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 UNFORTUNATE MOUNTAIN GIRL 
 
 COLLECTION OF MISCELLANIES, 
 
 PROSE AND VERSE, 
 
 BY L. J. PRATT 
 
 KUTLAND: 
 
 080. A. TUTTLg & CO., BOOK AND JOB PRINTKBS. 
 1855-
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 In presenting this little work to the public, the writer would beg 
 leave to say that she does not make special claims to erudition, or a 
 ctyle of writing, which shall attract for its novelty. Having been 
 nearly deprived of the use of her eyes since the age of eleven years, 
 he has made such use of her mental faculties as her kind Heavenly 
 Parent has permitted; and, through the aid of her friends, presents 
 in this little volume some of those meditations which have occupied 
 her mind while the external world in all its beauty and splendor has 
 in a great measure been shut out from her vision. She can only hope 
 that her readers will throw the mantle of charity over the many 
 imperfections, which, she is aware, exist in these humble efforts to 
 give form and expression to a few straggling thoughts. She would 
 respectfully ask that the Golden Rule might be the rule by which her 
 cause might be tried, and then she may confidently expect that the 
 " UCFORTUNATE MOUNTAIN GIRL " will meet with a kind reception from 
 an indulgent public. 
 
 Wt-r BIRESHIRI. VT.
 
 THE 
 
 UNFORTUNATE MOUNTAIN GIRL, 
 
 THE GIPSY GIRL, 
 
 LizzA,the heroine of our story, was the daugh 
 ter of a Gipsy. Her mother died when she was 
 about six years of age," and from that time she 
 had mingled in the society of none save that of 
 her father, who then left his tribe and betook 
 himself to a secluded spot near the banks of the 
 river D., where he hoped to spend the remainder 
 of his days in the society of his beautiful and 
 gentle-hearted Lizza, and resolved to seclude 
 her from the gaze of the gossiping world for fear 
 that her beauty would deprive him of his only 
 treasure. Here they spent several years in 
 happiness, unmolested by the intrusion of any. 
 She was ever by her father's side, save when he 
 went to market, and during his absence she usu-
 
 O THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 ally amused herself by singing the wild Gipsy 
 songs which her father had learned her, which 
 were, the most of them, favorite pieces of her 
 mother's. 
 
 One beautiful evening in September, Lizza and 
 her father were seated under their favorite tree, 
 singing their wild song, which they usually sang 
 at the close of the day, when the sun was shed 
 ding its last rays over the earth. They had 
 scarcely finished their song, when a stranger 
 stepped from beneath a thicket, where he had 
 been listening to the bird-like voice of Lizza. 
 He approached the spot where sat the old man 
 and his beautiful daughter, resting her head 
 upon his shoulder, and very politely accosted 
 them. The old man was much disturbed at his 
 approach, and by no means gave him a hearty 
 welcome. The stranger looked at the fair girl 
 with astonishment. He had often seen the old 
 man in the market but had never dreamed of 
 his having so beautiful a daughter. 
 
 After a short interview, the stranger perceiv 
 ing that he was an unwelcome guest of the old 
 man, took his leave. "I am thankful he has
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 7 
 
 gone," said the old man, placing his hand upon 
 Lizza's shoulder. 
 
 "Why father? why did the presence of that 
 gentleman give you so much pain?" 
 
 " I have my reasons ; but it would not be prop 
 er for you to know. Come child," said he, 
 starting from his seat, " let us go to our tent." 
 
 Lizza asked many questions concerning the 
 stranger, but could gain no satisfactory answer. 
 In a few days after, the old man was again 
 obliged to visit the market. As soon as he en 
 tered the market, the stranger saw him, and 
 knowing that he usually stopped there some 
 time, resolved that he would seek an interview 
 with the fair Gipsy during her father's absence, 
 and immediately set out for her tent. 
 
 Lizza, as soon as her father had gone, seated 
 herself beneath the shade of her favorite tree 
 and commenced singing her wild songs. Look 
 ing up, she saw some one at a distance, whom 
 she recognized as the stranger who had accosted 
 them but a few evenings before. He approach 
 ed, and taking her warmly by the hand, seated 
 himself by her side. Lizza seemed much alarm-
 
 8 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 ed on finding herself alone with the stranger, 
 and begged him to be gone, telling him that her 
 father would be very angry should he find him 
 there on his return. 
 
 "Do not be frightened, my dear girl," said 
 he, " I came here to converse awhile with you 
 during your father's absence, and will leave ere 
 he returns. But tell me, I entreat you, why a 
 being so fair as yourself should spend her days 
 here in this secluded spot." 
 
 " Secluded spot" said she, with an air of con 
 tempt. " We are Gipsies we have our mode 
 of living and you have yours. I am happy in 
 the society of my father, and you, perhaps, in 
 the society of a wife or a mother." 
 
 "Wife," murmured he, "I have no wife, but 
 had I one as beautiful as yourself, true enough, 
 I should be happy in her society." 
 
 " But," said Lizza, " say no more. You must 
 leave, for my father will soon return." 
 
 He reluctantly rose, and, taking her by the 
 hand, said: -"We part now, but not forever." 
 
 These words rung m the ears of Lizza. "But," 
 said she, "it will never do for me to even think
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 9 
 
 of him, for he is a stranger. Besides, my father 
 will never consent for me to receive calls from 
 any one." 
 
 Time passed on, and Lizza thought more and 
 more of the stranger, and, at times, almost wish 
 ed that she could see him again. At length, her 
 father was obliged to go to market. Edward 
 (as that was the stranger's name) saw the old 
 man there as soon as he entered, for he had 
 watched each day for his approach. Immedi 
 ately he set out to renew his visit with the fair 
 Gipsy. As he reached the spot, he found the 
 fair girl under her favorite tree, but she seemed 
 thoughtful and melancholy. He took her by 
 the hand, saying, "My dear Lizza, I came here 
 this afternoon to declare to you the love which 
 I have had for you since first we met, and to 
 offer you my heart and hand, and seek yours in 
 return." 
 
 "But stop," interrupted Lizza. "You are 
 too hasty. You would never marry a Gipsy." 
 
 "Marry a Gipsy! to be sure I would, and 
 shall consider myself one of the happiest beings 
 in the world if I can but obtain you."
 
 10 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 " Oh no, that can never be, for I have ever 
 been taught to love none but my father, and he 
 would never consent to our union. Why, Ed 
 ward, would you not feel mortified to introduce 
 me to your friends as your bride ?" 
 
 " Mortified, dear Lizza, no, indeed. I should 
 feel proud to call so fair a being as yourself my 
 own. It is true, you know nothing of my cir 
 cumstances; but one thing is certain, I have 
 enough to place you beyond the reach of want, 
 unless misfortune's hand is laid heavily upon me. 
 If that should be our lot, we will share it to 
 gether." 
 
 " Oh Edward, how could I be so ungrateful 
 to my father, who has always been so kind to 
 me, as to leave him without a friend on earth to 
 comfort him in his declining years. Oh Edward, 
 I could never act so rashly," said she, while the 
 tears fell from her dark eyes. 
 
 Edward drew her closely to his side, saying: 
 " Dear Lizza, you need not leave your father 
 alone. He shall always have a home with us 
 Only say that you will be mine. Say, dear Lizza,
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 11 
 
 could you not be happy with me ; or should you 
 sigh for your wild home?" 
 
 Lizza, leaning her head upon his shoulder, 
 said: "I could be happy in your society, but 
 my father will forbid our union." 
 
 " Never fear,- dear Lizza, I will obtain his 
 consent if you will allow me to remain here until 
 he returns." 
 
 " You can do as you like, but I fear he will 
 be very angry, and immediately remove me from 
 this part of the world ; and if we are married, 
 it must be done privately." 
 
 " Well, Lizza, then say the next time your 
 father goes to market that I may come here with 
 a carriage, and that you will accompany me to 
 the village where we will have the marriage 
 ceremony performed." 
 
 "But," said she, "what will my poor father 
 think on returning and finding me absent?" 
 
 " We will leave a letter here which will ex 
 plain all." 
 
 Lizza consented, and Edward took his leave, 
 feeling that he had the promise of the fairest be 
 ing in the world. Lizza, on her father's return,
 
 12 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 did not meet him with the same cheerful smile 
 that she was wont to do ; and the sadness of her 
 countenance attracted her father's notice. 
 
 " Lizza," said her father, " why are you so 
 sad? Are you not well?" 
 
 "Oh yes," said Lizza, throwing her arms 
 around his neck, and warmly imprinting a kiss 
 on his cheek. She strove to resume her usual 
 cheerfulness, but still her heart was sad. As 
 the time at length arrived for her father to again 
 visit the market, Lizza could not refrain from 
 tears. The old man saw the tears as they fell 
 from her eyes, and drawing her to his side said : 
 " My child, what is the cause of your weeping?" 
 
 " Oh, I was thinking how lonely I should be 
 were I to be deprived of your company." 
 
 " Do not allow yourself to think upon that 
 subject," said her father, "for we will never be 
 separated until by the ruthless hand of death." 
 On saying this, he imprinted a kiss on her cheek, 
 and said, "be cheerful, my child," and left her. 
 
 As soon as he was gone, she gave vent to a 
 flood of tears. She called to mind the many 
 happy hours that she had spent with her father,
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 13 
 
 and the thought of leaving her childhood home 
 forever, to go she knew not where, was more 
 than her poor heart could bear. 
 
 She soon heard the carriage wheels as they 
 approached. She sat motionless as Edward en 
 tered the tent. 
 
 "Dear Lizza, why are you weeping? You 
 do not regret the promise you made, do you? 
 You shall never want for the comforts of life, 
 and you shall ever find in me a kind and affec 
 tionate husband ; and as for your father, he shall 
 ever be a welcome guest with us. And here," 
 said he, " is a letter for your father. Come, we 
 must be in haste, for we have no time to spare." 
 
 Lizza, then, with as much composure as pos 
 sible, took leave of her home, where sorrow had 
 ever been a stranger until now, and was soon 
 rolling rapidly away. Lizza's father returned 
 sooner than usual, and entering the tent, found 
 his child gone and a letter lying upon the table. 
 On opening it he read as follows : 
 
 " Dear Sir : I know that you will feel much 
 surprised at the absence of your daughter, but be 
 ealm, and I will tell you all. Sir, the first time
 
 14 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 I saw your daughter, seated by your side, I re 
 solved that she should be mine if I could obtain 
 her consent. Accordingly, I availed myself of 
 the opportunity to talk with her during your ab 
 sence, and to-day, ere the sun shall set, Lizza 
 will be my lawful and wedded bride. But in 
 three days she shall return to you. She was 
 very unwilling to leave you, as she said she was 
 all that you had to care for in this world. But 
 let me say that you need never be separated, 
 for you shall ever have a home with us. And 
 believe me to be your dutiful and affectionate 
 son. EDWARD BLAKELY." 
 
 As he closed the letter, he sank back in his 
 chair, saying, " I shall never see another happy 
 moment, for my only child is torn from me, and 
 for me to leave my old home and go to that of 
 another, I can never bear the thought. No, I 
 will live like a hermit, and when the Lord sees 
 fit to call me from earth, I will die alone, without 
 one friend to bathe my throbbing brow, or shed 
 the farewell tear. For twelve years it has been 
 my constant care to supply the wants of my only 
 treasure. I have denied myself of every com-
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 15 
 
 fort for her sake. And is this the reward?" 
 The old man spent the days in walking around 
 the solitary paths that he used to traverse with 
 so much delight when his darling child was at 
 his side. And at night he would lie down upon" 
 his couch, but he could not rest, for sleep had 
 departed from his eyes. 
 
 At length, the time arrived for the return of 
 liis child. As Lizza and Edward entered the 
 tent, they found their father weeping. 
 
 "Oh, my dear father," said Lizza, "I have 
 come to ask your pardon, and, if possible, to 
 persuade you to go home with me." 
 
 My dear child, I grant you my pardon, but 
 I can never leave my home. Since here is the 
 man of your choice, go and be happy. But for 
 me, I shall never again be happy." 
 
 " Say not so," interrupted Edwai'd, " for we 
 will ever be all that a parent can desire." 
 
 "Now," said Lizza, "I hope I shall be en 
 abled to repay your kindness to me. Come, say 
 that you will go home with us. Come, say you 
 will go at least and see our home." 
 
 After mucli persuasion, the old man consent-
 
 16 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 ed. They were soon seated in the carriage, and 
 rolled rapidly along, until they reached their 
 mansion, where they alighted and were shown 
 into a parlor nicely furnished, where they spent 
 the evening very pleasantly, and the old man 
 quite forgot his sorrow. Here he spent many 
 happy years with his affectionate and happy 
 children. And he never regretted leaving liis 
 old home. Lizza ever found Edward a kind and 
 affectionate husband, and stood high in society. 
 She was ever ready to lend a helping hand to 
 the needy, and was beloved by all who knew 
 her.
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 17 
 
 THE PEACEFUL COTTAGE, 
 
 IN a small village, in the eastern part of Maine, 
 lived, some years since, an old woman, who was 
 known by the name of Industrious Mary. Her 
 cottage .was built with logs and covered with 
 slabs, but from the air of neatness which every 
 thing about it exhibited, could not fail of attract 
 ing the notice of the passing stranger. Soon af 
 ter the death of the old lady, two friends hap 
 pened in their travels to meet at this place, and 
 being invited by the beauty of the scenery and 
 the desire of discoursing with freedom upon past 
 events, to a walk in the fields, they found them 
 selves unexpectedly at the humble cottage, which 
 a tall hedge hacl at first hindered them from see 
 ing. While they stood admiring its neatness 
 and simplicity, and anxious to know something 
 of its occupant, they were joined by a villager, 
 who informed them that it was then uninhabited, 
 and at their request proceeded to give the char-
 
 18 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 acter of its late owner, the substance of which 
 was as follows : 
 
 She was a "native of this village, and lived all 
 her life here without any loose desire of seeking 
 her fortune or fancy expectation of meeting with 
 advancement in distant places. Being always 
 averse to society, she had no borrowed vices nor 
 imitated follies. She was unacquainted with the 
 false pleasures of luxury, and what she knew 
 nothing of, she neither desired nor envied. Her 
 wants were the wants of nature ; she had not 
 habituated herself to falsehood by flattering the 
 vanity of a gaudy mistress, nor borrowed the 
 art of shedding tears for trifles, or bearing inso 
 lence with an affected submission; but having 
 thus escaped the general source of conniption, 
 and, at the same time, excluded herself from all 
 hopes of any assistance, but that of Providence, 
 she maintained herself by an honest and un 
 wearied industry, free from distress and above 
 dependence. It is the right of every cottager 
 to graze a cow on the adjoining common. This 
 privilege was Mary's estate. She had many 
 years ago purchased a cow with the money she
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 19 
 
 had saved from wages of her daily labor. From 
 her she was supplied with milk and butter and 
 cheese, part of which she lived upon, and part 
 she carried to the market. In a little garden 
 close to the house she had a row of apple trees, 
 under which, when no other business called her 
 away, she sat sewing with a contented heart and 
 a smiling face. Thus, what would have been 
 wretchedness and poverty in the estimation of 
 those who have been accustomed to fashionable 
 life, was easy affluence in the natural condition 
 of humanity. The neatness and regularity of 
 her house made me often frequent it ; her furni 
 ture and utensils of the cheapest sort were 
 always clean, and always in order, and every 
 thing about her seemed to be under the direc 
 tion of Providence and the smiles of heaven. 
 When she rose in the morning her devotions 
 were her first employment, her earliest and 
 purest thoughts were given to her Creator in a 
 form of humble adoration. She then read a 
 short portion of the holy Scriptures with a sin 
 cere and earnest attention, not with a view of 
 reconciling them to vice, or of interpreting them
 
 20 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 in her own favor ; but of regulating her behavior 
 by their unerring rules, nor till those duties were 
 performed did she suffer her mind to fix upon 
 the business of the day. She then milked her 
 cow and made her cheese, after which she sat 
 down to her sewing, and except the little time 
 spent at her meals, worked till evening. She 
 never went far from home, her longest journey 
 was to the next market where she sold the pro 
 duce of her little dairy, received the price of 
 her sewing, and bought what her own cow and 
 garden did not afford her. At the close of day, 
 she again milked her cow, and concluded the 
 day with reading and devotions. Thus was her 
 life one uniform scene of innocence and piety, not 
 saddened by misfortune, nor varied by caprice. 
 She enjoyed almost uninterrupted health till the 
 age of sixty, and then dying of a short illness, 
 was found possessed of seventy-five pounds which 
 she had laid up, that when she should be able to 
 work no longer, she might not subsist upon the 
 labor of others. Such was the history of Mary, 
 the inhabitant of the little cottage, a place which 
 by her industry and virtue she rendered far
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 21 
 
 more venerable than the elegant mansions of 
 sloth and luxury. 
 
 When we sit in solitude out of the sight of 
 man and unbiased by their customs, when we 
 are not afraid of being ridiculed by wit, or won 
 dered at by folly, is it possible to doubt a mo 
 ment which to prefer ? Can rational beings put 
 weeks, months and years, trifled away in unim- 
 proving discourse, idle visits and empty amuse 
 ments, in competition with Mary's useful labor? 
 But if we look farther into the conduct of those 
 who stand in higher life, and add their vices to 
 their follies, if with the time lost in thoughtless 
 diversion, we think of that which is wasted by 
 unlawful passions in ambitious pursuits, or crimi 
 nal indulgences, if we reflect on the allurements 
 to wickedness and discouragement from virtue, 
 we shall be still more convinced of the happiness 
 of obscurity. The devotions of Mary, so far as 
 we may presume to judge, were not disregarded, 
 since they were offered by one, who lived in the 
 practice of all the duties that fall within the 
 compass of action. They, no doubt, drew upon 
 her the eves of those angelic beings who look
 
 1 2'2 THF UNFORTUNATE 
 
 \vith contempt on pompous greatness, and turn 
 with abhorrence from prosperous wickedness, 
 and opened to her those regions of eternal hap 
 piness, whither many, who now boast their no 
 ble, ample fortunes and extensive capacities, 
 will never arrive. When we are led to repine 
 at our station and to envy the rich and the great, 
 let us look at their vices, their cares and their 
 troubles, and we may learn to hush every mur 
 mur by contrasting them with the happy life and 
 peaceful death of the contented, the industri 
 ous, the pious Mary.
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 23 
 
 THE ORPHAN'S SOLILOQUY. 
 
