, a cross, ill-natured person, 
 without, indeed, you have the temper of a saint. No 
 one can know but those who have tried teaching school, 
 the innumerable trials which beset the life of a teacher. 
 Next to that of a child's nurse, it is the most annoy 
 ing business any one can earn their bread by. 
 
 The evening was being very pleasantly spent, and 
 Mr. Johnson seemed to be enjoying an amount of
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 277 
 
 peace of a most unprecedented extent, when unluckily 
 he began one of those old stories, which always were 
 the abomination of Mrs. Johnson, even when she was 
 a maiden. He said 
 
 " Seeing Marcia lying here, looking so pale and 
 wasted, reminds me of the time when I was a young 
 man, and was very ill of typhoid fever. Marcia's 
 father came often to see me, and really" 
 
 "I am sure, Mr. Johnson, Marcia don't want to 
 hear anything about you, or the bilious fever or ty 
 phoid, or whatever you may choose to call it." And 
 then, in a low tone, she added, "pray don't make a 
 nuisance of yourself." 
 
 " Oh ! don't prevent Mr. Johnson from telling me 
 all about it," said Marcia. "Indeed, I love to hear 
 him talk of my father." 
 
 " J^ell, Marcia, just as you please. I only thought 
 it would annoy you, and I know men are so stupid, 
 and have so little consideration for the gentler sex." 
 
 "Gentler sex," said the poor husband in a tone of 
 subdued anguish. Then aloud he continued 
 
 "$.nd really he was a friend indeed to me. I posi 
 tively believe I should have died had it not been for 
 dear Mr. Walton. Do you not remember, Mrs. Wal 
 ton, the many ni/ce little things y_ou made to tempt 
 my appetite?" 
 
 "Very well, indeed, but I do not think the case 
 merits such warm elogiums." 
 
 "Oh! yes, it does, for you saved my life." 
 
 24* 

 
 278 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 "What a dreadful pity," said Mrs. Johnson, in an 
 under tone, intended for no ears but her devoted hus 
 band's. Of course Mr. Johnson smiled, and bowed in 
 acknowledgment of the implied compliment. 
 
 "Was I living then, mother?" asked Marcia, in the 
 effort she made to turn the conversation from the hap 
 less husband. 
 
 "Yes, my child, you were a baby of some five or 
 six weeks old. The circumstance is very plainly im 
 pressed upon my mind on account of a dreadful acci 
 dent by which you very nearly lost your life." 
 
 "Pray tell it, Mrs. Walton," asked Harry Percy, 
 and he was seconded in his request by the whole party. 
 Mrs. Walton began 
 
 "Your father came home one evening from the 
 store, and told me he should like to take his friend 
 Johnson some chicken soup. I went into the kitchen 
 and superintended the making of it. As soon as it 
 was done, I had it put in a little kettle, and your 
 father went out with it. When I left my room to go 
 to the kitchen, you were lying in the middle of the 
 bed, in a deep sleep. Your sister was in the crib, at 
 the foot of the bed ; and the nurse sat at a little table, 
 sewing. Suddenly she imagined she saw on the snowy 
 curtains which hung at the windows, an immense spider. 
 She picked up the lamp, and held it close to the cur 
 tain, without thinking of the risk she was running. 
 A puff of wind blew the flame against the curtain, and 
 in an instant the whole was in a light blaze. She
 
 LIFE OF A WANDEIIEK. 279 
 
 screamed wildly. I ran up the stairs, reached the 
 room door, saw the devouring element raging near my 
 sleeping children, and, unable to utter one word, I sank 
 down in a fainting fit. The alarm was given. Seve 
 ral persons rushed in from the street. I was carried 
 insensible from the house to a hotel opposite. A boy 
 of fourteen pushed his way through the flames. He 
 seized my children, Marcia, what ails you? You 
 look so pale and agitated. My God, she has fainted." 
 
 And true enough, with eyes half closed, pallid lips, 
 and livid countenance, the poor wanderer looked as if 
 she had breathed her last sigh. Terror seemed to 
 hold Harry Percy to the spot, but Mrs. Walton and 
 Mrs. Woodville bathed the sweet girl's temples, chafed 
 her hands, and applied a vinaigrette to her nose. 
 Slowly she recovered, opened her eyes wide, gazed 
 attentively around her, and stretching forth her arms, 
 she said to Harry Percy, in a tone of the sweetest 
 melody 
 
 "Take me to your heart, love. Hold me close, 
 close. Do not let them separate us. Oh ! to think 
 that I I was the baby you told me about the other 
 day. To think it was you, my own, dear Harry, that 
 saved me from being burnt to death, when I was a 
 weak, helpless infant. Truth is indeed stranger than 
 fiction." 
 
 "Are you the saviour of my children? Say, was 
 it you who rescued them from the most horrible of 
 deaths?" said Mrs. Walton. " Oh ! why did you hide
 
 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 yourself from me ? I advertised for you. I sought 
 you by every means in my power. Why did you not 
 allow me the privilege of showing you my gratitude ?" 
 
 " Indeed, madam, I did not think I was doing any 
 thing to call forth lasting gratitude. I was merely 
 passing along the street, when a servant rushed out, 
 screaming fire, in a loud tone of voice. I entered the 
 house, followed by several men, ' There are children 
 in the bed,' said the distracted servant girl. I ran 
 quickly up the stairs. A lady lay fainting at the door 
 of the room. Two men lifted her, and carried her 
 down. I passed into the room, the smoke and flame 
 were so great that I could not see my way. I felt it, 
 however, and found the two children, one in the bed, 
 still sleeping, unhurt ; the other attracted me by its 
 screams, from its little crib. I held them firmly in 
 my arms, and rushed through the hot scorching blaze. 
 I was welcomed, as I appeared on the door step, with 
 deafening cheers. I was directed to carry them over 
 to the hotel opposite. I did so, and returned to my 
 home slightly scorched about my neck and hands, and 
 my hair, which had been long, was burnt to the edge 
 of my cap. I left town the next morning for my 
 home, which was in the centre of New York State, 
 and that is why your advertisement never reached me." 
 
