V s *? m v* m '* &&<&& 3 . THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES / c w 3 c< B <*l cm 3k aOQCS. CO- - . i uc<* < :t c , f - - "*"S3B^t "cfe^i 1 "ffSE2: ;&?-3ti C<*C? <3T< < *r <<*."< ' t i . . c C c CCc ' it. Cc CCL 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 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