 I love to sit at dewy eve, 
 
 Beside some rippling rill, 
 
 When nought but silence reigns around, 
 
 And birds their quiet nests have found. 
 
 And in that silent, lone retreat, 
 Where nought save God's own eye can see, 
 I love to raise my voice in prayer 
 My Savior ever meets me there. 
 
 I love to think on early days, 
 When blessed with a mother's prayers and praise 
 When this heart was soothed from every grief, 
 By a mother's sighs, and kind relief. 
 
 Those golden links of memory ne'er 
 By time can be erased, 
 And while the vital spark remains, 
 I'll think and whisper oft her name. 
 
 And when this active form shall lie 
 Low mouldering in the ground, 
 Oh ! may my happy spirit rise, 
 To greet her spirit in the skies.
 
 24 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 I THINK OF THEE, 
 
 I think of thee when morning dawns, 
 And sheds o'er earth her gentle rays, 
 Then my thoughts they rest on thee ; 
 When thinkest thou of me ? 
 
 I think of thee through all the day, 
 Whether employed in work "or play, 
 Still my thoughts they rest on thee ; 
 When thinkest thou of me ? 
 
 I think of thee at the close of day, 
 And gladly would I wish thee to stay, 
 Yet we must separated be, 
 When thinkest thou of me ? 
 
 And in my dreams thy form I view, 
 Though I am far away from you, 
 Still my thoughts they rest on thee 
 When thinkest thou of me?
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 25 
 
 THE YOUNG HEIRESS, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IT was the close of a glorious summer. Old 
 Mr. Morton's small white house, on the banks 
 of the Illinois, embosomed in a rich profusion of 
 living green, adorned by flowers of deep luxury, 
 and canopied by a sky of sunny and gorgeous 
 hues, had been that summer the abode of as 
 happy a party as ever gathered around a cot 
 tage door, on a summer's evening. Charles 
 Eltham and his sister had spent seveal months 
 there. Arthur's health, which had been seri 
 ously impaired by severe suffering, was now 
 so far restored as to admit of active exertion, 
 for which the state of his finances was calling 
 loudly. And it was agreed that the party, on 
 the morrow, should leave the undisturbed repose 
 of the country for New York. 
 
 The circle at old Mr. Morton's had certainly 
 been a happy and interesting one. The old gen 
 tleman had been a soldier in the army of the
 
 26 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 revolution ; and the young people were as fond 
 of listening to his long and minute stories of 
 those ever-interesting clays, as he was of relating 
 them; and among the listeners, none dwelt with 
 more individual attention on every word, than 
 Marcia. And then the long, long romantic 
 walks on the ocean-like prairie, and amid the 
 masses of the never-ending forest. They gath 
 ered wild flowers, they listened to the music of 
 morning's earliest birds, they traced the course 
 of the wayward brook, they drank in the influ 
 ence of nature together. 
 
 Marcia had been happy, most happy, even 
 while she had been nursing a hopeless passion. 
 But to her it was not then hopeless. Sanguine 
 in all her expectations, unused to the blandish 
 ments of polite society, unskilled in reading hu 
 man hearts, and too conversant with novels and 
 romances, she imagined that the fondness which 
 Eltham manifested for her society was love. 
 
 Deluded girl ! He did, indeed, regard her 
 
 as a beautiful and rather interesting, but withal A 
 a wayward and faulty child. And the attention 
 with which he treated her was more the effect
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 27 
 
 of gratitude and friendship for the brother, than 
 tribute to any qualities possessed by the sister. 
 And had he even looked on her with more par 
 tiality, he would not have aspired to her hand, 
 for she had now become an heiress. Eltham 
 admired the firmness with which she bore her 
 good fortune, and very justly considered it an 
 indication of a strong mind. But sometimes he 
 thought of what she would be, when experience 
 should have corrected her faults, education re 
 fined her manners, and time matured her beauty. 
 Had he known the sacrifice she had been will 
 ing to make for his sake, his feelings toward her 
 might, perhaps, have been more ardent. He 
 never dreamed of the existence of that foolish 
 passion which his slightest attention, his most 
 immeaning compliment, was nursing. If he had, 
 his manner towards her would have been cold. 
 Willingly he would not have blighted one rose 
 in her future path ; little did he think he was 
 strewing it with thorns! Little did he think, 
 f while he twined wild flowers amid her flowing 
 tresses, and praised the fresh bloom of her cheek, 
 how many bitter tears would be shed over the
 
 28 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 memory of these careless actions, and idle words I 
 Little did he think, as he playfully kissed her 
 forehead, while in all the artlessness and inno 
 cence of early childhood she clung around his 
 neck, that he was mingling anguish in her cup 
 of bliss! 
 
 And were Arthur Morton and Lucy all this 
 time unmindful of each other's charms? no, 
 inquisitive reader. The germs of affection, 
 nourished at first in secret, had expanded into 
 full and beautiful bloom. The course of true 
 love had for once flowed smoothly. And now 
 they stood together before the marriage altar. 
 Lucy had never looked so beautiful before. Her 
 health, which intense anxiety had impaired, was 
 now perfectly renovated. A faint, retiring red 
 was just perceptible on her cheek ; her soft eyes 
 were redolent of bliss, and there was a devoted 
 look of fond confidence in the most pensive smile 
 that played around her beautiful lips. Arthur's 
 appearance was a perfect and happy contrast to 
 Lucy's. He was tall, his form manly and stri-^j 
 king, his forehead was noble ; and its clear, pure 
 white was shaded by hair of fhe deepest black.
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 29 
 
 His lips curled haughtily, but his eyes were the 
 most striking of his features ; it would have been 
 difficult for the careless observer to have told 
 their color, but their expression was never sur 
 passed. Whether they kindled with anger, 
 flashed with delight, or melted in tenderness, 
 they were alike unrivalled. There was a rem 
 nant of boyhood's roses on his cheek, which, in 
 moments of animation, would gradually change 
 to a deep, burning red ; yet his countenance was 
 manly in the extreme, and had nothing of the 
 round, smiling plumpness usually associated with 
 red cheeks. But though the personal appear 
 ance of that youthful pair was interesting, it was 
 nobility of mind that shed an unearthly glory 
 around them. They were, indeed, redeeming 
 spirits among common minds.
 
 30 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A few short years, 
 Ah! who can tell. 
 
 MARCIA MORTON was left to weep over the 
 presumption of unfounded hopes to lament 
 vanished dreams. But she was a proud girl ; 
 her pride was lofty as her affections were con 
 stant, and though in the depth of her heart was 
 buried anguish, yet her's were not the eyes to 
 quench their fires in unavailing grief, nor her's 
 the cheek to grow pale of unrequited love. 
 
 But she had soon other sorrows than those of 
 disappointed love, over which to grieve. Her 
 parents, ere the return of spring, were both laid 
 in the same grave. Marcia, for a long time, 
 was involved in the deepest anguish. She had 
 been a wayward, and sometimes a disobedient 
 child, but she had loved her parents with a depth 
 and fervency of feeling of which common minds 
 never dreamed ; and so now the bitterness o 
 her regret was proportional to the intenseness 
 of her love, and made a thousand times more
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 31 
 
 bitter by every recollection of her former un- 
 kindness towards those who were now alike in 
 sensible to her love, and her repentance. There 
 was, however, one consoling reflection ; for dur 
 ing months of their illness, she had been to them 
 a ministering angel. Yet her reflections were 
 sufficiently bitter to steal the color for a while 
 from those blooming cheeks, which nothing else 
 could have paled. 
 
 Marcia spent several years at a boarding 
 school, and then went in company with her 
 brother and his angel wife, to spend a few weeks 
 at the Springs. The beautiful orphan, and rich 
 heiress, did not escape admiration and flattery. 
 But she was no coquette : she treated all her 
 admirers and suitors with the same cold, calm, 
 hardly respectful, indifference. 
 
 Years had passed. Charles Eltham and Ar 
 thur Morton had met as old friends at the 
 Springs, to again renew the early friendship, 
 which had ever slowed in their hearts since their 
 
 first acquaintance in Illinois. 
 
 " Who was that queen-like beauty by your 
 side to-day, Mrs. Morton ?" said Eltham, as they
 
 32 
 
 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 sat together in a private apartment, that evening. 
 
 "And is it possible that you have really for 
 gotten your little favorite amid the wild haunts 
 of the Illinois?" 
 
 " Was that really Marcia Morton ? Impossi 
 ble! She cannot be so splendidly beautiful 
 and such expression in her looks !" 
 
 " Certainly, Mr. Eltham ; six years have pro 
 duced some change." 
 
 At that instant, the young lady in question 
 entered the apartment, along with her brother. 
 There was a slight embarrassment in her man 
 ner, as she returned Eltham's salutation ; but it 
 passed away, and Eltham found her conversa 
 tion brilliant, rich and refined. She was no 
 longer the fond, wild girl of fifteen, who had in 
 nocently returned his caresses no longer the 
 wayward, passionate child, but a dignified, grace 
 ful, and rather reserved young woman. A slight 
 paleness shadowed her brilliant features, as the 
 conversation turned on long-past days, old fa- 
 miliar scenes. One long-buried, but not forgot ( 
 ten dream of her girlhood, rushed obstinately to 
 her mind, and she was silent. She moved as in
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 33 
 
 her brilliant sphere of indifference, her heart 
 untouched, and her mind weary of this homage. 
 There was one who remained apparently indif 
 ferent to her peerless charms. Charles Eltham 
 treated her in company with a cold, distant re 
 spect. In the private circle, at Morton's, he con 
 versed familiarly with her, and seemed happy in 
 her society, but never betrayed any other re 
 gard for her than mere common friendship. 
 
 Another year had gone by, and wrought its 
 full share of changes. Mary Huntington was a 
 widow. She had long been an orphan, and her 
 brothers were hi foreign climes. She resided 
 in the family of her sister Matilda, who was 
 married, and mistress of a hotel at the Springs. 
 Morton and Eltham were again at the Springs. 
 Lucy and Marcia were at home the home of 
 Marcia's childhood, by the side of the Illinois. 
 Marcia had positively and rather obstinately re 
 fused to accompany her brother to the Springs, 
 and Mrs. Morton's presence was required at 
 home a few weeks, at the end of which period 
 she intended joining her husband at the Springs. 
 
 Eltham was thrown constantly into the society
 
 34 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 of Mrs. Huntington. Indeed, he was always 
 among the invited guests at Patterson's; for 
 Matilda, though she had seldom met him during 
 their long separation, still regarded him as a 
 very particular friend. He and Morton, who 
 was a cousin of hers, were invited to join, as 
 often as it should be convenient, in their private 
 family circle. Eltham, who was much fonder 
 of joining a social circle of friends, than of mix 
 ing in promiscuous society, soon became almost 
 an inmate of the family. His presence at first 
 inspired bitter thoughts in the blighted heart of 
 Mary ; but as they had met as friends during 
 her husband's life, so they met now. Eltham 
 remembered his early love only as a bright 
 dream, and he often smiled when he thought of 
 his waking disappointment. All resenntment 
 had long been dead, and he regarded Mrs. 
 Huntington as an early and dear friend. She 
 was changed, entirely changed ; and in the mel 
 ancholy widow, with her white, marble cheeks, 
 and smileless lips, none would have recognized i 
 the blooming and happy Mary Enfield. Yet 
 she was still an interesting woman, and still
 
 MOUNTAIN GIIIL. 35 
 
 beautiful. In mixed company, he treated her 
 with marked attention ; she was his partner in 
 the dance ; he listened with rapture when she 
 sung, and his delicate attentions to her were re 
 marked by all observers. 
 
 Did he love her ? No. Neither did he dream 
 that in her bosom cold, passionless as she 
 seemed there could possibly linger a single 
 smothered spark of young affection, to be kind 
 led to a flame. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 IT was summer, proud, gorgeous summer 
 Eltham's health had suffered severely from close 
 application to business, and he was now trying 
 leisure amid the beautiful scenery of Illinois, as 
 a restorative. He and Mrs. Morton were sit 
 ting together, one evening, when a letter, di 
 rected in a delicate female hand, was brought 
 to him. He gazed at the superscription, in
 
 36 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 evident surprise, broke the seal hastily, arid 
 glanced at the signature. He changed color, 
 and immediately left the room. When he was 
 alone, he read as follows : 
 
 "MY EARLY FRIEND: You will be sur 
 prised, perhaps displeased, at the reception of a 
 letter from me. I know too well that I am 
 transgressing the received laws of female deli 
 cacy in addressing you on the subject I am about 
 to introduce. But when I recollect how much 
 happiness I once recklessly threw away, I would, 
 if possible, regain some small portion of it. You 
 recollect too well my foolish coquetry, my heart 
 less falsehood. I saw you were suspicious of my 
 constancy, and fool that I was I resolved to 
 sport with your feelings. Yet, shall I say it ? 
 I loved you well .... and the thoughts of a final 
 separation, at that time, would have been an 
 guish. I did not know your spirit ; you treated 
 me with a degree of indifference, which, in re 
 turn, roused my resentment. I avoided you, 
 and spent my time with Huntington. I will not 
 now speak particularly of his attention; but at 
 last he taught me to believe I loved him better 
 than I had ever loved you. I married him. I 
 will pass slightly over the events of long, long 
 years. I would not, for all sublunary happiness, 
 pluck one green leaf from his laurel wreath of 
 fame. I would not shadow the unsullied repu-
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 37 
 
 tation of his name. But had suffering, power 
 to atone for crime, then had my perfidy long 
 since been expiated. I had learned to think of 
 my love for you as something for ever passed. 
 But, shall I own it, in spite of what the Avorld 
 would call indelicacy in spite of my own burn 
 ing pride. . . .that your presence, your conver 
 sation, revived all my young affection? Yet 
 would I have smothered and concealed it in ray 
 own bosom, had not your delicate attention to 
 me, and some expressions (perhaps they were 
 unguarded) led me to believe my love was re 
 turned. Why should we sacrifice a life of hap 
 piness to pride or resentment ? Do not despise 
 me for what I have written, and I will say adieu. 
 MARY HUNTINGTOX."' 
 
 He sat alone, with this effusion in his hand, 
 from one he had once warmly, confidingly and 
 absorbingly loved. What memories rushed thick 
 and fast upon his mind ! The hopes, the fears, 
 the bliss, the agonies of youth seemed all pres 
 ent. That fatal evening, when he had rushed 
 from the presence of Mary, his hopes blighted, 
 his fond affections thrown back, pride, scorn, 
 resentment in his heart then, even then, at 
 that bitter moment, his wild projects of ambition 
 had, for the first time, taken a definite form.
 
 38 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 They had grown, at once, into a mixed and im 
 movable resolve to stand one day high on the 
 ladder of ambition, where the proud girl who 
 had just (contemptuously as he thought) dis 
 carded the poor, friendless and unknown youth, 
 should look up to the station occupied by the 
 successful youth, and remember her folly. His 
 re'solve was partly fulfilled and that same girl 
 now sued for his favor offered the hand he 
 once so dearly prized! 
 
 LBTTEB FROM THE Uos. MR. ELTHAM. 
 
 " To MRS. MARY HUNTINGTON : I was, in 
 deed, my fair friend, surprised and even pained, 
 at the reception of your letter. You say, why 
 should we sacrifice a life of happiness to pride 
 or resentment? Believe me, I am not influ 
 enced by either of those motives. As for pride, 
 I might well be proud of a union Avith you, and 
 resentment has long, long ago passed from mind 
 and with it passed my early dream of love. 
 True, I did love you, love you deeply, fervently, 
 and too confidingly. But it became necessary 
 for me to conquer that love : I struggled long 
 and painfully to banish it from my mind. At 
 last I succeeded. I crushed, I trampled it in
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 39 
 
 the dust utterly extinguished its last spark! 
 It can never revive ! If any of my expressions 
 have implied a continuation of that love, they 
 were indeed unguarded expressions, and I deep 
 ly regret them. My particular attentions to 
 you, you should have imparted to friendship. I 
 am very sorry if they have been the cause of 
 unhappiness. I have indeed felt for you, and 
 do still feel, a tender, an uncommon regard ; but 
 it is friendship, pure and passionless. As such 
 I sincerely hope it may be returned. Write 
 me ; tell me you have abandoned your wild 
 dream of love, and will be my friend, and I 
 shall be happy. 
 
 CHARLES ELTHAM. 
 Mrs. Mary Huntington." 
 
 Mary read this letter with all the bitterness 
 of wounded pride, and blighted hope. Her last 
 dream of earthly bliss was over. Miss Morton 
 went one day into Eltham's room, to return a 
 book she had borrowed of him. He was not in 
 the room. As she glanced over some papers on 
 his table, she observed a folded and sealed letter, 
 directed to Mrs. Mary Huntington. She gazed 
 at it some time as if to assure herself that she 
 read aright. "It is then true," she exclaimed, 
 " he is to be married to my proud cousin." And
 
 40 THE UNFOKTUNATE 
 
 rushing from the apartment she sought her own 
 room. 
 
 A golden sunset, and a long, long ramble on 
 the prairie, had filled the minds of Eltham and 
 the lovely being at his side, with poetry and 
 dreams. " This is wrong it is foolish," thought 
 Miss Morton, as she stood close by the side of 
 him whose image had, for long years, mingled 
 in her dreams. " These solitary walks, delight 
 ful as they are, are only strengthening aifection, 
 it will now be crime to indulge. And do I in 
 deed love one who will soon be the husband of 
 another? I love him still, in spite of all my 
 better resolutions !" 
 
 "A glorious view," said Eltham. "One may 
 be proud of his country, when he looks on a 
 scene like this." 
 
 Here he paused. Then turning to Marcia lie 
 said: 
 
 " I have never talked to you of love. Per 
 haps you have never dreamed how deeply and 
 hopelessly I have loved you." 
 