 "Noble, excellent youth, we have now another tie 
 to bind us together," said Mrs. Walton. 
 
 "My own, dear Harry," said Marcia, as she twined 
 still more closely her arms about his neck. All the
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 281 
 
 rest of the party united in pronouncing it the most 
 interesting thing they had heard for a long time. 
 Mrs. Walton went on with her story : 
 
 "I was carried to a hotel opposite, and all the ladies 
 and gentlemen crowded around me, and used every 
 exertion to restore me to consciousness. In the mean 
 time Mr. Walton had arrived, and at last my dreadful 
 fainting fit came to a close, and I opened my eyes once 
 more upon existence. For some minutes I was as 
 tounded to look around and find myself in a strange 
 parlor, crowded with faces I had never seen before. 
 But suddenly I remembered all the dreadful truth, 
 and springing wildly from the sofa, I screamed, 
 'Where's my children? Give me my children. Oh! 
 my God, I know that my children are burnt alive.' 
 At that moment of uncontrollable agony, a servant, 
 entered with my two darlings in his arms. They 
 had but that moment been rescued. I sprang to 
 wards him, seized my children, covered them with 
 kisses, clasping them to my heart with the wildest and 
 most passionate caresses, and then went off into 
 another fainting fit. When I entirely recovered, the 
 fire had been extinguished in my house, my husband 
 bent over me with tones of love and words of endear 
 ment, and told me that a boy of twelve or fourteen 
 years old, wearing a white coat and a cap, had saved 
 mx children at the risk of his life. Every menus 
 in our power were used to discover the saviour of our 
 precious babes, but it availed not ; and till this hour I
 
 282 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 remained in ignorance of him. God is merciful that 
 he has now, in this remarkable manner, revealed to 
 me that which I had never hoped to discover on earth. 
 Dear Harry, from this moment consider me your 
 mother, and I will love you as my own son." 
 
 " And most blessed and happy I shall be in the 
 possession of such a mother ; and do not think that I 
 will fall short in the tenderness of a son. Let this be 
 the seal to the compact." He raised her hand affec 
 tionately to his lips, and breathed upon it the bless 
 ings and love of a filial heart. 
 
 "Do tell me," Mrs. Jghnson,-said Marcia, "some 
 thing about my old school-mates. What has become 
 of Helen Mars, and Adelaide Black, and Jane Ray, 
 and Isabella Blacknell ? They were all in the same 
 class with me, and were much older than I was, with 
 the exception of Isabella." 
 
 " Helen Mars is the reigning belle of New York, and 
 she was pronounced also the belle of Newport and 
 Saratoga. There has been some talk of her marrying 
 a rich young Englishman, but I believe that has all 
 fallen through. She has crowds of admirers, and I 
 am of opinion that she favors none of them. 
 
 " Adelaide Black always was a serious, earnest kind 
 of a girl. She became a member of the church, last 
 summer, and was married to a Missionary in the fall ; 
 she sailed with him, in October last, for India, an^I 
 have received several letters from her, telling me that 
 her health is excellent, and describing to me the beau-
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 283 
 
 ties as well as horrors of the country. She told me 
 of a lion hunt she went to, on the hack of an elephant, 
 and the description was so thrilling, that my hlood 
 chilled as I read it. Poor Jane Ray is an orphan. 
 You know she always was delicate at school, and 
 now her health is miserable. 
 
 " She was always taking medicine at school. I often 
 told her she would destroy her health if she went on 
 taking those poisonous drugs, but she said her mother 
 thought it was neccessary. 
 
 " Well, she went on taking them till her constitu 
 tion became entirely destroyed. It never was very 
 strong, but still, with proper exercise and fresh air, 
 and suitable diet, she might have done very well. I 
 fear, however, that this next winter will be 1ier last 
 on earth. 
 
 " And now I come to your friend and play-mate, 
 Isabella Blacknell. She is still the same amiable, 
 docile, lovely girl she was at school. Her face bears 
 the same impress of childish beauty, and her manners 
 are as simple and unaffected as they were when I 
 first knew her ; and you know she was only nine years 
 old when she came first to our school. She is very 
 much admired, but does not seem to notice it, much 
 less to be elated by it. In short, she is one of the few 
 that retains, amid all the intercourse with the rude 
 world, the pure and spotless innocence of childhood." 
 
 " Does she seem perfectly happy ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, very happy. She comes often to sec me,
 
 284 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 and asks always, with the tenderest interest, after 
 your health." 
 
 "Does she know that I am going to die, so soon?" 
 asked Marcia, as her eyes slowly filled with tears. 
 
 "I told her all, my child." 
 
 "And no doubt she found some tears to weep in 
 remembrance of her school-mate and friend. Alas, 
 what changes a few years bring to all of us. Of that 
 bright, young, happy class of gay, glad spirits, one 
 reigns in the halls of fashion, forgetful of the pure 
 happiness of her girlhood, and intent only on making 
 conquests of the rich and great ; one is afar from her 
 native land, amid the burning sands and scorching 
 heats of India; another has lost her parents and 
 health, and knows she soon must die ; a fourth, alone, 
 is happy, and retains the simplicity and meekness of 
 childhood; and I, the fifth, far from the home of 
 affection, am dying, and going into the stranger's 
 grave, where you, my dear mother, cannot come to 
 plant flowers and shed tears in remembrance of her 
 who sleeps beneath." 
 
 " Nay, my sweet child, if it be your wish, I will 
 carry you home, and lay you in our own, dear Green 
 wood, beside the father and sister whose memory you 
 so fondly cherish. Can you think I shall forget the 
 last duties I can ever pay you?" 
 
 "Ah, no, mother; I knew I should only have to 
 express a wish, -and you would gratify it. I can die 
 more easily now, when I know that your dear hands
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 285 
 
 will teach the roses and cypress vines to cluster and 
 mingle on my grave. And you, dear Harry will 
 you not often leave the bustle of New York to spend 
 an hour at that lonely spot, made sacred by the memory 
 of the cherished dead?" 
 
 " Sweet girl, can you ask me such a question ? Ah, 
 believe me, the dearest spot on earth will be my Mar- 
 cia's grave, and if from your home in heaven you can 
 look down upon the hallowed beauties of Greenwood, 
 you will often see your devoted lover kneeling at 
 your grave, and weeping for the presence of the 
 ' bright morning-star of his existence, which has beg 
 gared his life in vanishing.' " 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A gentleman arrived at Pine Grove, and was closet 
 ed with Mr. Woodville for some hours. At length 
 lie came forth to seek Marcia, and giving her a paper, 
 told her to read it. Its contents puzzled and surprised 
 her. It was a present of twenty thousand dollars, 
 formally made over from Mr. Woodville to his adopt 
 ed daughter. 
 
 "What noble generosity," said Marcia, handing 
 the paper to her mother. " But, I cannot understand 
 why father does this now. I have no use for the 
 25
 
 286 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 money. I am going where the blessings of God are 
 obtained without money and without price." 
 
 " You must understand Mr. Woodville's motive to 
 be, that you may do as you please with the money, 
 and bequeath it to whom you like." 
 
 " Good, kind father. I see now why he has done 
 this. God in taking me away from the world has 
 raised up the means of providing for my loss to my 
 dear mother. Please have a will drawn up speedily, 
 and bring it to me7 and I will sign it. Give the 
 entire sum, without any reservation, to my dearly 
 beloved mother. How i&on can you have the docu 
 ment ready ?" 
 
 " About this time to-morrow, I think." 
 
 " Do not let it be longer. My strength is failing 
 fast. I would not die till it is accomplished." 
 
 "I shall use all possible diligence, rest assured." 
 
 The lawyer bowe"d and retired. Marcia threw her 
 arms about her mother's neck, and said 
 
 " How happy I am. I can die easy now, for you 
 will be removed from want. You can surround your 
 self with every comfort. You can educate dear Benny. 
 Why do you not rejoice with me? What makes you 
 look so sad?" 
 
 "Alas! can you ask? Does not the very act that 
 makes me rich, deprive me of my blessed child, my 
 darling daughter?" 
 
 " Do not weep. You will still have a son. A son, 
 did I say ? Nay, then, but you will have two sons.
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 287 
 
 Will not my dearly-loved, my idolized Harry, have a 
 place in your heart, my mother?" 
 
 " Oh ! yes, but nothing can fill the void 'your loss 
 will make, my sinless child. Oh ! to think how fondly 
 I have loved you, how tenderly I watched over your 
 helpless infancy, your innocent childhood. How 
 jealously I guarded you from evil and wrong. How 
 I have prayed and wept for blessings on the Wan 
 derer's way; and now now to lose you, to see you 
 go down and take your place beside the husband of 
 my youth, and my first born daughter. Alas ! alas ! 
 it is too much. There will only remain one poor, 
 little, delicate, tiny child, and what if I lose him too ? 
 But a slender thread unites him to life. I cannot bear 
 to think of it." 
 
 "Are you resolved, dear mother, to exclude dear 
 Harry from your heart ? Will you not suffer the 
 noble, generous preserver of my life in infancy, to fill 
 the vacancy I shall make ? Oh ! mother, he is worthy 
 of your love. He is good and kind. He loves me 
 with his whole heart. Can you help feeling affection 
 for one who has loved me so tenderly ? Methinks that 
 should be a tie to bind you closely together. In the 
 long winter evenings you can sit together and talk of 
 me. In the long days of summer you can visit and 
 beautify my grave. Say, mother, dear, will you not 
 be reconciled?" 
 
 "I will try, dearest. I cannot talk calmly about it 
 now, but I remember, my sweet child, the portrait
 
 288 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 X 
 
 painter is to be here this morning, and he will be ready 
 to take the first sitting within an hour. Do you feel 
 equal to the task?" 
 
 "I am quite weak, but if I take a little sleep per 
 haps I shall be stronger. Please draw the curtains 
 close, and then sit down beside me, and lay my head 
 in your bosom." 
 
 Mrs. Walton did as she was directed, and in a few 
 moments the beautifully violet-colored eyes closed in a 
 gentle sleep, and a sweet smile played over the in 
 valid's face, seeming like light from that happy coun 
 try beyond the stars. 
 
 The hour drew to a close, and Mrs. Woodvillc came 
 to announce the arrival of the portrait painter. The 
 least noise was sufficient to break the slumber of the 
 lovely sleeper. She told Mrs. Woodville she was quite 
 ready for the sitting. Placed in a large chair of 
 crimson velvet, with her snowy drapery falling loosely 
 around her, and displaying the perfect roundness of 
 one beautiful shoulder, and the exquisite proportions 
 of her neck and bosom, Marcia sat, awaiting the 
 entrance of the artist who had been sent for from New 
 Orleans, to paint her portrait, and who had acquired, 
 in Italy and France, a just celebrity for the truthful 
 ness and beauty of his pictures. Used as he was to 
 all the rich beauty of southern climes, still he started 
 with admiration as he discovered sitting in the shadowy 
 light, the fair Wanderer of our story. What she had 
 lost in the healthy fullness of her cheek, was made up
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 289 
 
 in the brilliant hectic which burned in bright spots on 
 her face, and in the high intelligence that lightened 
 up her eyes with supernatural beauty. The expression 
 of pensive thought and girlish innocence was serenely 
 blended, and, in a word, she was the embodiment of 
 all that is lovely and beautiful on earth all that is 
 holy and angelic in heaven. 
 