 "Mr. Eltham," said Marcia, with a cold and 
 indignant look of pride, " I have always consid-
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 41 
 
 ered you a friend, and treated you as such ; if 
 you value my friendship, you will not renew this 
 trifling. I cannot tolerate insult." 
 
 " If my professions of love are insults, I will 
 certainly never again trouble you with the sub 
 ject. But I think if you felt one particle of 
 that friendship which you profess for me, you 
 would at least repress your anger, and treat me 
 with common respect. I am not aware of de 
 serving your contempt." 
 
 " A man deserves contempt the moment he 
 stoops to " 
 
 She paused abruptly, as they reached the 
 house and glanced towards him a look of indig 
 nation. 
 
 " To what ? Miss Morton." 
 
 She hesitated, and then turned towards the 
 door, as if to enter. 
 
 "I have a right to demand an explanation," 
 he said, in a low, compressed tone. "It is un 
 generous to leave your meaning unexplained." 
 
 And he caught hold of her burning and trem 
 bling hand to detain her. 
 
 She suddenly and with some effort withdrew
 
 42 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 her hand, and with one more glance, in which 
 love, pride, resentment and scorn were mingled, 
 entered the house, followed by Eltham. 
 
 In the parlor they found several of their young 
 acquaintances, all in high spirits. Marcia join 
 ed in the mirth with more than natural anima 
 tion and wild gaiety. There was a deep, un 
 usually deep and burning glow upon her cheeks ; 
 while her lips and brow were deadly pale, and 
 there was almost a maniac wildness in her eyes. 
 The wild flowers the playful Eltham had twined 
 amid her hair, on the prairie, were allowed to 
 remain, and she took no pains to arrange the 
 beautiful but dishevelled tresses. Eltham was 
 reserved and gloomy. Marcia retired as soon 
 as the company were gone, and she wept as 
 wildly as she had laughed and sung. 
 
 The next evening Miss Morton sat on a sofa, 
 alone, in a richly furnished apartment. The 
 poems of Julian were in her hand, but she was 
 not reading. She was startled from a long, 
 deep reverie, by the abrupt entrance of Eltham. 
 
 " I beg pardon, Miss Morton, for this intru-
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 43 
 
 sion," said Elteam. " I thought you attended 
 Mrs P ' spendid party to-night." 
 
 "And I too believed you there," she replied. 
 
 An awkward silence. 
 
 u And so you read Julian's poems sometimes," 
 said Eltham, as he sat down by Marcia's side. 
 
 She made no reply, but dashed away a gath 
 ering tear. 
 
 u You are sad to-night, Marcia. May I be 
 permitted to inquire the cause ?" 
 . " The cause, certainly, is nothing which can 
 possibly interest you, but I am indeed sad, and 
 in no humor to enjoy company ; forgive me 
 but I beg you would leave me." 
 
 ' Yes, I will retire immediately; but first give 
 me leave to say that your conduct towards me 
 has been ungenerous unworthy a woman of 
 sense and refinement and to me it has been, 
 and still is, inexplicable. Whatever may be 
 your remaining faults, I think you have entire 
 ly conquered your propensity to flatter. Miss 
 Morton is quite as innocent of that crime as I 
 am. Perhaps, however, I spoke severely but 
 remember you have used language to me, which,
 
 44 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 if used by a gentleman, would have justified me 
 in demanding an explanation. Now, Miss Mor 
 ton, if you have one particle of the generosity 
 or frankness I once imputed to you, you will not 
 leave your conduct unexplained. You told me 
 last evening I deserved contempt, and you have 
 been paying it off profusely. Will you now 
 condescend to inform me in what manner I had 
 deserved it?" 
 
 " Yes, I will. Your declaration of love was 
 either insult to me, or perfidy to another. As 
 either, I have a right to resent it." 
 
 "Perfidy to another! Is it possible, Miss 
 Morton, that you believe the common report, 
 that I was engaged to be married to Mrs. Hunt- 
 ington?" 
 
 " I did. And were you not so engaged?" 
 
 " Certainly not. But what reasons had you 
 for believing this foolish story?" 
 
 "A variety of reasons. In the first place, 
 your very particular attentions, which I pre 
 sume you will not deny, implied an engagement. 
 And then your sister believed it ; or at least I 
 have reason to suppose she believed it, and then
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 45 
 
 Miss , who, you know is the intimate friend 
 
 and bosom confidant of my cousin, told me in 
 confidence you were so engaged. She, you 
 must have discovered, is an artful and unprin 
 cipled girl. But there was another reason, 
 stronger with me than all the rest." 
 
 "And pray what was that?" 
 
 " You certainly will not deny corresponding 
 with Mrs. Huntington?" 
 
 u No, I will not ; but there was nothing in 
 that correspondence, which, as your professed 
 lover, I would be unwilling you should read. 
 As for what you are pleased to call my very 
 particular attentions to that lady, they were dic 
 tated entirely by friendship and so she under 
 stands them, whatever the world may say to the 
 contrary. But why so very positive about the 
 correspondence ?" 
 
 " Because I saw on your table a letter direct 
 ed in your handwriting, to Mrs. Mary Hunt 
 ington." 
 
 4 * And may I ask if this belief that I was en 
 gaged to another, influenced materially your 
 conduct towards me?"
 
 46 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 " It did very materially." 
 
 " And are you now convinced that such an 
 engagement never existed?" 
 
 " I have certainly no right or inclination to 
 dispute your candor." 
 
 The conversation now took a somewhat gentler 
 turn. We will not stay to repeat it. But there 
 was a wedding at Morton's the next fall. The 
 proud beauty, the rich heiress, gave her hand 
 confidingly to the poor but noble-hearted Eltham. 
 Six years from that time Charles Eltham, with 
 his still beautiful and devoted wife, were pleas 
 antly situated on the lovely banks of the Illinois.
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 47 
 
 THE YOUNG TUTOR, 
 
 ZELIA was an only and idolized child. Since 
 her mother's death, every wish, every feeling of 
 her youthful heart had been indulged. She 
 was the image of his lost, his loved one, and her 
 father cherished her as the only flower of his 
 lonely parterre. On her he expended all the 
 fervency, all the earnestness of his love. She 
 was dearer to him than life itself; and when he 
 witnessed her childish delight at Walter's visits, 
 he cheerfully broke through his established rules, 
 and told him in a few words, that his presence 
 would be as light to his dwelling. 
 
 Her father had been too jealous of his beauti 
 ful child to suffer her to seek instruction away 
 from home: but he was delighted at Walter 
 Durand's proposal to become her tutor. She
 
 48 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 showed decided talents for music and painting ; 
 and, under the instruction of the young tutor, 
 Zelia made rapid progress. 
 
 And each day her love grew stronger, yet 
 hard she strove to smother it in her own bosom. 
 We all know the power of love in subduing 
 prejudices, and overcoming difficulties. Con 
 stantly with Walter, her thoughts, her feelings 
 were imbibed from, or colored by his. Did Wal 
 ter reciprocate this love ? Deeply, passionately. 
 Her beauty and child-like sweetness had at first 
 attracted his notice, and now, added to these 
 charms, he had as it were moulded her mind and 
 heart, and almost worshipped the being who had 
 been committed to his charge ; but honor kept 
 her place firmly in his heart. He felt that great 
 would be his sin to gain the love of that young 
 happy heart, which could never, by her father's 
 will be his ; and that father had received him 
 and trusted him as a friend. No ! never would 
 he betray the precious trust which had been so 
 confidingly reposed in him. His mind was soon 
 determined ; he would fly from Zelia, fly from 
 her sweet friendship, which had been to him such
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 49 
 
 happiness. No longer would his evenings be 
 passed in listening to the eongs he had taught 
 her no longer would he guide that little hand 
 whose slightest touch caused a thrill through his 
 very heart ; no longer would he sit and gaze on 
 her dark eyes, forgetting earth, heaven, all hut 
 her sweet self. But, in denying himself this 
 happiness, he would at least be gaining that of 
 an appro ving conscience. 
 
 The evening preceding that fixed upon for his 
 departure, he entered the house of Mr. Hart- 
 land to visit Zelia, for the last time. He paused 
 at the half opened door of Zelia's room. He 
 entered, and seating himself by her side, clasped 
 her hand in his. She turned her full gaze upon 
 him, with such a look of confidence, holy, con 
 fiding feeling, that for the first time the thrilling 
 thought 'She loves me!' rose in his heart, and 
 almost overcame his fortitude. Could he de 
 termine IIOAV, when he first felt assured that his 
 love was returned, to dash from his lips the 
 brimming cup ? Could he resolve to destroy the 
 beaming glance of those eyes so full of deep 
 feeling!
 
 50 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 His resolution lingered, his lips faltered, the 
 tempter was fast weaving his net around him : 
 but with a firm, a strong effort, he threw from 
 him the weakness, and in a low but calm voice 
 told Zelia of business that called him far from 
 her. In an instant she was transformed ; those 
 eyes, but late revealing the depths of her pure 
 loving heart, now sank beneath his glance ; tears 
 gathered and fell over her pale and agitated 
 face ; and her whole frame quivered with excess 
 of emotion. Durand could bear it no longer ; 
 and drawing her head unresistingly to his bosom, 
 he mingled his tears with hers. 
 
 " Zelia, dearest love, I can no longer endure 
 the burden of silence silence that, like a 
 mountain, has weighed down my very heart. I 
 loved, nay, idolized you, but I dare not ask you 
 to love me in return. Your father who has 
 received me as a son in whose house I have 
 enjoyed more happiness- than I ever thought or 
 dreamed of. ... Can I then ask you to love me ? 
 Can I wish to take from him his beloved child 
 her on whom his very life rests. Can I deceive 
 him who has trusted me and be worthy of your
 
 MOUNTAIN UIRL. 51 
 
 love? No, Zelia, his dear heart shall never be 
 saddened by me by me on whom he has lav 
 ished so much love." 
 
 " But you mistake if you think that Zelia, 
 who has loved you, can ever be the bride of 
 another. I know what you are going to say, 
 that I am young ; but, believe me, this poor 
 heart can never know change until death." 
 
 Mr. Hartland, who had been listening for the 
 last half hour, to the conversation that passed 
 between the two lovers, now entered the room, 
 and taking Zelia by the hand, he said, while a 
 tear trickled down his pallid cheek : 
 
 u My dear, my only child, you have ever been 
 all to me that a child could be ; but ere long I 
 feel that I must be an inhabitant of the S[ hit 
 land, and leave you to share the friendship of a 
 cold-hearted world. Zelia, dear child, you know 
 not how long I have read your young heart, and 
 that of Walter's. Nay, tremble not, my chil 
 dren ; I heard your last conversation and find 
 that you ave worthy of my love and each other. 
 For months I have watched your growing love,
 
 52 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 and could not wish to check it. Guard her, 
 Walter, guard her young, pure heart. I now 
 give her to you." 
 
 We will not stay to repeat the conversation 
 which followed ; but will say that Mr. Hartland 
 had the pleasure of seeing his beautiful daugh 
 ter married to Walter Durand, ere the autumn 
 winds withered the summer's rich bloom. 
 
 Three years passed away and left Zelia a poor 
 and broken-hearted orphan. Walter, by degrees, 
 became neglectful of her, and at parties, he 
 would chat, laugh and dance with the trifling 
 and vain, while the more sensible portion of the 
 company would gather around her, delighted by 
 her fine manners and polished conversation. But 
 what to her was the admiration of the multitude, 
 when she was suffering for the want of the sun 
 ny beams of affection ? Her heart was like a 
 sensitive plant, and shrank as instinctively from 
 the slightest breath of unkindness as does the 
 Mimosa from an uncongenial atmosphere. She 
 became feeble and melancholy; and when he 
 demanded her reason for refusing to attend par 
 ties, she gave him to understand that she
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 53 
 
 thought her presence would be ' little missed 
 by him, and she preferred remaining at home. 
 
 One evening, Walter returned home at a late 
 hour and found Zelia lying upon a bed, the ser 
 vants weeping, and a physician in attendance, 
 who said she was suffering from a spasm on the 
 heart, which he attributed to fatigue. She soon 
 revived, and greeted him with a smile of unut 
 terable sadness, but no more of reproach escaped 
 her lips. She then sank into a stupor, and re 
 mained some days in a state of unconsciousness. 
 During this time, he was unremitting in his at 
 tentions, and as soon as her strength was suf 
 ficiently restored to hear him with safety, he 
 fell on his knees and most earnestly implored 
 her forgiveness. She replied: "My dear Wal 
 ter, may God forgive you as freely, as fully as 
 I do." 
 
 But in vain were all his cares to restore her 
 to health. She wasted away, like a flower of 
 earth. Eminent physicians were consulted, but 
 to no effect. Her disease was one which no 
 medicine could remove. 
 
 It was a beautiful evening in September. Ze-
 
 54 THF UNFORTUNATE 
 
 lia awoke from a sweet slumber and desired to 
 speak with her husband. He entered and ap 
 proached the bed, when Zelia took him by the 
 hand, saying : " My dear Walter, I have much 
 that I wish to say before I leave this world. I 
 blame myself that I did not make sufficient ex 
 ertion to win you back, and render your home 
 the most attractive place on earth. I yielded 
 too soon to gloom and despair; and it was but 
 natural that you, in health and cheerfulness, 
 should seek society more congenial with your 
 feelings. For this, my great mistake, I beg 
 your forgiveness. Let your future life, as far 
 as may be, atone for the errors of the past. 
 Seek to do good, and prepare to meet our dear 
 parents in that world where parting will be no 
 more. Dear Walter, farewell." 
 
 She gave him her hand, they exchanged a 
 parting kiss; and both remained silent. He 
 watched her in grief, and after a few moments of 
 apparent slumber, she once more roused herself, 
 and a smile of heavenly peace rested on her
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 55 
 
 countenance, and, giving him a look of forgiv 
 ing tenderness, her spirit departed. 
 
 For Zelia now poor Walter weeps. 
 And o'er her grave hU vigil keeps. 
 Nor does he leave her grassy mound 
 But lies upon the cold, damp ground.
 
 56 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 A CHEERING THOUGHT, 
 
 My trials now on earth are o'er, 
 And I can suffer here no more, 
 Calmly I now resign my breath, 
 And welcome thou messenger of death. 
 
 Joyfully I leave .all things below 
 And gladly to my Savior go, 
 Angels will waft my soul away, 
 Forever with the blest to stay. 
 
 Friends, whom I leave behind awhile, 
 Soon you shall share my Savior's smile 
 If faithful while on earth you roam, 
 Angels shall waft your spirits home. 
 
 Farewell, my friends, weep not for me, 
 Since Christ hath set my spirit free, 
 No troubles cross my peaceful breast, 
 For in my Savior's arms I rest.
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 57 
 
 THE ORPHAN CHILD, 
 
 I soon must close my eyes in death, 
 And who will receive my parting kiss? 
 And who will shed the farewell tear. 
 When the last rays of life disappear 7 
 
 Who will make the shroud for me ? 
 
 And who will my pall-bearers be ? 
 
 And who shall stand in the sacred desk, 
 
 When my soul hath reached a heaven of rest ? 
 
 And who'll prepare my narrow bed? 
 And who will close the coffin-lid? 
 Who will lower me in the narrow cell, 
 When my spirit doth with Jesus dwell ? 
 
 And who shall watch the fragrant rose 
 That decks the grave where I repose? 
 And who will cull the rose that blooms 
 Upon my meek. and early tomb ? 
 
 i 
 
 Who will raise the marble stone 
 At my head when I am gone ? 
 And who shall read, as they pass by, 
 They too. like me must faint and die ? 
 
 3*
 
 58 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 THE ORPHAN'S BENEFACTRESS, 
 
 " GOOD MORNING, my dear; why do you 
 weep ?" said Virginia, as she placed her hand 
 upon the shoulder of a little girl, who stood at 
 her door. She replied as she wiped away the 
 falling tear : "It is not for myself, but for my 
 mother." 
 
 " Your mother, child ; what is the matter ?" 
 said Virginia, drawing her to her side. " Be 
 lieve me your friend and tell me all." 
 
 " My mother," said the trembling girl, " is 
 very sick and has nothing for her comfort." 
 
 " What ? have you no father ?" said Virgin 
 ia, anxious to know more of the little stranger's 
 history. " And what is your name ?" 
 
 " My name is Julia Mason, whose father died 
 some years ago."
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 59 
 
 " Well, my dear, do not weep. I will assist 
 
 you." 
 
 Julia's heart swelled with emotion as she ac 
 companied her kind benefactress to the lonely 
 dwelling of her afflicted mother. On reaching 
 the house, Virginia entered, finding Mrs. Mason 
 lying upon a pile of straw, in one corner of the 
 desolate room, apparently asleep. Julia ap 
 proached the spot, and kneeling by her side, 
 whispered in a soft tone : " Dear mother, here 
 is a kind lady who has promised to be our friend, 
 and we may again be happy." 
 
 At that moment Virginia approached, and 
 taking the invalid by the hand said : " My 
 friend, you are certainly afflicted ;" while a 
 tear stole down her blooming cheek. Mrs. 
 Mason only answered by tears. " But," said 
 Virginia, " the Lord is able to do great things 
 for you yet, and I trust that I may be an in 
 strument in his hand of doing something for 
 
 you." 
 
 Mrs. Mason thanked the lady for her kind 
 ness, and Virginia took her leave, promising to 
 call again the next morning.
 
 60 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 The next day dawned brightly, and Virginia 
 arose with a glad heart, and preparing the morn 
 ing's meal in haste, she sallied forth in pursuit 
 of her benevolent purpose. She thought the 
 sun had never shone so sweetly before, and the 
 beams that strayed through the shrubbery, as 
 she crossed a little stream on her way, seemed 
 dancing gaily on the grass plot, as if playing at 
 bo-peep among the beautiful flowers, and the 
 brook itself had never rung its chimes so music 
 ally before. She did not know that the wires 
 which gave forth all this melody were vibrating 
 in her own heart ; and that gratified benevo 
 lence was the seraph-minstrel whose magic touch 
 was thrilling the silvery cords, whose mysteri 
 ous music tones are but stray notes detached 
 chimes of that anthem, whose full harmonial 
 symphonies roll ever from the angelic harps that 
 surround the throne of Eternal Majesty, whose 
 eye of love is never clouded or dim ; but sur 
 veys with equal care the vast and ponderous 
 globes which wheel their circling marches 
 through the unknown realms of trackless space, 
 and the frail children of his bounty who bloom,
 
 MOUNTAIN fcUKL. 
 
 and fade, and die, in this diminutive portion of 
 his domains. 
 