 For one weary hour the artist plyed his brushes, 
 and so eager was he to complete his picture, he would 
 have worked at it all day, had he not been gently 
 reminded by Harry Percy that the poor invalid's 
 strength was giving out, and that he must not expect 
 too much at once. It was well he stopped just when 
 he did, for Marcia was again seized with one of those 
 terrible fits of shortness of breath, that usually para 
 lyzed all present. Indeed, they were appalling to 
 witness. No one can judge how much so, till they 
 have themselves seen the gasping agony of a dying 
 soul for breath, vainly struggling to regain it, iill 
 black in the face. 
 
 But these paroxysms were of short duration. In 
 deed, no human being could have lived through them 
 had they been long ; and now, completely exhausted, 
 Marcia laid on the sofa, as pallid and hueless as the 
 face of death. 
 
 Octave and Mary came in the afternoon, and the 
 pretty little Kate was with them. Octave talked gaily 
 to Marcia, tried to raise her sinking spirits, and told 
 25*
 
 290 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 her many anecdotes about John Woodville, at which 
 she was obliged to laugh. 
 
 "You should see him," said he, "when Mary tells 
 him to hand her work basket. He will, in the most 
 demure manner, bring her a glass of water. If she 
 asks him for a book he will bring her a thimble. Per 
 haps she wants the saddle horses brought out to take 
 a ride. He walks out and tells the cook her mistress 
 wants her to make rice-cakes for supper." 
 
 "What are you all laughing at?" said John, who at 
 that moment appeared at the door. 
 
 "Nothing of any consequence," said Octave. 
 
 "I should think not, if it were any thing you had 
 to tell. Marcia, I have been getting my likeness 
 taken. Should you like to see it? People say it 
 flatters me too much." 
 
 "Pray let me see it," said Marcia. John opened 
 a small leather case and. handed it to her. She took 
 it with a look of serious scrutiny, which the next mo 
 ment was changed into a laugh ; for the case contained 
 nothing but the picture of a baboon. 
 
 At this moment Laurie entered with her cat, and 
 John raised another laugh by very ceremoniously 
 introducing pussy as his neice. Kate told him she 
 was not prepossessed in favor of the cat, if it were a 
 specimen of his relations. 
 
 "Mother," said Octave, "I will just tell you what 
 brought Mary over here to-day."
 
 LIFE OP A WANDERER. 291 
 
 "Don't believe him," cried Mary. "He thinks 
 nothing of telling stories." 
 
 " I leave it to Kate, if it be a story. Mary said let's 
 go over to mother's to-day, and get some strawberries. 
 Now, deny that, if you can." 
 
 "Mother, these very words he said himself. I leave 
 it to Kate, if he did not." 
 
 " You will have to settle it between you," said Kate, 
 laughing, " I have always heard it was a dangerous 
 thing for a third party to meddle in matrimonial af 
 fairs." 
 
 "I have no doubt it is so, and yet I wish it were 
 not," said poor Mr. Johnson, in a low tone of voice. 
 
 "I leave it to all present if Mary did not say so, 
 and I will prove it to you. In the first place, I said 
 it myself. In the second place, Mary and I have be 
 come one. In the third place, Mary said so, because 
 I did. Now, aint that all plain enough, I would ask?" 
 
 A general "yes," followed this question, joined 
 in by every one present but Mrs. Johnson; and poor 
 Mary had to confess, with a merry laugh and an 
 ominous shake of the finger, that Octave wa right for 
 once in the world, and that she was wrong. 
 
 "Who will pick the strawberries?" said Mrs. Wood 
 pile. 
 
 "Let me help. Oh! I love to pick them so much," 
 said Kate. 
 
 "I will go too, mother," said Mary, and Flora and
 
 292 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 Laurie both joined their entreaties to be allowed to go 
 to the strawberry beds. 
 
 Of course Octave carried a small basket for Mary's 
 accommodation, and John followed his example with 
 Kate. I do not know how it was, but Octave returned 
 with a basket full of berries, while that of John's had 
 not more than a dozen in it. 
 
 "Oh! you lazy boy," said Mrs. Woodville, as he 
 presented his basket. 
 
 "I don't believe he is lazy," said Octave. "I do 
 not doubt he has been industriously employed tor 
 menting poor Kate, every moment since he has been 
 gone." 
 
 "Has he Kate, ?" asked Mary. 
 
 Kate's rosy cheeks were rosier still, and without 
 replying, she ran away to Marcia. 
 
 "A very suspicious circumstance," said Octave, 
 "and I think with those features we might make out 
 a very strong case." 
 
 "Were you ever happy, uncle, in your life, that 
 you were not tormenting some one?" asked John. 
 
 "I might, with still greater propriety, ask you the 
 same question; for a greater torment and plague 
 never had existence on earth. I used absolutely to 
 be afraid to meet you when I was coming from father 
 Jones's plantation." 
 
 "Poor little thing. You needed some one to pro 
 tect you from madcap John, did you?"
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 293 
 
 " Come, come boys ; I see them coming to call us 
 to supper," said Mrs. Woodville. ' 
 
 The tea table was laid on the porch, and softly sha 
 ded from too much light by the rose vines which grew 
 all over the front of the house. The sofa on which 
 Marcia was laid, was rolled out into the porch, and 
 placed at the table. The family took their places at 
 the hospitable board, and Mr. "Woodville asked a 
 blessing. It was a beautiful sight. That large family 
 reunited. Mrs. Walton, her two children, the friend 
 of her husband, and the teacher of her child, all as 
 sembled at that richly supplied table. Let us not 
 except the noble Harry Percy, and the far-famed 
 artist, who was so intent in looking at the fair face 
 before him, that he seemed unable to eat his supper. 
 In fact he knew that before his picture was completed, 
 the lovely original would be no more, and he studied 
 the beauties of her changing face while living, satisfied 
 that his mind would retain them after her death, and 
 he could then paint from memory. 
 
 A pleasant family party was that, broken up only 
 to let them all pair off, and walk through the well 
 graveled paths of the garden. And Marcia watched 
 them as they walked to and fro, listened to Kate's 
 silvery laugh, and Mary's happy prattling ; but at 
 length she turned to the two dear ones who sat beside 
 her, and begged them to go and join the rest of the 
 party in their healthful exercise. Mrs. Walton at 
 last consented, and Mr. Woodville coming up at the
 
 294 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 moment, took her arm in his, and bore her off, leav 
 ing Harry Percy to amuse Marcia. 
 
 " Go walk, dearest. It will do you good." 
 
 " Nay, my sweet love : it does me far more good to 
 sit near you, to hold your hand thus ; to look into 
 your dear face, and read its love for me. Do not 
 banish me from you." 
 
 " Banish you, dear Harry. You know I could not 
 do that. The most precious joy I know in living is 
 that of your presence. I feel cold and dead when 
 you are absent, but when you are near me I am 
 another being, instinct with hope and joy, and I feel, 
 at such times, there are two principles, or rather I 
 should say, passions, warring within me for the mas 
 tery, and the names of these opposing powers are 
 Love and Death." 
 
 " Would to God that Love might be the victor, and 
 award me the boon I would prize higher than any 
 honor earth could grant. But, I do you grievous 
 wrong to talk to you thus. I, that should seek to re 
 concile you to your lot, and strengthen your weakness. 
 Pardon me, dear love, and tell me what I shall talk 
 about to amuse you." 
 
 "It matters little what the subject, if it be your 
 voice I hear." 
 
 " Sweet flattery. Do not, dear Marcia, talk to me 
 thus, or I shall be spoiled. I seem, when I come near 
 you, to lose all my pride and dignity, and become ten 
 der and gentle as yourself. I know not what strange
 
 LIFE OP A WANDERER. 295 
 
 influence you exercise over me, but I have no longer 
 a will in your presence." 
 
 " I am no witch, Harry, so do not accuse me of it, 
 and as to spoiling you, nothing on earth can do that. 
 Were you a person that could be spoiled, this way 
 ward heart of mine had never acknowledged your 
 sway." 
 
 " How did you know, sweet innocent, what my dis 
 position was when you first saw me ? and it was then 
 that you loved me, was it not?" 
 
 "Yes, dear Harry in the first smile that broke 
 over your face, awoke the love which will end only 
 with life. I knew nothing of you, it is true, but had 
 you been false-hearted and base, my impulses, which 
 have never yet deceived me, would have given me 
 warning of your character. You smiled upon me 
 that bright and sunny smile, which expresses so much 
 of the truthful sincerity, and boyish innocence of 
 your heart ; and that look shone upon me ; lit up the 
 darkened recessess of my soul, spoke to me of love 
 and hope, and.their many thousand joys, and shrined 
 itself upon the virgin tablets of my heart, to the pre 
 clusion of all meaner loves. Do you say this is 
 romance ? Call it so if you will, I know not what it 
 is, but this I know, living or dying, I . am yours with 
 all the tender devotion that ever filled the breast of 
 woman. Nothing but death can make me forget you, 
 and you know, dearest, that death remembers not." 
 
 " How singular that you should thus have loved
 
 296 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 him, who for three years before had watched you ; as 
 slowly and beautifully you expanded from the child 
 into the perfect woman; who without ever having spo 
 ken to you, gave you his heart, and who flew on the 
 wings of love to be near you when he heard of your 
 illness." 
 
 " Nay, it was not strange, dear Harry. It was but 
 the secret affinity of pure and spotless love. Believe 
 me, there are ties that bind souls together, and let 
 what will start up to separate them, still they unite, 
 and hold that sweet intercourse which diffuses through 
 their existence the purest happiness known to mortals. 
 Regardless of obstacles, unmoved by time or distance, 
 unchilled by adversity, faithful and true through evil 
 and through good report, true love burns on, a stead 
 fast and holy flame, lighted only at the shrine of God 
 himself." 
 
 " It must be as you say, dearest. You have but 
 given expression in language to the thoughts of my 
 heart. But, see, our conversation is about to be 
 brought to a close ; for warned by the coming dark 
 ness they are all returning to the house." 
 
 " I shall retire as soon as mother gets here. I 
 must sit up for my portrait to-morrow, and I must 
 try to get a good rest to-night. Kiss me good night 
 now, and please send Susan to help roll me in." 
 
 The morning came, and at the appointed hour came 
 the attorney from D. with the will ready to be sign 
 ed. Marcia wrote her name in free, bold characters,
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 297 
 
 and then signified her readiness for the admission of 
 the artist. The scene of the day before was repeated, 
 and Harry Percy saw starting forth upon the can 
 vas, a living resemblance of his tenderly-loved Mar- 
 cia. He felt that now, indeed, he should possess a link 
 that would be omnipotent in bringing the blessed past 
 before him. He shared all the enthusiasm of the artist, 
 and nearly two hours passed away before he thought 
 of the fatigue the poor girl was suffering. 
 
 " Come, let that do for to-day. Poor thing, she 
 cannot stand it any longer." 
 
 " Well, one more sitting, and I think we shall have 
 it perfect. You will promise one more to-morrow, 
 Miss Walton ?" 
 
 " If I live," was the mild reply, spoken in the soft, 
 gentle voice that thrilled ever to the hearts of all 
 who heard it. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 . 
 