 Virginia rapped lightly at the door, and was 
 admitted by Julia, on whose features rested a 
 shade of sadness ; but it seemed so blended 
 with unmurmuring patience, that the beholder 
 could not fail to perceive the young spirit had 
 been moulded under the influences of those 
 principles that kindled the undying flame upon 
 the innermost shrine of the heart ; the pure 
 altar-fire of love and devotion, which, purging 
 the soul from the dross of false pride and un 
 due ambition, teaches it to look for happiness 
 where alone it can be found, namely, in the 
 paths of virtue and piety. The poor woman 
 had passed a restless night, and was much ex 
 hausted, and it would seem that Virginia had 
 anticipated this, for she had brought ^,n>e e<>i- 
 dial and refreshments. After partaking of 
 some nourishment, the sick one was able to sit 
 up a little, and thanked her .visitor for her kind 
 attention. 
 
 " Heaven has bestowed upon you a kind 
 heart," said she, "may you never feel its warm
 
 2 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 affections crushed by the heartlessness of a sel 
 fish world, or blighted by the chill blast of pen 
 ury and desolation." 
 
 Mrs. Mason informed Virginia that they had 
 formerly possessed a good property, but her 
 husband had sold all, and gone to the far West, 
 where he purchased a large tract of land, and 
 had commenced improvements preparatory to 
 moving his family there, when he became a vic 
 tim to the fevers of the climate. Mrs. Mason 
 wrote frequently, but could learn nothing satis 
 factory, and finally received a letter informing 
 her that the title under which her husband pur 
 chased was not good ; so she was left penniless 
 to struggle alone life's thorny way, with none 
 to protect her, save Him who is the orphan's 
 father, and widow's God. " I am now alone 
 in the world save this poor orphan," said the 
 mother, as she put back the tresses from the 
 fair brow of Julia who was kneeling by her side. 
 Tears of joy glistened on Virginia's face as she 
 bestowed her gifts, and saw the expressions of 
 gratitude enliven her pallid features. " You 
 are an angel of mercy," said the suftering one,
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 68 
 
 as the warm blood rose even to her marble 
 brow. " Language is too poor to speak the 
 emotions of the grateful heart. I can never 
 repay you ; but He who planted in your heart 
 the principles of active benevolence, will be ever 
 near you to shed upon your spirit the radiance 
 of love." 
 
 Having arranged a comfortable bed, and other 
 things as far as her circumstances would admit, 
 Virginia returned home promising to call again 
 soon. 
 
 A few evenings after this scene a joyous 
 party assembled at Mr. Wilton's in honor of his 
 daughter's birth-day. We need not stay to 
 describe the decorations or illuminations of the 
 house, for at the tune of which we are speaking, 
 the rage for display and maintaining the just 
 rank in ostentatious luxuries had not attained its 
 medium height. But as every one loved Vir 
 ginia for her unpretending goodness, they were 
 not the less happy to tender their homage to 
 her this evening, as the queen of the festivities. 
 The Misses Nealands were there, splendidly at 
 tired in white satin, and turning to Virginia,
 
 04 THE UNFOKTUNATE 
 
 asked if Mr. Elmer were not to be of her party.. 
 " I do not know," said she, " is he not here ? I 
 presume father invited him." 
 
 The dance had been some time begun when a 
 plain, but elegantly dressed gentleman entered 
 the room, and after the usual ceremonies took a 
 proffered seat beside Mrs. Nealand, with whom 
 he was slightly acquainted, she having managed 
 to procure herself an introduction to him, since 
 his recent abode in the village. 
 
 " Who is that beautiful girl in the dance," 
 inquired Mr. Elmer, after a pause in conversa 
 tion, " that one, so simply attired in plain mus 
 lin, with the white rose in her hair'! 1 She seems 
 the personification of cheerful goodness." 
 
 "That is Miss Wilton," said the superfine 
 lady, biting her lip wiih vexation. "Amelia, 
 my love, will you take the fan? The heat is 
 oppressive. I do not wonder you decline 
 dancing." 
 
 The tutored damsel bowed and smiled lan 
 guidly and by mere chance raised her beautiful 
 eyes with deliberate timidity to the gaze of the 
 stranger. It was plain from Mrs. N.'s satisfied
 
 MOUNTAIN GIKL. 65 
 
 look, that he regarded her with admiration, for 
 she was really a lovely girl. But his gaze was 
 soon carelessly withdrawn, as if those features 
 lacked some lustre of expression that might 
 radiate upon the mirror lie carried in his heart. 
 He was a noble looking man, in the prime of 
 manhood. The expansive brow was finely 
 marked, and his eye was the mirror of all the 
 noble qualities that dwelt in his breast. Calm,, 
 clear, and discriminating, it looked to the face 
 divine for the delineation of the soul. A shade, 
 approaching to sadness, rested on his features. 
 He had returned to his native land after a long 
 absence, to find the household hearth deserted, 
 dead, or dispersed he knew not where. He was 
 now in search of a wife, even as Mrs. Nealand 
 had divined ; but he sought not wealth or su 
 perficial accomplishments, but a true, kind heart, 
 on which his own might repose its cares, and 
 lavish its wealth of affection. 
 
 Just as the self-satisfied Mrs. N. had begun 
 to congratulate herself upon the certainty of 
 Amelia's producing an impression upon the rich 
 stranger, he remarked : " It is long since I have
 
 -66 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 danced, but I have a great mind to join the 
 fantastic measure. May I presume upon your 
 favor for an introduction to Miss Wilton?" 
 
 It was with ill-concealed chagrin that she pre 
 sented him to Virginia, and saw him lead the 
 dance with her, plainly clad as she was, while 
 her own petted idol was left to languish in her 
 well wom delicacy of appearance. 
 
 The evening passed in mirth and hilarity, and 
 an early hour saw all parties quietly seeking 
 that repose which is as necessary after enjoy 
 ment as labor. 
 
 " I wonder where Virginia can be going ?" 
 said Mrs. Turner, as she was fanning herself in 
 Mrs. Nealand's parlor, at sunset, a few days 
 after the party. 
 
 " I see her passing every day, at about the 
 same hour," replied Mrs. N. " I should hard 
 ly think she could find time to leave work every 
 day to ramble, being so penurious as she is." 
 
 " Penurious?" said Mrs. S., " I thought her 
 a generous hearted girl. I believe she is the 
 only one who could fulfill the arduous duties of 
 her station. I know she is sadly tied to drudg-
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 67 
 
 ery, poor thing ; perhaps that may be an excuse 
 for her miserly turn." 
 
 It so happened that Mr. Elmer was enjoying 
 a social chat with Mr. Nealand at the farther 
 part of the room, yet he evidently heard the 
 conversation, as it was intended he should. 
 A shade of painful dissatisfaction passed over 
 his fine features for a moment, for he could not 
 but perceive that malice dictated her speech. 
 And it produced a contrary effect from what 
 she intended, for it awakened in him a slight 
 interest in behalf of Virginia, as he wished to 
 know what secret cause existed for this display 
 of unkind feeling. He was, however a stranger, 
 and could not hope to learn the secret at pres 
 ent. 
 
 " I am told there is a desolate lady near the 
 village," said a gentleman, one day, as he en 
 tered a store, " who is suffering severely from 
 want and disease. Indeed, it is thought she is 
 near death." 
 
 " And are there none to relieve her wants ?" 
 asked Mr. Elmer, with surprise. 
 
 " She has no friends that I know of," said
 
 68 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 the gentleman, " but Miss Wilton, I am told, 
 has been very charitable to her indeed, and 
 visits her every day, though she is no relative 
 . of hers." 
 
 " No friends !" exclaimed Mr. Elmer ; " will 
 you please to direct me to her residence ?" 
 
 Mr. Turner, as this was the gentleman's 
 name, with a somewhat mortified air, gave him 
 the direction, and he started in pursuit of the 
 victime of poverty. He rapped at the misera 
 ble abode, and was admitted by a lovely girl 
 upon whom he gazed with more than ordinary 
 interest for a moment, and then took a proffered 
 seat. The little girl retired to another room, 
 and soon Miss Virginia Wilton came out and 
 passed the compliments of the morning. 
 
 " I am glad to find myself preceded by an 
 angel of mercy to this place. Will you be so 
 kind as to make use of this, for the benefit of 
 the poor woman ?" said Mr. Elmer, as he hand 
 ed her his purse. 
 *i 
 
 " I fear, Sir," said the lady, " that money 
 can avail little with her. We had the advice
 
 MOUNTAIN UIRL. 69 
 
 of a physician this morning, and lie thinks she 
 oan survive but a short time." 
 
 Is the sick woman a friend of yours ?" asked 
 Mr. Elmer. 
 
 " I have never seen her, Sir, till within a few 
 days, except at church." 
 
 Mr. Elmer took his leave, saying, " If there 
 is not enough to supply her wants I will leave 
 more." 
 
 " Thank you," said Virginia, " this will do 
 for the present." 
 
 Just then a low moan from the inner room 
 caught their ear, and Virginia hastened to the 
 bed-side of the sufferer, where she found her in 
 the agonies of death. She smiled, but it was 
 chilled by a fearful pang ; a shudder, a faint 
 gasp for breath, and all was over. Julia held 
 the hand of her mother's corpse. The neigh 
 bors were immediately summoned and the last 
 sad offices for the dead performed. The poor 
 little orphan's grief was assuaged by the kind 
 hearted Miss Wilton, who took her home and 
 cared for her as a sister. 
 
 This act of benevolence awakened the warm-
 
 70 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 est affection in the heart of Mr. Elmer, who* 
 from this time paid his addresses entirely to 
 Miss Wilton, and in less than one year she was 
 made the happy bride of George Elmer. With 
 them the little orphan ever found a welcome 
 home.
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 71 
 
 THE REWARD OF A DUTIFUL SON, 
 
 MR. LEWIS had, by industry and economy, 
 accumulated a large property, and was consid 
 ered immensely rich. But riches take to them 
 selves wings, and fly away ; and .so it was with 
 Mr. Lewis's riches at the time of his death. He 
 was greatly involved in debt, and each of his 
 creditors, eager to secure their full amount, 
 crowded heavily Mrs. Lewis. She was a very 
 intelligent woman, proud spirited, and would 
 have parted with every cent rather than one of 
 his creditors should remain unpaid. At length 
 his estate was settled, leaving but a small sum 
 for the support of Mrs. Lewis, an aged father, 
 $nd one child, who was about twelve years of 
 age. Mrs. Lewis soon left her splendid man-
 
 72 
 
 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 sion, walks, gardens, yards, and all that was 
 pleasant within and without. She purchased 
 a small cottage in a more retired part of the 
 village, where she was enabled, by her industry 
 and economy, to keep Charles at school until his 
 eighteenth year ; and, during this period, he had 
 made great proficiency in his studies. 
 
 Charles was a very bright, intelligent, and 
 interesting fellow, and a gentleman in every 
 respect. 
 
 It was a beautiful evening in September 
 the moon poured forth its gentle rays through 
 the windows of Mrs. L.'s cottage, as she and 
 her son sat by the fire which was blazing upon 
 the hearth, until the village clock had tolled the 
 hour of ten. Charles did not like to commence 
 the subject, which had rested with such weight 
 upon his mind through the day ; but he had re 
 solved that he would not retire to rest until he 
 had consulted his mother concerning his depart 
 ure to the village of T . At length he said, 
 
 with a tremulous voice, "Mother, our little bank 
 is nearly expended, and I think I had better 
 try to secure a situation in some shop, where
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 73 
 
 my salary will be sufficient to provide you and 
 grandfather with the comforts of life. As I 
 was looking over a paper yesterday, my eyes 
 rested on an advertisement, which stated that 
 
 Mr. C. , wholesale merchant in the village 
 
 of T , was in want of a clerk, and if both 
 
 liked, he would pay a liberal sum. Now, moth 
 er, if you think best, I will prepare to leave 
 here on Monday, and perhaps he will give me a 
 situation." 
 
 There was a profound silence for some min 
 utes. At length she replied', while the tears 
 stole down her cheeks, " Charles, we should 
 feel very lonely if you were to leave us." 
 
 Charles, perceiving the emotion of his moth 
 er, said, with a cheerful voice, "Yes ; but then 
 it is only about seventy miles, and I shall visit 
 you quite often besides, f shall write every 
 now and then." 
 
 Mrs. Lewis was not prepared for this dilem 
 ma, although she well knew that Charles must 
 ere long leave home, to act for himself, and 
 share the friendship of a cold-hearted world; 
 yet she looked upon it at a distance.
 
 74 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 " Charles," said Mrs. Lewis, " I am not pre 
 pared to give you an answer to-night ; I will 
 think of it, and talk more with you in the 
 morning." 
 
 Charles saw that his mother was too much 
 affected to press the question further, and get 
 ting up, he bid her good night, and left the 
 room. On reaching his room, he knelt beside 
 his bed, and poured out his soul in prayer to 
 God, and earnestly besought Him that He would 
 guide and protect them through all the varied 
 scenes of life : that their souls might be pre 
 pared for an eternal rest in heaven. Charles 
 spent that night in meditation, and anxiously 
 looked for the coming morn. 
 
 At length the tardy morn appeared, and 
 Charles arose to hear the decision of his mother. 
 Charles, feeling so much anxiety upon the sub 
 ject, could not wait for his mother to commence 
 tlie conversation. 
 
 " Well, mother, how have you decided? Do 
 you think I had better try my fortune ?" 
 
 " Charles," said his mother, " I know that it 
 is very essential that you should do something
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 75 
 
 for a livelihood. The thought of your leaving 
 home is heart-rending to me." 
 
 " Yes, mother, it will be very unpleasant to 
 be separated ; but I trust that in a few years I 
 shall be enabled to save enough of my wages 
 to secure a comfortable home for you and 
 grandfather ; and then we will enjoy each oth 
 er's society until we are separated by the icy 
 hand of death." 
 
 At length the time for his departure arrived. 
 The carriage-wheels were seen rolling rapidly 
 to the dock, and Charles, after taking his leave, 
 seated himself in the coach, leaving his afflict 
 ed mother standing in the door of her cottage. 
 Charles felt that this Avas the most trying scene 
 that he had ever experienced ; and covering 
 his face with his hands, gave vent to a flood of 
 tears. 
 
 On reaching the mansion of Mr. C , he 
 
 immediately sought an interview with him, and 
 readily informed him of the object of his visit. 
 
 Mr. C was much pleased with his appear. 
 
 ance, and informed him that he would give him 
 employ as long as they were both suited.
 
 76 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 Charles felt that Providence had opened a door 
 whereby he might, by industry and economy, 
 prepare a home for his bereft mother and grand 
 father. 
 
 At length the night approached, and Charles 
 was conducted into an upper room, which was 
 allotted him. Charles, after looking around the 
 apartment, sat down to read a chapter in the 
 Bible which had been given him by his mother 
 on the day of his departure. After he had 
 finished the chapter, he knelt down in the pres 
 ence of Him who hath pledged himself that He 
 will not turn them away empty who ask in faith. 
 The next morning, Charles arose with a light 
 heart, to perform the duties which devolved 
 upon him. In a few days he wrote a letter to 
 his mother, informing her*that he had been suc 
 cessful in getting a situation with Mr. C , 
 
 and promised to write again at the end of the 
 month. 
 
 Days and weeks passed pleasantly with 
 Charles, and at the end of the month he wrote a 
 long and affectionate letter to his mother, en 
 closing twenty dollars. He said, " Here, moth-
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 77 
 
 er, is a little money, which will be of some use 
 to you ; and, before this is gone, I hope, by the 
 blessing of God, that I shall be enabled to send 
 you more." 
 
 Mr. C was one of the first "in society, 
 
 and wished to have all around him bear an 
 aristocratic appearance. Month after month 
 
 passed on, and Mr. C often looked at 
 
 Charles, and wondered what could be the cause 
 of his being so poorly clad. One day, on enter 
 ing the counting-room, he found Charles alone, 
 and then resolved to ascertain the real cause. 
 He said, in a mild tone, " Charles, if your sala 
 ry is not sufficient to supply you with fashion 
 able apparel, I will increase it." 
 
 Charles seemed greatly embarrassed, and 
 said, "0, yes, Sir amply sufficient." Mr. 
 C saw that Charles was somewhat embar 
 rassed, and left the room. 
 
 Some few weeks after, Mr. C was obliged 
 
 to leave home for the space of eight or ten days 
 on business, leaving his affairs in the charge of 
 Charles Lewis. It was a very warm day in 
 July, and Mr. C had rode many miles be-
 
 78 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 ' neath the scorching rays of the sun, and on 
 reaching a very respectable hotel, he called to 
 
 rest awhile in the heat of the day. Mr. C 
 
 knew that Mrs. Lewis resided in this village, 
 and after taking some refreshment, feeling a 
 great anxiety to learn her situation, he inquired 
 of the landlord where Mrs. Lewis resided. The 
 landlord soon informed him, and soon he was on 
 his way to her cottage, under the pretence of 
 wishing to purchase it. On reaching the cot 
 tage, he knocked at the door, and was accosted 
 by a middle-aged woman, who very politely in 
 vited him to walk in. He soon informed her of 
 his business, and asked her if she wished to dis 
 pose of her cottage. Mrs. Lewis hesitated a mo 
 ment, and then said " I cannot give you an an 
 swer until I have consulted my son." 
 
 " Your son where is he?" 
 
 "He is a clerk for a wholesale merchant in 
 the village of T '." 
 
 "What is his name?" inquired Mr. C . 
 
 " Charles Lewis," said the old woman, " and 
 a worthy lad he is. He is all that we have to 
 depend upon for our support, and I am quite
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 79 
 
 sure that he sends us all, or nearly all of his 
 wages." 
 