 " What though the loving heart is wrung 
 By chilling words of cold farewell? 
 And o'er its dying hopes is flung 
 The echoing knelll 
 
 Shall we not all meet there to love, 
 With love that has no trembling fears* 
 In that dear home, far, far above 
 This land of tears? 1 ' 
 
 Marcia slept a long time, and awoke refreshed. 
 After partaking of a slight repast, she expressed a 
 26
 
 298 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 wish to see all the children. She wanted them to 
 come in and play about her room. One after another 
 they drew near her, received her kiss of affection, and 
 kindly wishes, and then they commenced to play, not 
 with the wild, boisterous mirth of childhood, but with 
 subdued gentleness prompted by their love for the 
 fair young invalid. Little Benny drew near his sister, 
 kissed her, and then laid his head down on her pillow, 
 while she caressingly passed her hand over his sunny 
 curls. Mr. Woodville entered the room, and ap 
 proached her. 
 
 "Sit down, father," she said. "I have been want 
 ing to see you so much all day." 
 
 "I did not come before, my daughter, because I 
 feared I should disturb you. Tell me what you wanted 
 to see me for ? You know I am always obedient to 
 your wishes." 
 
 "I have no wishes to make known to you, dear 
 father, only to tell you to remember me when I am 
 gone." 
 
 " Can I ever forget you, sweet vision of youth and 
 innocence ? Ah ! think it not. God sent you to me 
 to make me love my fellow creatures more. You have 
 softened a hard heart, and taught me to pity where I 
 used to judge with harshness and view with suspicion." 
 
 " Then my life has not been useless ; and, indeed, 
 each day as I grow older I am convinced, more and 
 more, that we should have charity with all men. 
 Sometimes people err from a wrong education, which
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 299 
 
 has taught them to view every thing through a false 
 medium." 
 
 "Ah! believe me, my child, we are all the creatures 
 of circumstances. We say, when we hear that so and 
 so has done such a thing, we should never have acted 
 so; but we don't know any thing about it. We never 
 know what we will do till we are tried. Happy are 
 they who glide along the current of life, and never 
 feel its cares and sorrows, but happier far are they 
 who, although surrounded by trouble, and sorely af 
 flicted, fight the good fight, and come out of the fur 
 nace purified and strengthened. But, Marcia, I will 
 not weary you by talking so much. I should not for 
 get how long you were forced to sit up this morning 
 for the painter. How do you feel, my child?" 
 
 "Very weak, but it seems as if all pain had left me. 
 I know not how to account for the strange feeling of 
 happiness that is filling my heart. It seems to me 
 that I must be drawing very near to the hour when I 
 shall throw oft" this poor corruptible body, and put on 
 the robes of immortality." 
 
 "And do you shrink, my daughter, from the trial? 
 Have you sufficiently weaned your heart and its 
 affections from those you love, to be willing to go 
 when God calls you home?" 
 
 " It is a difficult question to answer, dear father. I 
 may say I do not love any of you less, but I love God 
 and my Redeemer more. I bid you farewell only for 
 a little season. I shall meet you in that land where
 
 300 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 farewells are unspoken, and partings are unknown. 
 We certainly cease to hate when we leave this world, 
 but let us hope we do not cease to love." 
 
 "Very true, if that love does not carry with it the 
 jealousies, disappointments and sorrows of humanity." 
 
 "Of course heaven would exclude all these. We 
 shall love with all the pure, holy affection of angels, 
 but the black passions which stand between us and 
 happiness here, will have no power to torment our 
 souls hereafter. I have come to look upon heaven as 
 the fruition of bliss. God would not have created 
 within us those yearnings for happiness, if he had not 
 also created happiness for us. He loves me tenderly, 
 and in removing me from the sorrows and temptations 
 of life, he proves his undying and boundless love. A 
 short time ago I could not recognize a blessing in so 
 severe a blow. My eyes are opened, and I feel that 
 in leaving all the bright things of earth, that smile but 
 to deceive us, that I shall inherit a far more exceeding 
 and eternal weight of glory; and I can say, in all 
 truth and sincerity, ' Thy will be done.' ' : 
 
 "You look beyond the clouds and darkness that 
 shadow the view of death, my child, else you could not 
 speak so calmly. How rejoiced I am to find you thus 
 tranquil and happy. You are teaching us a lesson of 
 submission, and I trust we may profit by it. I will 
 leave you now, for here is Harry, and he cannot fail 
 of proving better company than your poor old father." 
 
 "I should be very ungrateful to think so."
 
 LIFE OP A WANDERER. 301 
 
 r 
 
 Mr. Woodville left the room, and Harry Percy took 
 his place at the side of his beloved. For long hours 
 they talked, dwelling on the happiness of the last few 
 weeks, and recalling every word and look of affection 
 that had passed between them. Poor things, they 
 could only look back, for unlike the many lovers that 
 we meet, they could not revel in the future. Ah! 
 think how sad and lonely you would be, if the bright 
 hopes of your heart were thus clouded. You can bear 
 the ills of to-day with fortitude. You can bow beneath 
 the storms that sweep over you, for you say there is a 
 better day coming. There is a bright and happy 
 future. Oh! pity then the dark fate of those who 
 have no hope save in death. Who live from day to 
 day, and go through all the duties of life, and yet 
 whose hearts lie cold and dead within them, whose 
 pulses never quicken with the glad thrillings of hope. 
 
 But, as Marcia sat and talked, with her head resting 
 on the bosom of him she loved, and her arms twined 
 affectionately about him, a fearful paleness overspread 
 her features. She said, in a low, distinct voice 
 
 " Susan, call my mother and Benny. I am going 
 fast. Be quick." 
 
 Susan instantly did as she was ordered. Harry 
 Percy bent over her. He smoothed back the wet, 
 tangled curls from her pure white forehead. He 
 sought by the tenderest caresses to soothe her sinking 
 spirits. Mrs. "Walton entered, followed by every 
 member of the family. Harry Percy laid the dear 
 26*
 
 302 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 ^c. v 
 
 head on Mrs. Walton's bosom, and then knelt beside 
 
 - w 
 
 her. She said 
 
 " I am so glad to see you once more. Octave is not 
 here. It is well. You have all been kind and good 
 to me, and I hope to meet you in that land where 
 there is no death. Farewell, my dear teacher, fare 
 well. May God bless you all for the light you have 
 shed upon the Wanderer's way. Harry, dear, take a 
 pencil and write some verses as I repeat them to you." 
 
 Harry did as he was directed, and thus he wrote : 
 
 THE LAST SIGHS OP THE DYING. 
 
 I am dying ; I am dying. The cold night breeze of death, 
 Is fanning now my pallid brow, I feel its icy breath. 
 The gay, the young, the beautiful are fading from my sight ; 
 Dark shadows creep around me. They vail me from the light. 
 
 I am dying ; I am dying. Oh ! never, never more, 
 Can Love or Hope delight me, my pleasures here are o'er, 
 I must leave thee, my heart's idol ; Oh ! hear my dying lay, 
 And think of me, dear Harry, when I am far away. 
 
 I am dying; I am dying : My voice is failing fast: 
 Each breath that comes so painful, seems to me to be the last. 
 And yet my heart devoted, teems with images of thee, 
 Then soothe my dying agony, and say thou'lt think of me. 
 
 I am dying ; I am dying : Throw wide the curtains, dear, 
 Oh! let the soft spring breezes play gently round me here; 
 I inhale the fragrant blossoms, borne on the balmy air ; 
 How once I loved to twine them in the tresses of my hair.
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 303 
 
 I am dying; I am dying ; Oh ! why will vain regret, 
 
 Hang round my last sad hours, and distress me even yet: 
 
 Oh ! Heavenly Father aid me, and clear the darkening way, 
 
 Which leads through Night and Sorrow, to a bright and glorious day. 
 
 I am dying ; I am dying. Farewell my mother sweet ; 
 Farewell, beloved father; dear Benny do not weep. 
 Harry, I go to glory. Oh ! meet me in the sky ; 
 I come, my blessed Saviour : I breathe my last, and die. 
 
 Suddenly the lips of the sufferer moved convulsively, 
 and then her teeth chattered like a person in a strong 
 ague fit. Rolling her large eyes up, and fixing them 
 with an expression of the most touching beauty and 
 innocence, she said 
 
 "Mother, what is that? What makes my teeth 
 chatter so?" 
 
 The answer, spoken in a low, solemn tone, which 
 was, however, fearfully distinct, was 
 
 "My daughter, this is death!" 
 
 It rang through the silent apartment, like the knell 
 of a broken heart. One after another every one drew 
 near, kissed the pale cheek and brow of the dying girl, 
 and breathed their blessings on her head. Then her 
 brother received the last words of advice, the last kiss 
 of a sister he loved tenderly ; but unable to restrain 
 his tears he wept upon her bosom. 
 
 And now, her mother clasped her dying child to her 
 heart, and asked her if she knew who it was that held 
 her thus fondly. "Ah!" said the sweet invalid,
 
 304 WAY-MAKES IN THE 
 
 "could I in life forget my blessed mother." Then, 
 with the strange energy which often comes in the 
 struggle between life and death, she raised herself 
 from her mother's breast, and throwing her arms 
 around Harry's neck, rested her head on his shoulder. 
 Gently he turned her face to meet his own, and pressed 
 his warm lips upon her cold, compressed mouth. For 
 one instant she returned the thrilling pressure: for 
 one instant she held tightly to her innocent bosom the 
 form she loved so dearly : for one instant the hearts 
 that loved so tenderly united in their throbbings ; and 
 then a smile, like light from heaven, irradiated her 
 face : she sighed the dear name of Harry, and straight 
 ening herself, she closed her eyes, and plunged into 
 the dark ocean of Eternity. 
 
 Thus died one of the loveliest of the daughters of 
 earth. Thus, in the morning of life, with the diadem 
 of virgin purity upon her brow, with the spotless beauty 
 of innocence upon her breast, she passed away, leav 
 ing behind a void in the hearts of affection, that other 
 love could never fill. 
 
 It was thus that Harry wrote of her, a few days 
 ago, when he visited her last resting place : 
 
 TO MY LOVED AND LOST MARC1A. 
 
 Lovely wort thou as the stars, 
 
 That shine so bright at hour of even; 
 Lovely wert thou as the moon, 
 
 That silvers o'er night's slarry heaven.
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 305 
 
 Lovely wert thou as the flowers, 
 
 That bloom and scent the sunny air, 
 Aye, sweeter far than life's gay hours, 
 
 Wert thou, fairest of the fair. 
 
 'Neath the weeping willow bending, 
 
 Gazing on thy lonely grave; 
 Mourn I still with tears unending, 
 
 How we lost the power to save. 
 Gently moans the winds about thee, 
 
 Fair young flowers their perfume shed ; 
 I am lost, undone, without thee, 
 
 My early loved, and early dead. 
 
 Marcia, sweet, tho' death has torn thee, 
 
 From my loving breast away, 
 Though the angels far have borne thee, 
 
 To the realms of endless day ; 
 Still my heart is not all sadness : 
 
 Dearest, we shall meet again, 
 In that land of joy and gladness, 
 
 Where God permits not care or pain. 
 
 Fare thee well, then. Thus I breathe thee 
 
 Vows of endless truth and love. 
 Never, dear one, ah ! believe me, 
 
 Shall I cease to look above, 
 Where, 'mid bands of angels singing, 
 
 Tuning thy harp to sweetest praise, 
 Thou o'er its golden chords art flinging, 
 
 The hopes of brighter, happier days.
 
 306 WAY-MAKKS IN THE 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 My task is well nigh done. It remains for me now 
 to look about me and see what has become of the 
 characters that have played a part in my story. 
 
 Octave Woodville still lives on his plantation, with 
 his lovely young wife ; and a second Mary has come 
 to bless their youth, and bring joy to their household. 
 Mrs. Woodville moves about her home with the same 
 stately dignity, and within her bosom beats the same 
 affectionate heart. Her grandchildren are progress 
 ing in their studies, and often, when they all assemble 
 in the evening, they recall the visions of the past, and 
 gaze upon the touching pictures that memory brings 
 before them. The name of Marcia is held in rever 
 ence among them, and they regard her as an angel 
 who once lingered near them, to teach them of another 
 and a better world. 
 