 " Charles Lewis !" said Mr. C , appear 
 ing much surprised, " he is my clerk." 
 
 "Your clerk?" rejoined Mrs. Lewis, while 
 her heart beat with joy at the thought of hear 
 ing so directly from her long absent son. After 
 
 a long conversation, Mr. C arose, and 
 
 placing a well-filled purse into the old man's 
 hand, said "Here is a small sum, which may 
 be of some use to you, if you will accept it." 
 
 The old man raising his head from his staff, 
 while the tears stole down his withered cheeks, 
 uttered, in a tremulous tone, " May God bless 
 you!" 
 
 Mr. C , bidding them good afternoon, re 
 traced his steps to the Inn, and proceeded on 
 his journey. On reaching his home, he found 
 that Charles had faithfully performed the duties 
 which had been entrusted to his care. Charles 
 had been gone from home a long time, and wish 
 ing to visit his mother, said 
 
 ' Mr. C , if it "would be convenient, I
 
 80 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 should like to be absent a week or ten days." 
 
 " yes, or longer if you wish." 
 
 Mr. C left the store, and on entering 
 
 the room where Julia and her mother sat sew 
 ing, he said 
 
 " So Charles is about to leave us." 
 
 " About to leave us ! Charles about to leave 
 us !" rejoined Julia, dropping the work she had 
 in her hands. 
 
 " Yes, child ; and what is there wonderful in 
 that ?" 
 
 " nothing, father, only I thought we should 
 be rather lonesome that's all," while her heart 
 swelled at the thought of being separated from 
 the object of her affection. She arose and left 
 the room. 
 
 Mr. C saw her emotion, and soon follow 
 ed her to her room, and thus addressed her 
 
 "Tell me my child, do you love Charles ?" 
 
 " I never-kept anything hid from you, neither 
 will I now I do love him sincerely ; but do 
 not tell him for the world, for he has never told 
 me that his love was returned." 
 
 " Never mind, I will see to that," said Mr.
 
 MOUNTAIN IRL. 81 
 
 C , leaving the room. Soon after he re- 
 entered the store, and found Charles alone. 
 
 " Charles," said he, " could you not defer 
 your journey a week or ten days ?" 
 
 "0 yes," replied Charles, "or longer if you 
 wish." 
 
 " It would oblige me very much as Julia is 
 about to be married, we wish you to attend the 
 wedding.'' 
 
 "Married! Julia to be married!" said 
 Charles, rising from his seat, and walking the 
 floor with rapid strides. 
 
 " Yes ; and what is there surprising in that?" 
 " Nothing nothing, Sir: rather sudden 
 that is all. But indeed, Sir, I cannot stay." 
 " Why, you just said that you would." 
 " Well, indeed, Sir, I cannot. Command me 
 in anything else, and I will obey." 
 
 " Charles," said Mr. C , " tell me frank 
 ly, do you love my daughter ?" 
 
 Charles was sensible that his agitation had 
 betrayed him, and said 
 
 " Had I the fortune that she is worthy of, I
 
 82 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 should think myself the happiest being on earth 
 could I obtain her." 
 
 "Say nothing about riches, Charles you 
 shall have her." 
 
 " Sir, I scorn to deceive you : I am poorer 
 than you are aware : I have a mother" 
 
 " I know it I know it all," interrupted Mr. 
 
 C . " I have enough to place you both 
 
 beyond want. But, as your business is so ur 
 gent, we shall have to defer the wedding, for 
 you cannot stay." 
 
 " Beg your pardon," said Charles," laughing, 
 " my business can easily be deferred, and that 
 with pleasure." 
 
 Mr. C soon returned to inform Julia of 
 
 the conversation which had passed between him 
 self and Charles. At length the evening ap 
 peared. Charles and Julia, for the first time, 
 confessed their love to each other, which they 
 had so long cherished ; and speedy preparations 
 
 were then made for their marriage. Mr. C 
 
 soon ordered a carriage to be sent for Mrs. 
 Lewis and her aged father to attend the wed 
 ding. Mr. C 's mansion was furnished with
 
 MOUNTAIN UIRL. . 83 
 
 the nicest and richest of everything, and that 
 regardless of cost. 
 
 At length the day for their nuptials arrived 
 the aristocratic guests were assembled, and all 
 seemed to rejoice with the happy couple. After 
 the marriage ceremony was performed, they 
 partook of the luxuries which had been prepared 
 for the occasion, with great satisfaction. The 
 time passed pleasantly on, until the hour arrived 
 for their departure, leaving the happy group to 
 enjoy the blessings which God had bestowed 
 upon them. Mrs. Lewis and her aged father 
 spent the remainder of their days in the enjoy 
 ment of the society of their affectionate children. 
 Charles and Julia proved a blessing to Mr. and 
 
 Mrs. C ,and were instrumental, in tke hands 
 
 of God, of leading them to the fold of Christ. 
 
 Reader, remember that the Scripture says, 
 " Seek first the kingdom of heaven and its right 
 eousness, and all things shall be added unto you."
 
 84 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 EVA, THE LITTLE CHRISTIAN, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IT was a fine morning in December, and peo 
 ple were going to and fro, carrying baskets of 
 evergreens, to dress out their windows, and to 
 adorn their chimney pieces for the approaching 
 Christmas day ; others were buying or selling 
 these innocent decorations, and either walking 
 abroad for recreation and amusement, or hurry 
 ing on to their respective mansions ; while 
 not a few, of common place character, and more 
 ordinary pursuits, were intent on their respect 
 ive business, or hastening homeward to plain 
 fireside enjoyments, in the bosom of their less 
 elegant, but ofttimes more happy families. Each 
 and all of them seemed intent on some object 
 connected with the present hour. Few or none 
 appeared to be ruminating on the shortness of
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 85 
 
 time, or the vanities of this world ! Few seemed 
 to have eternity before them, or to be aware of 
 the interesting life and approaching death of 
 little Eva ; they entered not into her joys, nor 
 did they partake of her sorrows. The -greater 
 part of them had never heard her name pro 
 nounced, much less did they know how the Lord 
 was conducting her through this vale of tribula 
 tion toward the kingdom of heaven. But this 
 was of no consequence. He who clothes the 
 grass of the field, and provides for the fowls of 
 the air, had given this child food and raiment ; 
 and having these, she was therewith content and 
 happy ; her young, but enlightened mind had 
 been enabled to discover the pearl of great 
 price ; and her soul had grasped it as her own 
 inestimable treasure. The Lord Jesus had given 
 unto her his peace, and the world could not in 
 crease or take it away. Hence she could well 
 forego all the attentions and sympathies of the 
 vain and busy tribes of men; of that world 
 which know not (rod. nor love his Son Jesua 
 Christ. 
 
 After awhile we readied the dwelling of little
 
 86 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 Eva. On entering the first room from the street, 
 the couch of the sick child immediately present 
 ed itself. It had been brought into that apart 
 ment, and placed in one corner not far from the 
 grate that she might enjoy the warmth of the 
 fire, and the constant presence and assistance 
 of some of the family. So far all was well. On 
 entering the room where little Eva lay for some 
 time, I felt myself unable to do more than silent 
 ly to gaze on the emaciated, but still sweet look 
 ing child's countenance/ I could not request 
 the family to withdraw, and while they were 
 present, I, for a while, could say nothing. Her 
 father at length broke in on our unprofitable si 
 lence, by saying, 
 
 " Well, Eva, I have brought a kind lady to 
 talk to you about heaven, and about your soul 
 and about Jesus Christ. She loves children 
 who love their Savior." 
 
 She turned her bright black eyes upon me, 
 and smiled, and moved her lips ; but the sounds 
 fell short, they were too faint to reach my ear. 
 
 " She can only speak in a whisper," said her 
 father. " You must go nearer."
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRB. 87 
 
 I did so, and while the mother was reaching 
 a chair, the repeated .smile of little Eva's coun 
 tenance, and the pleasing look she first cast on 
 her father, and on myself, spoke plain enough 
 to this effect : " Lady, you are welcome here ; 
 I am glad of one more opportunity to hear of 
 my dear Savior, and to tell to others that I love 
 him." Indeed, there was not one symptom of 
 confusion or fear about her. Her whole man 
 ner was calculated to do away all my hesitations 
 and to lead me on at once to a familiar conversa 
 tion. Nor did I leave her without having cause 
 to say to myself, " It is good for me that I have 
 both seen and conversed with thee, thou hap 
 py and interesting stranger !" 
 
 In the course of my conversation with this 
 child, I learned that it was a considerable while 
 ago since the Lord had more especially con 
 vinced her of her lost and fallen condition, as a 
 child of Adam. She had, indeed, been a con 
 siderable* time in a well-conducted Sunday 
 School, and had received one of the first prizes, 
 a copy of an elegant edition of Bunyan's Pil 
 grim's Progress, as a reward for diligence and
 
 88 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 good behavior ; but she did not note any par 
 ticular stage of her Christian experience from 
 what she read or heard there, nor did it appear 
 that her teachers were acquainted with what 
 was passing within her bosom. After the Lord 
 had, himself, convinced her of sin, and directed 
 her soul to Christ Jesus for salvation, she be 
 came very earnest in her attendance on every 
 public means of grace, and was much edified 
 under the preaching of the Word. Although 
 so young, and never prompted by any one to 
 attempt such a thing, she had, for a good while, 
 been in the habit of writing down the texts and 
 and heads of most of the sermons she heard 
 preached. But such was ^her humility and her 
 fear of being thought too highly of after her 
 decease, that, not long before her death, she 
 took the opportunity of her mother's absence, 
 and prevailed on her sister to burn all these 
 little interesting papers. The parent came in 
 just time enough to see them consuming, but 
 not in time to rescue any part of them from the 
 devouring names. 
 
 I shall not attempt to give the particulars of
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 89 
 
 my conversation with her. Suffice it to say, 
 that through the whole she expressed her con 
 viction that she should soon die that she Avas 
 a great sinner, and merited no good thing at the 
 hand of God : but that she believed Jesus Christ 
 had died for her, and that she loved him, and 
 longed to depart to be with him. I thanked the 
 Lord that I had seen her that I had been per 
 mitted to converse and to pray with her that 
 I had witnessed the power of divine grace in 
 her soul. I was about to leave ; and short as 
 our acquaintance had been, it was found suf 
 ficiently long to call forth the tear of affection 
 ate sorrow at that moment of separation. As I 
 turned from her couch, to open the door, I said 
 to myself, " Farewell, my young sister, fare 
 well, until we meet in an undying world, and 
 hail each other in a kingdom 
 
 " Unstain'd by woe, unchang'd by years 
 Unlike thia gloomy vale of tears." 
 
 In the full assurance that she would soon be 
 beyond the reach of every pain and conflict, I 
 felt all that is expressed in the following hymn,
 
 90 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 and I wish to express the whole as referring to 
 little Eva : 
 
 Happy soul, thy days near ended, 
 All thy mourning days below ; 
 Go, by angel guards attended, 
 To the sight of Jesus go ! 
 Waiting to receive thy spirit, 
 Lo ! the Savior stands above, 
 Shows the purchase of his merit, 
 Reaches out the crown of love. 
 
 Struggle through the latest passion 
 
 To thy Redeemers breast, 
 
 To his uttermost salvation, 
 
 To his everlasting rest ; 
 
 For the joy he sets before thee 
 
 Bear a momentary pain, 
 
 Die, to live the life of glory, 
 
 Suffer, with thy Lord to reign. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A FEW days after, I again called for little 
 Eva, whom I found in the embrace of death. 
 The family had gathered around the couch of 
 the dying Christian, to receive her last and final 
 adieu until they should meet her beyond the 
 shores of time, to part no more. As I ap 
 proached her couch, she extended her hand and 
 said, with a smile, " My good lady. I am about
 
 MOUNTAIN filRL. 91 
 
 to leave this world : my spirit must soon depart." 
 I then asked her if Christ was still precious to 
 her soul. " yes," she replied, " I long to be 
 with Him." 
 
 She then requested all her books and trinkets 
 to be brought down stairs ; these she divided 
 and gave to different members of the family, as 
 tokens of affectionate love. Her Bible she now 
 gave to her mother, with particular orders that 
 it should never be parted with. She then gave 
 directions about her funeral, naming the young 
 people she wished to carry her corpse, and those 
 she should like to attend the ceremony as pall 
 bearers. All this was done with as much com 
 posure as any person would have made arrange 
 ments for a journey, or any common event of 
 life. For many months past, her mind had been 
 impressed with the conviction that she should 
 not long continue to be an inhabitant of this 
 lower world ; and anxious, if possible, when 
 dead, to benefit her surviving relatives, and to 
 proclaim to the world her love to, and confidence 
 in, Christ. She wished to be buried in such a 
 spot, as that her relatives might, every time
 
 92 THE UNFOKTUNATE 
 
 they went to and from church, behold her rest 
 ing place, and be reminded of their approaching 
 end. From the same pious motive of benefit 
 ing survivors, she wished that a monumental 
 inscription, expressive of her faith, and of the 
 desires and feelings of her mind, might be placed 
 over her mouldering dust, to admonish and en 
 courage others to seek the Lord for themselves. 
 "With this view she finally chose the following 
 lines for her epitaph : 
 
 While thou, my Jesus, still art nigh. 
 Cheerful I lire, and joyful die ; 
 Secure, when mortal comforts flee, 
 To find ten thousand worlds in thee. 
 
 This done, she told those about her, that her 
 time was drawing near that she should soon 
 be gone, but that she had no fear of dying. She 
 then made several attempts to speak, but was 
 unable. After watching her some time, I then 
 said, " My dear Eva, if you are happy if you 
 you are satisfied that Jesus loves you, lift up 
 your hand." No sooner was this request made, 
 than she raised her poor, emaciated arm in to 
 ken that she was happy in the assurance of the 
 love of Christ. From that moment she lay in
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 93 
 
 the arms of her gentle and good Shepherd, who 
 carried her, in sweet composure, through those 
 waters which have alarmed many an older Chris 
 tian than little Eva ; nor did he leave her until 
 her happy spirit had clean escaped the prison of 
 the body, and fled to the assembly of angels, 
 and mingled with those who compose the church 
 triumphant above. On the Sabbath following, 
 her body was consigned to the grave, as near 
 as possible to the chancel door of her parish 
 church, the spot she herself had previously fixed 
 upon, as being the most likely to present her 
 grave to the eyes of her brothers and sisters as 
 they approached the house of God. The young 
 people whom she had chosen for that purpose, 
 carried and attended her corpse to its long home, 
 agreeably to her wish ; and then the mourners 
 returned to their respective homes. 
 
 Thus ended the brief pilgrimage of little Eva. 
 In the short period of thirteen years, she had 
 run the race appointed for her ; and at its con 
 clusion we doubt not but she obtained the crown 
 of victory.
 
 94 THH UNFORTUNATE 
 
 EMMA, THE BELLE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 I PEN the following in the language of the 
 physician who witnessed the scene: 
 
 In 1832, there resided in the village of P., a 
 very respectable fanner by the name of Hall, 
 who had by his industry and economy accumu 
 lated a large portion of this world's goods, and 
 in addition to this he had been blessed with a 
 family of enterprising children, consisting of four 
 sons and one beautiful daughter, on whom they 
 doated and almost idolized, which completed the 
 happy group. Years glided pleasantly away, 
 unatteded by the ruthless hand of affliction, un 
 til Emma had bloomed into womanhood, a mild 
 and lovely being. She was considered the belle 
 of our village and was universally beloved for 
 her amiable disposition.
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 95 
 
 Emma was now eighteen years of age, and 
 was beloved by Egbert Cornwell, the son of a 
 wealthy merchant, to whom her vows were 
 plighted when but a child. Mr. Hall was much 
 displeased with the choice of her affections, and 
 resolved that he would use such means as he 
 thought proper to prevent their union. Mr. 
 Hall, as he returned from a walk one afternoon, 
 entered the parlor, and finding Emma alone, he 
 seated himself upon the sofa, and after some 
 conversation concerning Egbert, he rose from 
 his seat in an agitated manner and addressed 
 her as follows : 
 
 " Emma, has Egbert been here this after 
 noon ?" 
 
 u Yes, father, and has but just left," was the 
 firm reply. 
 
 * Well, my child, let this be the last hour 
 that you ever mingle in his society." 
 
 " Why, father," exclaimed the astounded 
 girl, dropping the work which she held in her 
 hand ; " you are not in earnest ?" 
 
 " Yes, my dear, and from this time I strictly 
 forbid your corresponding with him in any way
 
 96 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 or admitting him into your company at any time, 
 or under any circumstances whatever." 
 
 So saying, he left the room. 
 
 Emma felt that this was more than her poor 
 heart could bear. All her future prospects of 
 happiness were in a moment cut off, and rising 
 from her seat, she threw herself upon the sofa, 
 giving full vent to her feelings. From this time 
 she secluded herself from all society save that 
 of her mother, in whose presence she ever strove 
 to assume her usual cheerfulness, but in spite 
 of her efforts, the quick discerning eye of her 
 mother saw and felt that the wound which had 
 been inflicted was fast hastening her child to an 
 untimely grave. Emma spent many a long and 
 sleepless night alone in her chamber, in deep 
 meditation, now and then giving vent to a flood 
 of tears, until three months had passed heavily 
 away. One night, after the family had retired 
 to rest, Mrs. Hall unbosomed her fears to her 
 husband concerning the rapid change which time 
 had wrought in Emma during the last three 
 months. *i* 
 
 " The change is very great indeed." mur-
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 07 
 
 mured he. " I think we had better spend a few 
 weeks with her at the Springs. The journey 
 may prove a benefit to her at least. You can 
 mention the subject to her, and make such ar 
 rangements as you think proper for our depart 
 ure on Tuesday next. 
 
 The next morning Mrs. Hall informed her 
 daughter of their intended journey, and desired 
 her to be in readiness to accompany them thith 
 er, and Emma, resting her eyes upon her moth- 
 said, with a tremulous voice : 
 
 " 1 have no desire to visit the Springs, and I 
 would rather remain at home." 
 
 u Why, my child," said her mother, " I think 
 we could spend a few weeks at the Springs very 
 pleasantly. Besides it is for your special benefit 
 that your father proposed the journey." 
 
 " mother!" said Emma, while a tear glis 
 tened in her eye, " there are no Springs that 
 can remove the disease of my heart." 
 
 " say not so my child," interrupted her 
 mother. " Your disease will not prove fatal, I 
 trust, and you may again be happy." 
 
 Emma could not conceal her emotion, and 
 
 5
 
 98 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 arose to leave the room, but was prevented by 
 her father, who at that moment opened the door, 
 and placing his hand upon her shoulder he said, 
 in an affectionate manner : 
 
 " What is the cause of your weeping, my 
 child ? Are you not as well as usual ?" 
 
 " Yes, father," said Emma, gazing intently in 
 her father's face. " But I have one request to 
 make, before we visit the Springs." 
 
 " What is it ?" asked her father anxiously. 
 
 "That I may converse with Egbert but for 
 one hour." 
 
 " No, my child," said he, "it would only be 
 inflicting a wound still deeper. I can never 
 consent." 
 
 Emma replied not, and with a hurried step 
 left the room, and glided noiselessly to her cham 
 ber where she seated herself by an open window, 
 to weep over her hopeless condition. The next 
 morning I was called to visit the daughter of 
 Mr. and Mrs. Hall, Avho had fallen upon the 
 floor in a sort of faulting fit, which was not fol 
 lowed by any extraordinary symptom, at the 
 time. Owiug to a preternatural excitability of
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 99 
 
 the nervous system, and perhaps the existence 
 of disease which had not yet manifested itself, 
 she had a very restless night. The want of 
 sleep was followed by delirium, and in a short 
 time very unfavorable symptoms were developed. 
 As is not unfrequent when the system is labor 
 ing under diseased action, even before it is dis 
 coverable by the ordinary indications, the mind 
 seems to participate in the lurking mischief and 
 is conscious of what is about to take place. In 
 this instance my patient requested that the fami 
 ly should be summoned to her bed-side, and 
 gave me to iinderstand that she thought she 
 would not recover, before I was aware of ap 
 proaching danger. 
 
 At the time I really had not been able to de 
 tect anything serious in the case, and believing 
 all that she wanted was sleep, I advised her to 
 postpone calling the family together until morn 
 ing, with a~view of preventing mental agitation, 
 so that she might be benefited by the medicines 
 given to promote rest. So strong, however, was 
 the conviction, in her own mind, that she would 
 not recovor. that the family was summoned to
 
 100 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 her bed-side, where she addressed them in an af 
 fectionate manner, in the presence of myself and 
 others. Then, taking each by the hand, she 
 imprinted a long and farewell kiss upon their 
 cheek, warning them to flee from the wrath to 
 come, to seek the Savior with all their hearts, 
 that they might meet her in peace. Here she 
 paused, interrupted by her parents' lamentations, 
 which were painful beyond description. Emma 
 raised her eyes to her parents and said : 
 
 " My dear parents, you must not murmur 
 nor complain. It is the will of God that I should 
 leave this world of affliction, and you must be 
 reconciled. I have nothing to hope for, and 
 death itself is a pleasure to me." 
 
 Those words were like daggers to Mr. Hall, 
 and falling upon his knees he earnestly begged 
 forgiveness of his daughter for his rashness, 
 which he sensibly felt was the cause from whence 
 her disease first originated. His pardon was 
 freely granted by Emma, who pointed him to 
 the Lamb of God who taketh away the sins of 
 world, and earnestly besought him to seek his 
 grace that they might yet be an unbroken fami-
 
 MOUNTAIN 11 GIRL. 101 
 
 ly in the world to come. Then putting her 
 hands together, she said : 
 
 " At other times, the certainty of dying would 
 fill my eyes with tears, but now I have not a 
 tear to shed. The uncertainty of our future 
 condition is very awful : no one returns from the 
 grave to tell us what is to take place hereafter." 
 
 An expression of regret for misspent time 
 with a promise of improvement in the future, 
 closed her conversation with the family. A sup 
 plication to the Almighty occupied the remain 
 der of a lucid interval. 
 
 Recovering from temporary exhaustion, she 
 proceeded in a familiar manner, but with gveat 
 earnestness : 
 
 " My dear brothers, to look back eighteen 
 years, seems a very short time indeed, but eigh 
 teen years to come seems a little eternity ! But 
 it will come round, and you and all my acquaint 
 ances sooner or later will arrive at the same 
 condition I am now in. And whatever may be 
 the realities of the future, the Christian is al- 
 always secure." 
 
 Words and declarations like these from a dy-
 
 102 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 ing youth of eighteen years came like a thunder 
 bolt to the heart. It was like the voice of the 
 spirit of God upon the ear. To ine it was a 
 moment of profound thoughtfulness and solem 
 nity. I noted down the substance of her prayer 
 which followed these portentous expressions. 
 
 " And now, God, we commend ourselves 
 to thy care, relying on the mercies and promi 
 ses of Jesus Christ, to deliver us from that state 
 of suffering and torment, of which we have 
 heard, and that flame of which we have read ; 
 and to thy care and protection we commend our 
 spirit through the merits of Jesus Christ our 
 Savior. Amen." 
 
 She then bid us all a long and final adieu, 
 and her spirit soared to the regions of bliss. 
 
 From the history of this case, we are admon 
 ished of the certainty of death to ah 1 living, in 
 a manner calculated to arouse the feelings of 
 our nature,. and excite in us an inquiry as to our 
 own condition. We are warned by it to pre 
 pare for the final issue of all created beings. 
 Why be led away by ambition, by the love of 
 fame, by the allurements of riches ? Will wealth
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 103 
 
 purchase a long existence, will it smooth our 
 passage to the grave, or make our repose sweet ? 
 These are considerations which become of vital 
 importance to every man, and if I have by this 
 narrative contributed in the smallest degree to 
 start a serious thought, or agitate a pious inqui 
 ry, my object will be attained.
 
 104 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 THE BERRY BOY, 
 
 IN the Summer of 1838, Mr. Benton, on his 
 way home from the Springs, where he had spent 
 several weeks with his daughter, stopped at a 
 hotel hi a small village to rest awhile in the heat 
 of the day. He had not been there long, when 
 a lad about ten years of age came up with a 
 basket of berries, whose countenance bespoke 
 poverty and distress. Mr. Benton looked at 
 him with an eye of compassion, and with a sort 
 of interest, and thinking that he would lighten 
 his load, he said : 
 
 " What will you take for your berries, my 
 little fellow ?" 
 
 " Four cents a quart," replied the boy, while 
 his keen black eye sparkled with joy at the 
 thought of finding a purchaser. 
 
 Mr. Benton had great curiosity to learn 
 something of the young stranger's history,
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 105 
 
 and said inquiringly, " Do you go to school ?" 
 
 " No Sir," said the boy. " I used to go be 
 fore my mother died, but now it is all I can do 
 to support my poor blind grandfather." 
 
 " Have you no father ?" 
 
 " no, he died some years before my moth 
 er," said the boy, while the tears ran down his 
 cheeks. 
 
 u What do you do for a livelihood ?" asked 
 Mr. Benton, while his heart moved with sympa 
 thy for him. 
 
 " I saw wood, pick berries, go on errands, or 
 anything else I can get to do." 
 
 " You arc a fine fellow," said Mr. Benton, 
 hut I will not take your berries, for you can 
 sell them to some one else, and here is five dol 
 lars which will lighten your burden a little." 
 
 The boy looked at him with amazement, for 
 he had never before in his possession that amount 
 of money, and he hardly knew how to express 
 his gratitude, but after thanking him over and 
 over again, he went bounding away like a dancing 
 feather. 
 
 Mr. Benton wutcho'l the movements of the
 
 106 THE UNFORTUNATB 
 
 lad and soon saw him enter a small cottage 
 where sat his grandfather, leaning upon his staff, 
 and after carefully depositing his treasure in the 
 hands of the old veteran, he immediately set out 
 with his berries. Mr. Benton then resolved to 
 befriend the poor orphan, and assist him in get 
 ting an education. In a few days after he reach 
 ed home he put his resolution into practice, and 
 immediately prepared a subscription paper for 
 the benefit of the poor orphan boy. He signed 
 ten dollars, and being a man who exerted great 
 influence in society, in a few days he had 
 enough signed to accomplish his design. Mr. 
 Benton accordingly enclosed the money in a 
 letter addressing it to Simon Powell, for this 
 was the name of the orphan. I will not pretend 
 to describe the joy which the reception of that 
 letter occasioned the poverty stricken heart, al 
 though his affectionate grandfather had but a 
 few days since been conveyed to the silent tomb. 
 I will only say that the money was carefully 
 managed and Simon obtained a liberal educa 
 tion. When he was about eighteen years of age, 
 he let himself as a clerk to Mr. Saxe, a whole-
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 107 
 
 sale merchant. By his industry, honesty and 
 uprightness, he gained the esteem of both Mr. 
 and Mrs. Saxe, and having no children of their 
 own, he soon became their adopted son, and was 
 now known by the name of Simon P. Saxe. 
 Three years passed pleasantly away, but ere the 
 fourth autumn appeared, Mr. Saxe was num 
 bered with the silent dead. His death was la 
 mented by all, especially by the poorer class, 
 for he was a very charitable man, and no beg 
 gar ever left his dwelling without finding some 
 relief. All business was now left in the hands 
 of Simon P. Saxe, who managed it with such 
 care and prudence, as to add a handsome sum 
 yearly to his now large estate. 
 
 One evening in September, as Simon was 
 reading the advertisements which are always 
 more or less in a paper, his eyes rested upon the 
 well known name of Mr. Benton, stating that 
 his whole establishment was to be sold at auc 
 tion for debt on the seventh of October. Simon 
 now felt that it was in his power to befriend him, 
 and resolved that he would. At length the day 
 appeared, and men of different classes were up-
 
 108 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 on the ground viewing the premises with great 
 interest. Among the rest was Simon P. Saxe. 
 At one o'clock the sale commenced, and to the 
 surprise of all, the whole establishment was 
 struck off to Simon P. Saxe. He then entered 
 the house with Mr. Benton to survey his property. 
 
 Mr. Benton invited him into the parlor, and 
 introducing him to Mrs. and Miss Amelia Ben- 
 ton, said : 
 
 " This is the gentleman who now owns this 
 establishment." 
 
 At this, Amelia burst into tears, for she could 
 not conceal her emotion. 
 
 Simon was much affected by her grief, for he 
 too had tasted the cup of bitter sorrow, and 
 turning to Mr. Benton, he said : 
 
 " Sir, do you remember the poor orphan boy 
 whom you befriended some fourteen years ago" 
 
 Mr. Benton hesitated a few moments, and 
 then said, " yes, but I should never have thought 
 of it again." 
 
 " Well, I am that person ; it was by your as 
 sistance that I obtained an education. I then 
 r,. solved, ly the grace of God, that I would re-
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 109 
 
 pay you for that act of kindness, and as Provi 
 dence would have it, I am now enabled to be 
 friend you. I well knew your misfortunes. You 
 will not be under the necessity of moving a sin 
 gle article, for I have purchased this stand for 
 the purpose of giving you ample time to re 
 deem it." 
 
 Mr. Benton and family were overcome with 
 joy, and could not express their gratitude, and 
 all wept convulsively. Simon could but weep 
 with the overjoyed family. 
 
 As soon as he could collect himself, he sat 
 down and related his history from the time that 
 Mr. Benton met him as a berry boy at the hotel, 
 until the present. After much pcrsuation, he 
 spent the night with them very pleasantly. From 
 that time he paid his addresses to Miss Amelia 
 Hentou, wlib in less than a year was made the 
 happy bride of Simon P. Saxe. He then re 
 moved her to his place of residence, where they 
 passed many years in happiness with-the bereft 
 widow .
 
 110 THF UNFORTUNATE 
 
 THE LOVER'S SOLILOQUY, 
 
 HER form was like the aspen leaf 
 That flutters in the wind, 
 Her presence turned away the grief 
 That preyed upon my mind. 
 
 Children of happiness were we, 
 Joy from our eyes did gleam, 
 But happiness is not for me, 
 Alas ! 'twas but a dream. 
 
 Her hair in silken ringlets twined 
 Around a brow of pearl ; 
 Her manners gentle and refined 
 A pleasant happy girl. 
 
 We played, we roamed together 
 So happy did we seem ; 
 Oh ! shall it be forever? 
 Ah, no ! 'tis but a dream. 
 
 Fair Luna's rays were peeping 
 Through my window shutter, 
 Ah ! I have been a sleeping, 
 My heart is in a flutter. 
 
 The dream of life is fleeting, 
 And all will soon be o'er ; 
 But while our hearts are beating, 
 We ask for nothing more.
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. Ill 
 
 THE BROKEN-HEARTED GIRL, 
 
 THE sun had shed its last rays over the earth, 
 when Edward pressed his lips to the forehead 
 of the beautiful and gentle-hearted girl for the 
 last time. 
 
 " My dear Emily, you will think of me when 
 far away," said he, holding her trembling hand 
 in his, " but then three years, will soon pass : 
 and then dear Emily we will meet beneath this 
 shade where we have spent many happy hours 
 in our childhood, and again renew our vows for 
 life." 
 
 " Yes, Edward," said Emily, " but something 
 whispers in my ear, that your vows will soon be- 
 forgotten, and another save me shall be called 
 your bride."
 
 112 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 " O, fie ! Emily, away with such maiden fears. 
 Ere I prove untrue lo you, the sun shall cease 
 to rise and set. But the boat is in dew and I 
 must away." 
 
 He again pressed her to his bosom, they ex 
 changed a kiss, and parted as all lovers part. 
 Emily stood in breathless silence as she watch 
 ed her lover until his form was lost in the dis 
 tance. She returned home and sought her 
 chamber, where she spent the night in bitter 
 tears giving way to fear and doubt. 
 
 A year had passed, and Emily had received 
 three letters the first a long and affectionate 
 one sealed with a kiss ; . the second a cold and 
 ceremonial one ; and the third blighted poor 
 Emily's hopes forever. Her fears were now 
 realized. His vows were forgotten and again 
 plighted to another. Poor Emily's heart was 
 chilled by the piercing blast ; the rose gradual 
 ly faded from her cheek : and ere the chilling 
 winds of autumn had unrobed the trees of their 
 green foliage, she had fallen a prey to disease. 
 Slowly and painfully the knowledge of her 
 lover's infidelity came over the sensitive heart.
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 113 
 
 She sought for a time to shut out the horrible 
 suspicion from her mind, she half doubted the 
 evidence of her own senses ; she could not be 
 lieve that he was a traitor, for her memory had 
 treasured every token of his affection, every im 
 passioned word, and every endearing smile of 
 his tenderness. But the truth came at last ; 
 the doubtful spectre which had long haunted her, 
 and from which she had turned away, as if it- 
 were sin to look upon it, now stood before her, 
 a dreadful and unspeakable reality. There was 
 one burst of passionate tears, the overflow of that 
 fountain of- affliction which quenches the last 
 ray of hope. 
 
 As I approached the quiet and secluded dwel 
 ling of the once happy Emily, I found the door 
 of the little parlor thrown open, and a female 
 voice, of a sweetness that could hardly be said 
 to belong to earth, stole out upon the soft sum 
 mer air. It was like the breathings of an Mo\i- 
 an lute to the gentlest visitation of the zephyr. 
 Involuntarily I paused to listen, and these words 
 - I shall never forget them came upon my
 
 114 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 ear like the low and melancholy music which 
 Tve sometimes hear in dreams : 
 
 Oh no I do not fear to die. 
 For Hope and Truth are bold. 
 And Life is but a weariness. 
 And Earth ia strangely cold 
 In view of Death's pale solitude, 
 My Spirit hath not mourned 
 ' Tis kinder than forgotten LOTS. 
 Or Friendship unreturned ! &c. 
 
 It was the voice of Emily it was her last song. 
 She was leaning on the sofa as I entered the 
 apartment her thin white hand rested on her 
 forehead. She rose and welcomed me with a 
 melancholy smile. It played over her features 
 for a moment, flushing her cheek with a slight 
 and sudden glow, and then passed away, leav 
 ing in its stead the wanness and mournful beau 
 ty of the dying. 
 
 It has been said that death is always terrible 
 to look upon. But to the stricken Emily, the 
 presence of the destroyer was like the ministra 
 tion of an angel of light and holiness. She was 
 passing off to the land of spirits like the melting 
 of a sunset cloud into the blue of Heaven 
 stealing from existence like the strain of ocean
 
 MOUNTAIN OIRL. 115 
 
 music, when it dies away slowly and sweetly 
 upon the moonlight waters. 
 
 A few days after I stood by the grave of 
 Emily. The villagers had gathered together, 
 one and all, to pay the tribute of respect and 
 affection to the lovely sleeper. They mourned 
 her loss with a sincere and deep emotion they 
 marvelled that one so beloved should yield her 
 self up to melancholy, and perish in the spring 
 time of her existence. But they knew not the 
 hidden arrow that rankled in her bosom the 
 slow and secret withering of her heart. She 
 had borne the calamity with silence in the 
 uncomplaining quietude of one, who felt that 
 there are woes which may not ask for sympathy 
 afflictions which, like the canker concealed 
 in the heart of some fair blossoms, are discover 
 ed only by the untimely decay of their victim. 
 
 I have been this evening to the grave .of Em 
 ily. And when I kneel above the narrow man 
 sion of one whom I have known and loved in 
 life, I feel a strange assurance that the spirit of 
 the sleeper is near me, a viewless and minister 
 ing angel. It is a beautiful philosophy which
 
 116 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 has found its way, unsought for and misterious- 
 ly, into the silence of my heart ; and if it be 
 only a dream; the unreal imagery of fancy, I 
 pray God that I may never wake from the beau 
 tiful delusion.
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 117 
 
 THE EARLY GRAVES. 
 