 In a very comfortable house in Brooklyn, may be 
 found our friends, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. Mr. J. is as 
 good-natured as ever, and Mrs. J., becoming awakened 
 to the unkindness of her feelings and actions to one 
 she had promised at the altar of God to love, honor, 
 and obey, now makes the most affectionate and duti 
 ful of wives. Need I add that they often go to the 
 Wanderer's grave, and recall the sweet time when,
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 307 
 
 like a fairy spirit, she moved about them, smiled her 
 sweet smiles, and laughed her merry laugh, and woke 
 within their hearts the love that death itself could not 
 eradicate. 
 
 The wicked Mary was sold, with her son Jacob, to 
 an extensive cotton grower in Louisiana. She has 
 been placed at labor in the field, and is removed from 
 the chance of harming Octave's young and lovely 
 wife. 
 
 On the banks of the beautiful Connecticut, a lovely 
 residence, embowered in trees, and surrounded by 
 verdant lawns, flowery parterres, leafy woods and 
 murmering waterfalls, contains the still charming and 
 excellent mother of our fair Wanderer. Were you to 
 go there and ask for Mrs. Walton, the servant would 
 stare at you, and say no such person lived there. If, 
 however, you should pass that way, and inquire for 
 Mr. and Mrs. John H. Woodville, you would at once 
 be ushered into the presence of as happy a couple as 
 you ever met. The adopted father of Marcia is not 
 the lonely, desolate old man we knew at the com 
 mencement of our story. He had little difficulty in 
 winning the heart of the mother, after all his devotion 
 to the child, and here, in the performance of his duties 
 as a man and a Christian, his life draws peacefully to 
 a close. Two children may be seen daily, playing in 
 the groves, gathering flowers, and laughing with the 
 glad mirth of childhood. One of them is our fair 
 little Benny; still fair and delicate, with the same
 
 308 WAY-MARKS IN THE 
 
 sunny curls his sister so loved to twine around her 
 wax-like fingers. The other is a sweet little girl of 
 two or three summers, the child of Mr. Woodville's old 
 age. Need we tell you how he loves it ? How he 
 has named it after her sainted sister, Marcia ? How, 
 at the hour of twilight, he points to her home beyond 
 the stars, and tells the little innocent, sweet tales of 
 the days when first he met her, with the halo of inno 
 cence and beauty on her brow? How he saw the 
 roses fade ? how her eyes closed on earth, and open 
 ed on the far side of that ocean that rolls between us, 
 and the Life Eternal ? 
 
 In the love of an affectionate and devoted husband, 
 blessed with the smiles and happiness of her children, 
 removed far above the cares of poverty, and surround 
 ed by the countless luxuries and blessings of wealth, 
 Mrs. Walton forgets the sorrows of her past life. 
 She treasures the memory of her lost child as a link 
 that binds her to that Blessed land God has promised 
 to his faithful children. 
 
 A mammoth steam ship leaves her dock amid the 
 cheers and blessings of those standing on the shore. 
 She bears with her vast numbers of the great and 
 good of our land, and there are among her passengers 
 some friends of our own. A tall, handsome young 
 man waves his last adieux to his friends on shore. A 
 fair young creature, all smiles and beauty, leans upon 
 his arm. She takes a long last look of the towering 
 spires, the rows of warehouses and numerous dwellings
 
 , * 
 
 LIFE OF A WANDERER. 309 
 
 of her own native New Orleans. She is leaving it, 
 perhaps forever, and yet she does not weep. She has 
 bidden farewell to father, mother and brother, and now 
 she has gone forth on the ocean of life, with one 
 strong arm to guide her; with one loving heart to 
 shield her. She fears not for the future, but with all 
 the gay, glad spirits of her young heart, Kate Kennet 
 becomes Mrs. Woodville, and leaving all other friends, 
 clings to him alone, in all the fondness of her loving 
 heart, who first awoke within her the budding germs of 
 love. 
 
 Harry Percy ! Lonely and desolate, widowed until 
 death, thou alone preservest, in all its greenness and 
 unfading beauty, the memory of thy lost love. They 
 call thee hard and cold. They do not know thy heart 
 that speak of thee thus. 
 
 In the paths of ambition, Harry Percy sought 
 oblivion of the sorrows that filled his heart. He cared 
 not for fame, but it crowned him with honors; he 
 esteemed not wealth, but it flowed into his coflers. He 
 became a politician, and the great and good and wise 
 men of our day crowd around him, and listen to his 
 words as to those of an oracle. He has not an enemy 
 on earth. He is kind to every human being that 
 crosses his path, and the happiness of his life is to 
 make others happy. It is in vain that the young and 
 beautiful flit around him, displaying their charms in 
 the mazy revolutions of the dance, or in the sweet 
 melody of song. In vain they seek to ensnare his 
 27
 
 310 WAY-MARKS IN THE LIFE OF A WANDERER. 
 
 heart or win his love. He smiles on them it is true, 
 but it is the sickly smile of departed hope. His heart 
 is in the grave "with his lost idol. His love is no 
 longer earthly. It pines for the Spirit Land. 
 
 He leaves the gay haunts of men, the wine cup 
 wreathed in flowers, the festive hall, the smiles of 
 beauty, the allurements of wit, and men say, he has 
 some secret divinity he worships. He goes to the 
 grave where sleeps the sweet vision of innocence that 
 he loved so tenderly, and communes with the spirit 
 of her that he believes lingers around him. He often 
 watches the stars that look down calmly, as he lies 
 beside her grave, and he believes he sees, in their 
 softened radiance, the gentle eyes of his lost love, 
 shedding upon him the mild and chastened glory of 
 heaven.


 
 
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