 MR. ASHLAND, who resided in the town of 
 P , was by no means wealthy, but was con 
 sidered a comfortable liver. He had a daughter, 
 an only child, who was a great favorite with her 
 associates, and was considered by all the belle 
 
 of the village of P . No ride, visit or dance 
 
 could pass pleasantly, unless the gentle-hearted 
 Elta Ashland formed one of the guests. She 
 had, by her mild and amiable disposition, won 
 the heart of Jarnes Wilson, a school-mate of hers 
 who had ever cherished the wannest affection 
 for her. 
 
 Mr. Wilson was a proud, aristocratic man, 
 and was by no means pleased with the growing 
 affection in the hearts of the young people. 
 
 One beautiful morning in the month of Au-
 
 118 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 gust, Mr. Wilson resolved that he would seek 
 an interview with James, and ascertain, if pos 
 sible, how matters stood between him and Ella 
 Ashland. 
 
 As soon as breakfast was over, he according 
 ly turned to James and said, " My son, I would 
 like to talk with you awhile." 
 
 Leading the way to his room, James reluc 
 tantly followed, well knowing from what cause 
 this interview proceeded. On reaching his room, 
 they seated themselves upon a sofa beside the 
 window, while the cool, fresh breeze gently 
 played through the rustling vines which twined 
 about the window. 
 
 j 
 
 " James," said Mr. Wilson, " I have taken 
 this opportunity to converse with you upon the 
 subject of matrimony, and learn if possible what 
 peculiarities there are about Miss Ashland that 
 you should pay your addresses entirely to her." 
 
 " Well, father, since you have expressed a 
 desire to know, I will tell you. Ella is very 
 industrious, possessing a generous heart, a noble 
 mind and a lovely disposition, which has won 
 mv affections."
 
 MOUNTAIN (ilRL. 119 
 
 "Won your affections!" interrupted his fa 
 ther, " then you really intend to marry a farm 
 er's daughter, do you ?" 
 
 " I do," said James emphatically. 
 
 " Well, James, as you regard the wishes of 
 your parents, I wish you would forsake the so 
 ciety of Ella Ashland, and pay your addresses 
 to Miss Imogene Cornwall, who belongs to an 
 aristocratic family. Besides, she will have a 
 fortune with her." 
 
 " Well, father, I do not think that happiness 
 consists in aristocracy ; for my part I had. rather 
 have a fortune in a heart than with one." 
 
 " Well, James," said Mr. AYilspn, rising from 
 his seat, while his cheeks flushed with anger, 
 " if you persist in marrying Ella Ashland, you 
 must not expect to find a home with me, I will 
 entirely disown you." 
 
 James seemed somewhat puzzled at this de 
 nunciation, not knowing how Mr. Ashland might 
 feel upon the subject, but resolved that he would 
 know the worst, and immediately set out for his 
 dwelling. On reaching his house he found 
 Mr. Ashland in the garden, who met him as he
 
 120 ^THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 approached, with a cheerful smile, and invited 
 him to take a seat in the arbor. James accord 
 ingly sat down, and mustering all his courage, 
 commenced the subject, telling him of the con 
 versation which had passed between him and his 
 father, respecting his marriage. Mr. Ashland 
 remained silent a few moments, then rising from 
 his seat, he said : 
 
 " Well, James, if this is your choice, you may 
 have a home here, although I am not wealthy 
 like your father, but I have enough to make us 
 all comfortable." 
 
 This was more than James had anticipated, 
 and after expressing his gratitude to Mr. Ash 
 land for his kindness, they both entered the 
 house. 
 
 The day for their nuptials was appointed, and 
 every preparation was made for the occasion 
 which would add to the happiness of the fair 
 couple. Time swiftly glided and the appointed 
 day arrived, and found the intended bride on 
 her death-bed. 
 
 It was a beautiful morning in September. 
 About nine o'clock she revived, and calling her
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 121 
 
 friends around her bed, she addressed them as 
 follows : 
 
 " My dear friends, I am about to leave you, 
 and that in a short time. I have only to regret 
 that I have not set a better example before my 
 friends and associates, but I wish to be forgiven 
 by them all, even as God has for Christ's sake 
 forgiven me. And now let me entreat you to 
 prepare to meet your God in peace. Life is 
 uncertain ; but one week ago I was hi the bloom 
 of health, and now my soul will be in the spirit 
 land ere the sun shall set." 
 
 Then taking her lover by the hand, she placed 
 in it a lock which had been severed from her 
 glossy hair, with a Bible, and said, 
 
 " James, may this be a star of light which 
 will guide you to the fold of Christ." 
 
 She then bid them all farewell, until they 
 should meet at the judgment seat of Christ, and 
 in a few moments her spirit was wafted on angels' 
 wings to the realms of eternal bliss. 
 
 Poor James was not prepared for this heavy 
 and unexpected blow, he had hoped for pleasure ; 
 but alas her. mon were his hopes blighted. 
 
 6
 
 122 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 In one short day ah I who can tell ? James 
 now felt that he had no friend to whom he could 
 unbosom his sorrow, but unto Him who heareth 
 in secret, and from that hour he sought an in 
 terest in Christ. 
 
 In a few days after her death, he resolved 
 that he would fit himself for a missionary, and 
 in a short time he left for college. But it seems 
 that this was not the office which he was design 
 ed to fill, for he had scarcely been there one 
 month when he was, taken with a disease of the 
 heart, which carried him down to the grave. 
 He was then removed to his home, where he 
 lived but two weeks after his return. 
 
 During his illness he talked much about Ella 
 Ashland, and often requested them to read to 
 him in the Bible she gave him. 
 
 One pleasant evening in November, the fain- 
 ilv of Mr. Wilson was alarmed by the crv 
 
 * 9? V 
 
 " James is dying." They thronged around lib* 
 
 bed and wept. James seemed unconscious of 
 
 what was passing ' for some time, then opening 
 
 jfiassy '-yes, and looking around^him. he said,
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 123 
 
 " Do not weep for me, but prepare to meet 
 me in Heaven." 
 
 He then gave his favorite Bible to his sister, 
 saying, 
 
 " Put .your trust in God y and be guided by 
 the precepts which are contained in this precious 
 book/' 
 
 He then imprinted a kiss upon each cheek, 
 and still holding his father by the hand, he said, 
 
 " Father, I have one request to ask of you, 
 that I may be laid by the side of Ella Ashland, 
 and that my monument may be precisely like 
 hers. Also, I wish you to place at the head of 
 our graves, a weeping willow. Then turning to 
 bis afflicted mother, he said, with a smile, 
 
 " O mother, I am going home," and closed 
 his eyes in death. 
 
 Mr. Wilson felt that this was the most trying 
 scene he had ever been called to pass through. 
 
 The funeral sermon of James Wilson and 
 Ella Ashland, were both preached by G. G. 
 White. There was not one dry eye among the 
 whole congregation, which consisted of over four 
 .iuni
 
 124 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 As we have said before, they were both great 
 favorites among their associates, and every heart 
 was bereft at their loss, and could sympathise 
 with the afflicted families. 
 
 James was laid, according to his request, by 
 the side of bis intended, and the monuments of 
 the two lovers are placed upon the graves, with a 
 weeping willow at the head. 
 
 Now they are united 
 On Canaan's bright shore, 
 Rejoicing with Saints 
 Who haTe passed on before.
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 125 
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGERS, 
 
 ABOUT fifty years ago, a post chaise was a sight 
 more novel in the little hamlet of Dresden, than 
 silk gowns in country churches during the maid 
 enhood of our great-grandmothers ; and as one 
 drew up at the only public house in the village, 
 the inhabitants, old and young, startled by the 
 unusual and merry sound of its wheels, hurried 
 to the street. The landlady, on the first notice 
 of its approach, had hastily bestowed upon her 
 goodly person the additional recommendation of 
 a clean cap and apron ; and, still tying the apron 
 strings, ran bustling to the door, smiling, color 
 ing and courtesying and coloring again, to the 
 yet unopened chaise. Poor soul ! she knew not 
 well how to behave it was an epoch in her 
 annals of inn-keeping. 
 
 At length, the coachman, opening the dbor, 
 handed out a lady in widow's weeds ; a beautiful
 
 126 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 golden-haired child, apparently not exceeding 
 three years of age, was assisted to the ground and 
 grasped her extended hand. " What an image 
 o' beauty !" exclaimed some half dozen of by 
 standers, as the fair child lifted her lovely face 
 of smiles to the eyes of her mother. The lady 
 stepped feebly towards the inn, and though the 
 landlady's heart continued to practice a sort of 
 fluttering motion, which communicated a portion 
 of its agitation to her hands, she waited upon her 
 unexpected and unusual guests with a kindliness 
 and humility that fully recompensed for the ex- 
 pertness of a practical waiter. 
 
 About half an hour after the arrival of her vis 
 itors, she was seen bustling from the door, her 
 face, as the vilagers said, bursting with impor 
 tance. They were still standing in groups about 
 their doors, and in the middle of the little street, 
 discussing the mysterious arrival ; and as she 
 hastened on her mission, she was assailed with a 
 dozen such questions as these " Who is that air 
 body ?" " Who brought her here ?" " What's 
 she arter ?" But to those and sundry other in 
 terrogatories, the important hostess gave for an-
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 127 
 
 swer : " I have no time to tell you." SJie stop 
 ped at a small, but certainly genteel house in 
 the village, occupied by a Mrs. Dustan, who 
 was a very nice respectable lady, and the widow 
 of a Methodist minister. In the summer sea 
 son, Mrs. Dustan let out her little parlor to 
 lodgers, who visited the village to seek health, 
 or a few weeks' retirement. She was compell- 
 to do this from the narrowness of her circum 
 stances. 
 
 In a few minutes. Mrs. Dustan, in a clean 
 cap, a muslin handkerchief round her neck, a 
 .quilted black bombazine, gown, and snow white 
 apron, followed the landlady to the inn. In a 
 short time she returned, the stranger lady lean 
 ing upon her arm, and the lovely child leaping 
 like a young lamb before them. 
 
 Days and weeks passed away, and the good 
 people of Dresden, notwithstanding all their 
 surmises and inquiries, -vvere no wiser regard 
 ing their new visitor : ah they could learn "was, 
 that she wos the widow of a young general, 
 who was one of the first that fell when Britain 
 interfered with the French Revolution ; and
 
 128 THE UNFORTUNATE' 
 
 the mother and her child became known in 
 the village by the designation of " Mrs. Dus- 
 tan's two pictures " an appellation bestowed 
 on them in reference to their beauty. 
 
 The beautiful destroyer, however lay in the 
 mother's heart, noAv paling her cheeks like the 
 early lilly, and again scattering over them the 
 rose and the rainbow. Still dreaming of re- 
 recovery, about six months after Her arrival in 
 Dresden, death stole over her like a sweet 
 sleep. It was only a few moments before the 
 angel hurled the fatal shaft, that the truth fell 
 upon her soul. She was stretching forth her 
 hand to her work-basket, her lovely child was 
 prattling by her knee, and Mrs. Dustau smiling 
 like a parent upon both, striving to conceal a 
 tear while she smiled, when the breathing of 
 her fair guest became difficult, and the rose 
 which a moment before bloomed upon her 
 countenance, vanished in a fitful streak. She 
 flung her feeble arms around the neck of her 
 child, who now wept upon her bosom, and ex 
 claimed, " Oh ! my Parthena, who will protect 
 you now my poor, poor orphan ?"
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 129 
 
 Mrs. Dugtan sprang to her assistance. She 
 said she had much to tell, and endeavored to 
 speak ; but a gurgling sound only was heard in 
 her throat ; she panted for breath ; the rosy 
 streaks, deepening into blue, came and went up 
 on her cheeks, like the midnight dances of the 
 northern lights ; her eyes flashed with a momen 
 tary brightness more than mortal, and the spirit 
 fled. The fair orphan still clung to the neck, 
 and kissed the yet warm lips of her dead mother. 
 
 As yet she was too young to see all the drear 
 iness of the desolation around her ; but she was 
 indeed an orphan in the most cruel meaning of 
 the word. Her mother had preserved a myste 
 ry over her sorrows and the circumstances of her 
 life, which Mrs. Dustan had never endeavored 
 to penetrate. And now she was left to be as a 
 mother to the helpless child, for she knew not if 
 she had another friend ; and all she had heard of 
 the mother's history was recorded on the hum 
 ble stone which she placed over her grave 
 " Here resteththe lifeless form of Angeline Ba 
 ker, widow of General Baker : she died amongst 
 us a stranger, but beloved."
 
 130 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 The whole property to which the fair orphan 
 became heir by the death of her mother did not 
 amount to fifty pounds, and amongst the proper 
 ty no document was found which could throw any 
 light upon who were her relatives, or if she had 
 any. But the heart of Mrs. Dustan had already 
 adopter her as a daughter ; and circumscribed 
 as her circumstances were, she trusted that He 
 who provided food for the very birds of heaven 
 would provide the orphan's morsel. 
 
 Years rolled on, and Parthena Baker grew in 
 stature and in beauty, the pride of her protector, 
 and the joy of her age. But the infirmities of 
 years grew upon her foster mother, and disabling 
 her from following her habits of industry, stern 
 want entered her happy cottage. Still Parthena 
 appeared only as a thing of joy, contentment and 
 gatitude ; and often did her evening song be 
 guile her aged friend's sigh into a smile. And 
 to better their hard lot, she hired herself to 
 watch a few sheep upon the neighboring hills, to 
 the steward of a gentleman named Comstock, 
 who, about the time of her mother's death, had 
 purchased the estate of Dresden. He was but
 
 , NTAIN GIRL. 131 
 
 little beloved, for he was a hard master and a 
 bad husband ; and more than once he had been 
 seen at the hour , of midnight, in the silent 
 chuch.y ard, standing over the grave of ^Irs. 
 Baker. This gave rise to not a few whisper 
 ings respecting the birth of poor Parthena.- 
 He had no children, and a nephew who resided 
 in his house was understood to be his heir. 
 
 Arnold Comstock was about two years older 
 than our fair orphan, and ever as he could es 
 cape the eye of his uncle he would fly to the 
 village, and seek out Parthena as a playmate. 
 And now, while she tended the few sheep, he 
 would steal round the hills, and placing himself 
 by her side, teach her the lesson he had that 
 day been taught, while his arm in innocence 
 rested on her neck, their glowing cheeks touch 
 each other, and her golden curls played around 
 them. Often were their peaceful lessons bro 
 ken by the harsh voice and blows of his uncle. 
 But still Arnold stole to the presence of his play 
 mate and pupil, until he had completed his six 
 teenth year ; when he was to leave Dresden 
 preparatory to entering the army. He was per-
 
 132 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 mitted to take a hasty farewell of the villagers, 
 for they all loved the boy ; but he went only to 
 the cottage of Mrs. Dustan. As he entered 
 Parthena wept and he also burst into tears. 
 Their aged friend beheld the yearnings of a 
 young passion that might terminate in sorrow ; 
 and taking his hand she prayed God to prosper 
 him and bade him farewell. She was leading 
 him to the door, when Parthena raised her tear 
 ful eyes ; he beheld them and read their mean 
 ing, and, leaping forward, threw his arms round 
 her neck and printed the farewell kiss on her 
 forehead ! 
 
 " Do not forget me, Parthena," he cried, and 
 hurried from the house. 
 
 Five years from this period passed away. The 
 lovely girl was now transformed into the elegant 
 woman, in the summer majesty of her beauty. 
 For two years Parthena had kept a school in the 
 village, to which her gentleness and winning 
 manners drew prosperity; and iier gray-haired 
 benefactress enjoyed the iftvard of her benevo 
 lence. 
 
 Preparations were making at Dresden Hall
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 
 
 for the reception of Arnold, who was now re 
 turning as Major Comstock. A post-chaise in 
 the village had then become a sight less rare ; 
 but several cottagers were assembled before the 
 inn to welcome the young lord. He arrived, 
 and with him a gentleman between fifty and sixty 
 years of age. They had merely become ac 
 quainted as traveling companions ; and the 
 stranger being on his way northward had ac 
 cepted his invitation to rest at his uncle's for a 
 few days. The foothpath to the Hall lay through 
 the churchyard, about a quarter of a mile from 
 the village. It was a secluded path, and Par- 
 thena was wont to retire to it between school 
 hours, and frequently to spend a few moments in 
 silent meditation over her mother's grave. She 
 \vas gazing upon it, when a voice arrested her 
 attention, saying, " Parthena Miss Baker!" 
 
 The speaker was Major Comstock, accompa 
 nied by his friend. To the meeting of the young 
 lovers we shall add nothing. But the elder 
 stranger gazed on her face and trembled, and 
 looked on her mother's grave and wept. Ba 
 ker!" he repeated, and read the inscription oil
 
 134 THE .UNFORTUNATE 
 
 the humble stone, and again gazed on her face, 
 and again wept. 
 
 "Lady!" he exclaimed, " pardon me what 
 was the name of your mother? who the family 
 of your father ? Answer me, I implore you!" 
 
 "Alas! I know neither," said the astonished 
 and now unhappy Partheua. 
 
 " My name is Baker," cried the stranger ; 
 " I had a wife I had a daughter once, and my 
 Angeline's face was thy faee !" 
 
 While he yet spoke, the elder Comstock drew 
 near to meet his nephew. His eyes and the 
 stranger's met." 
 
 ".Comstock !" exclaimed the stranger, start 
 ing. 
 
 " The same," replied the other, his brow 
 blackening like thunder, while a trembling pass 
 ed over his body. He rudehr grasped the arm 
 of his^nephew and hurried him away. 
 
 The interesting stranger accompanied Par- 
 thena to the house of Mrs. Dustan. Painful 
 were the enquiries ; for while they kindled hope 
 and assurance, they left all in uncertainty. 
 
 "Oh, Sir!" said Mrs. Dustan, "if you are
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 135 
 
 the father of my blessed child, I do not wonder 
 at old Comstock's coloring when he saw you, for, 
 when poverty compelled Parthena to watch his 
 sheep by the hill side, and the dear child would 
 be reading in her Bible like a little angel, and 
 the sheep were feeding near her, that hard 
 hearted wretch would creep softly to her side, 
 and grasping the precious book would hurl it 
 from him uttering oaths too terrible to mention. 
 But the nephew was a fine young man and often 
 sought the society of my child." 
 
 Eagerly did the stranger, who gave his name 
 as Gen. Baker, watch the fair being who had 
 conjured up the sunshine of his youth. One 
 by one, he was weeping and tracing every re 
 membered feature of his wife upon her face ; 
 when doubt again entered his mind, and he ex 
 claimed in bitterness *' Merciful heaven! con 
 vince me ! Oh, convince me that I have found 
 my child !" The few articles that had belonged 
 to Mrs. Baker had been parted with in the depth 
 of her poverty. 
 
 At that moment Major Comstock hastily en 
 tered the cottage. He stated that bis uncle
 
 136 TUB UNFORTUNATE 
 
 had left the hall, and delivered a letter from him 
 to Gen. Baker. It was of few words and as 
 follows : 
 
 MR. BAKER Sir: We were rivals for Ange- 
 line's love you were made happy and I mis 
 erable. But I have not been unrevenged. It 
 was I who befrayed you into -the hands of the 
 enemy. It was I who reported you dead who 
 caused the tidings to be hastened to your wid 
 owed wife. It was I who poisoned the ear of 
 her friends, until they cast her off I dogged 
 her to her obscurity, that I might enjoy my tri 
 umph ; but death thwarted me as jo\\ had done. 
 Yet I will do one act of mercy she sleeps be 
 neath the grave where we met yesterday : and 
 the lady before whom you wept is your own 
 daughter. 
 
 He threw down the letter, and exclaimed 
 " My child ! my long lost child !" And in 
 speechless joy, the father and the daughter rush 
 ed to each other's anus. 
 
 Shall we add more ? The elder Comstock 
 left his native land, which he never again dis 
 graced with his presence. Arnold and Parthe- 
 na wandered by the hill-side in bliss, catching 
 love and recollections from the scene. In a few
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 137 
 
 months her father bestowed on him her hand, 
 and Mrs. Dustan, in joy and pride, bestowed 
 upon both her blessings.
 
 138 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 THE GREAT LEVEE; 
 
 OR, THE UNEXPECTED WEDDING. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IN a neat, but unpretending parlor of a small 
 house in one or our villages, was assembled a 
 happy family, consisting of father, mother, a 
 lovely daughter of thirteen, and two boys 
 younger than the girl around whom they clus 
 tered, as she knit the last stitch hi the two pairs 
 of mittens, which they were to wear for the 
 first time, on the morrow. 
 
 " Well, wife," observed the husband gaily, 
 " I have this day made up the seven hundred 
 dollars, to purchase our wild farm in the West. 
 But, indeed, although we have earnestly looked 
 forward to this day, I must confess, that I feel
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 139 
 
 my heart shrinking from the many hardships 
 which we must endure." 
 
 " Never heed them for a moment," replied 
 the cheerful wife, " we are well, and full of 
 hope and resolution. We will not shrink from 
 the few years of toil and hardship which will 
 secure ease and plenty to ourselves and children, 
 the remainder of our lives." 
 
 u But, Hannah," resumed the husband, " I 
 fear that our boys will have no opportunities of 
 acquiring education, for the lack of which, nei 
 ther lands nor money can be sufficient compen 
 sation." 
 
 " There, you are borrowing trouble again, 
 James ; Jane is capable of instructing her broth 
 ers in all useful learning, until they are old 
 enough to go from home, to some good institu 
 tion." 
 
 " Our Jane is indeed a treasure " and the 
 father's face glowed with pride as he spoke 
 " and it does seem that knowledge is hers by 
 intuition. To think of all the branches that she 
 has mastered ; and the French and Greek lan 
 guage, too ; and then her drawings are so beau-
 
 140 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 tiful. ! she will be a treasure to us and a 
 wonder in the new settlement, and who knows 
 but that she may become the wife of some 
 great statesman yet ?" 
 
 At this suggestion, even the hopeful mother 
 looked thoughtful, and sighed as she gazed upon 
 her fair daughter. But it was arranged that 
 they should take up their line of march early in 
 the spring, for that land of promise, the far 
 West. 
 
 Having suffered them to remain about two 
 years in their new location, we will just look in 
 upon them as we pass through the fertile wastes 
 in the vicinity of the now nourishing town of 
 Newport. Remember, reader, we are review 
 ing the scenes of the past eight years. Well, 
 here is a little log cabin in the centre of a small 
 stubble field, which has apparently yielded a 
 fine crop of wheat, though it now has its pecu 
 liar look of desolation. This is the home of our 
 friend James Gilbert. We will look in upon 
 him. There seems but little comfort in this 
 small dwelling, with but two rooms on the 
 ground, and a garret-like chamber : with fur-
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 141 
 
 niture such as the new settlers substitute for 
 the costly elegance which they could not trans 
 port, and which would be sadly out of place in 
 log cabins. 
 
 We arrived at a very sad crisis. Mr. Gil 
 bert lay on his humble bed very sick with a fe 
 ver. Poor Hannah looked weary and care-worn. 
 She was attending to her affectionate husband and v 
 cooking dinner. The youngest of the boys they 
 brought with them was sitting listlessly by the 
 fire, pale and emaciated by the fever, from 
 which he was just recovering. Indeed, it would 
 seem that they had already paid a high piice 
 for years of independence and honor, if such 
 are really in store for them. The sick man's 
 eyes wandered from the patient wife to the suf 
 fering child, and the tears stole down his burn 
 ing cheeks. An elegant carnage stopped in 
 front of the cottage door, and a lady alighted, 
 in the most showy and expensive dress possible. 
 Mrs. Gilbert meantime prepared to welcome the 
 stranger, who entered with an air of proud 
 condescension, and announced herself as the 
 daughter of Gen. Mayfield.
 
 142 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 " I was informed that you have a daughter," 
 said the fine lady, addressing Mrs. Gilbert. 
 
 " I have, 1 ' was Mrs. G.'s reply. 
 
 " Is she at home now ?" inquired the lady. 
 
 " She will be in presently," said. Mrs. G. ; 
 " would you like to see her ?" 
 
 " Yes," replied Miss Mayfield. - I would 
 Uke to see her before I make my proposals. 
 We have found it very difficult to get a good 
 girl. I presume we have had some dozen or 
 fifteen in the past year and were glad to get 
 rid of every one of them. Some were so igno 
 rant, and some so lazy ; others careless ; but 
 the worst fault of this class of girls is, they are 
 so impudent and assuming. They will behave 
 just {is if they thought themselves quite as good 
 as their employers, and if we do not treat them 
 with the utmost courtesy, they will leave us, no 
 matter in how much of a difficulty. The girl 
 who left us this morning was highly recommend 
 ed to me, but she would not stay, unless she 
 could sit with us at table, though she said she 
 did not expect to sir down when we had com 
 pany, but she would not eat in the kitchen with
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 143 
 
 the colored servants. But then she is a daugh 
 ter of a once wealthy gentleman in Boston, and 
 has an elegant education, and is so very fond of 
 reading. Now, servants ought not to read at 
 all. The less book learning they have, the 
 better drudges they arc. Educated girls have 
 such loft}' notions of themselves, and some of 
 them really pretend to romance. Indeed, it is 
 enough to disgust one. But I am informed 
 that your husband was only a poor mechanic 
 before he came here, and so I hope that your 
 daughter has no jmportant airs and delicate 
 acomplishments . " 
 
 This oration was so volubly delivered, that 
 Mrs. Gilbert could not interpose a word ; and 
 just at this moment, Jane and her eldest broth 
 er entered the house, carrying between them a 
 basket of vegetables, which they had been gath 
 ering in the field. Jane had on a pretty red 
 sun bonnet and dark gingham dress, and her 
 sweet, intellectual face was glowing with her 
 over exertion, and she appeared truly beautiful. 
 Miss M. surveyed her with a disdainful air, as 
 Mrs. (jr. presented her daughter.
 
 144 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 " I am afraid she will make but an indiffer 
 ent kitchen maid," observed Miss M. u How 
 ever, as we t are entirely destitute of help, I 
 will give her a trial ; but cannot promise to give 
 her great wages at first. We will give her four 
 shillings the first week, and then, if she suits us, 
 we will increase her wages." 
 
 " Indeed, Miss M." began Miss Gilbert. 
 
 " Oh, I assure you," interrupted the lady, 
 u I cannot offer her a cent more. She is so 
 very small and delicate looking." 
 
 " Miss !" exclaimed Mr. Gilbert, raising him 
 self in bed, " if you will permit me to speak, I 
 will settle this affair at once. My daughter is 
 not obliged to work out for a livelihood, and if 
 she was, I will take the liberty to say, that she 
 should never work in your kitchen. People of 
 your way of thinking should look out for colored 
 servants." 
 
 " Indeed !" retorted the lady, rising from her 
 seat with an air of contempt. " Your daughter 
 may yet be glad to work in our kitchen." And 
 the lady departed with great indignation. 
 
 " Who ever saw such important creatures V
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 145 
 
 and in such low circumstances, too," ejaculated 
 Miss Mayfield, as the driver turned homeward. 
 " I hope that girl will be obliged to beg for a 
 living, since she is too good to work, which 
 she undoubtedly will before another year rolls 
 round. I think ladies will be compelled to do 
 their own work soon, poor people are becoming 
 so insolent and exacting." 
 
 But was- Jane Gilbert compelled to beg be 
 fore another year? We think not, for six months 
 from that time found the family all well and full 
 of hope. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " DEAR me," drawled Miss Sophia, as she 
 floated affectedly into Mrs.Mayfield's dashy par 
 lor, " would you believe it? Jane Gilbert is now 
 a teacher in the Academy, of music and draw 
 ing, and they say her drawings are beautiful." 
 
 At that moment the door bell rang, and a ser 
 vant announced that Mr. Warner and his sister
 
 146 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 wished to see Miss Mayfield at the door. A 
 moment, and Sophia stood before her welcome 
 guests, and after the usual compliments, the 
 gentleman very politely invited her to call with 
 them on Miss Gilbert, saying, " I am informed 
 that she is very beautiful, and plays the piano 
 elegantly." Sophia's eyes flashed with indigna 
 tion, and her lip curled with scorn as these 
 words fell from her lover's lips. 
 
 " You are really in love before seeing her," 
 ejaculated the jealous-hearted girl. 
 
 " 0, no ! " said her lover, laughing ; " but I 
 should like to hear her play." 
 
 " Yes," rejoined Miss Warner, " you know 
 Hubert is very fond of music, and they say she 
 has a melodious voice. But come, let us away 
 and judge for jeurselves." 
 
 Miss Mayfield reluctantly consented and they 
 soon were on their way. Not a word escaped 
 the lips of Sophia during their walk, but she 
 listened with disgust to the conversation which 
 passed between Mr. Warner and his sister until 
 they had reached the place of their destination. 
 A rap was heard at the door. A servant ap-
 
 MOUNTAIN (URL. 147 
 
 peared and very politely ushered them into a 
 neat little parlor, where sat Miss Gilbert at the 
 piano and Mr. Le Roy at her side. Miss Gil 
 bert rose somewhat embarrassed at the unexpect 
 ed arrival, but, -with an air of gentility and re 
 finement, received the aristocratic guests. After 
 some conversation "Miss Gilbert," said Mr. 
 Warner, "we would be highly delighted to hear 
 a tune on the piano." She politely declined, 
 but the invitation being repeated, she assented, 
 and a triumphant smile passed over the features 
 of the preceptor as she advanced to take her 
 seat. Mr. Warner and his sister listened with 
 great satisfaction to her bird-like voice, while 
 Miss Mayfield's heart burned with envy and 
 hatred, as she watched the graceful movements 
 of the admirable Miss Gilbert. 
 
 Time flew rapidly, and when an hour had 
 passed, it seemed but a moment with Hubert. 
 
 " That is indeed beautiful," said Miss War 
 ner as the music ceased. 
 
 It was now nine o'clock, and the guests took 
 their departure, leaving Mr. Le Roy and Miss 
 Gilbert to themselves.
 
 148 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " Miss Gilbert is indeed beautiful and plays 
 the piano forte elegantly, and her drawings are 
 said to be the nicest in these parts yet ! She 
 is only the daughter of a mechanic, and it must 
 be that Mr. Le Roy has uncommon regard for 
 her, or he would not honor her with a levee ;" 
 said Miss Mayfield, addressing her mother, as 
 she seated herself by a half-open window one 
 beautiful May morning. 
 
 " Is it possible that the levee is to be for the 
 benefit of that little upstart ?" said Mrs. May- 
 field with an air of disdain. " I presume the 
 foolish girl will expend the last cent to decorate 
 her person with finery in hopes she may make 
 a favorable impression on the heart of Mr. Le 
 Roy." 
 
 " Yes ! I dare say the little Miss indulges a 
 hope that she may yet become his bride ! but lie 
 is too proud-spirited to pay his addresses to a 
 poor girl like Miss Gilbert, I assure you ! " 
 Miss Mayfield haughtily.
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 149 
 
 At that moment the door opened, and an aris 
 tocratic lady was ushered into the room, who 
 prided herself on having the most refined and 
 sentimental daughter in the village ; for Mrs. 
 Elford had often prefaced her demands for 
 money with the information that Augusta's taste 
 was so refined, and her mind so exceedingly 
 sensitive, that she positively could not bear con 
 tradiction. 
 
 "Good morning Mrs. Elford," said Miss May- 
 field, rising from her seat, " has Augusta suc 
 ceeded in obtaining the white satin dress pat 
 tern ?" 
 
 " No ! " said the lady, while a shade of dis 
 appointment passed over her features : " the 
 last pattern had just been purchased by Mr. 
 Warner, as I entered the shop." 
 
 'Indeed!" said the disappointed girls, "I 
 had congratulated myself on having our dresses 
 precisely alike." 
 
 " You can both dress in peach-blow satins," 
 said Mrs. Mayfield, gazing intently on her 
 daughter. 
 
 " Yes, but I left my pattern at the dress-
 
 150 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 maker's yesterday ; besides, white would be 
 much nicer to wear on such an occasion." 
 
 " Well," replied the lady, rising from her seat, 
 " Mr. Elford is going to the city to-morrow, and 
 perhaps he can obtain the pattern desired." 
 
 So saying, she took her leave and hastily re 
 turned home. 
 
 The next morning Mr. Elford set out with a 
 light heart for the city, to gratify the wishes of 
 his only child, resolved to purchase the pattern 
 so much desired, even should he be obliged to 
 pay double the value. Time passed heavily 
 away, and the minutes were almost numbered 
 by Augusta, Avho waited anxiously between hope 
 and fear for the return of her father. It was 
 four o'clock hi the afternoon, when Mr. Elford 
 entered his house, holding hi his hand the arti 
 cle which had caused so much anxiety in the 
 bosom of his idolized daughter, who received it 
 with a smile of satisfaction and triumph. 
 
 " You were very fortunate," said Augusta, 
 throwing on her hat and shawl, and immediate 
 ly set out for the dressmaker's.
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 151 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " My dear Armenia," said Mr. Hasson, " I 
 liave brought you the pattern you wished, but I 
 know not how I shall pay for it." 
 
 "Father, father," said the astonished girl, 
 " what does this all mean? I would never have 
 asked the dress, if I had thought you could not 
 afford it. Indeed, I cannot wear it now, I am 
 sure I should feel very unhappy. Do dear fath 
 er take it back." 
 
 " Oh, no, Armenia, it will perhaps look rather 
 odd if I cannot afford you a new dress to wear 
 on such an occasion. Besides, you told me you 
 thought you had none that would be proper to 
 wear." 
 
 " I did," said Armenia, blushing deeply, " but 
 I now remember that aunt Amelia told me so, 
 and said Miss Warner and Miss Mayfield were 
 to have white satin dresses richly trimmed with 
 heavy pointed lace, and were to have pearls in 
 their hair. I did not think of asking so much,
 
 152 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 but aunt said she thought I ought not to be out 
 shone by every one, so I made my request for 
 the dress, which I now feel was dictated by van 
 ity, perhaps tinctured with envy." 
 
 " You certainly deserve the pattern, Armenia, 
 for this ingenious confession, and I shall insist 
 on your keeping it." 
 
 " Do not think of it, papa, indeed I cannot 
 wear it." And the utterance of the gentle 
 girl was choked by tears. 
 
 " I was desponding when I said that, but times 
 may improve. Heaven mil bless my endeavors 
 for the happiness of so good a child. Now dry 
 your tears, dear, and I will send Aunt Amelia 
 to you before night, and you will be all ready 
 for the levee in good time." 
 
 " Nay, but father, that is not necessary for 
 my happiness, and I feel that my heart must be 
 sadly out of tune if its serenity could be dis 
 turbed by the lack of a little splendor." 
 
 " Well, keep it, dear, at any rate, I feel a 
 sort of affection for this dress, since it has shown 
 ine the character of my child in so lovely a 
 light."
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 153 
 
 Mr. JIasson was an industrious merchant 
 whose wife had been dead some three years, 
 and the expense of rearing small children was 
 of course greatly enhanced, yet he had sustain 
 ed good credit, and had kept up an equal ap 
 pearance with the world. But the expense of 
 his family increased while his health failed by 
 constant labor, and he saw the shadow gather 
 ing over his path, now no longer lightened by 
 one who had been as the polar star to the wan 
 derer on the pathless deep. Yet it was very 
 bitter to think of adding to the weight of care 
 that already rested on the heart of his beloved 
 child ; for since the death of her mother, she had 
 supplied her place in so kind a manner, that they 
 scarcely knew the loss of their maternal guar 
 dian. She was nearly eighteen, and it was for 
 the great levee that she had asked the dress.
 
 154 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The anticipated hour at length arrived. We 
 will not stay to describe the decorations or the 
 illuminations of Mr. Le Roy's mansion. We 
 will only say that it was as light as the hearts of 
 the gay throng, who had assembled to tender 
 their homage to Miss Gilbert this evening as 
 Queen of the levee. Mr. Le Roy had corres 
 ponded with Miss Gilbert for nearly a year, with 
 out giving rise to the least suspicion of their in 
 tended marriage. The guests were now seated ; 
 and Mr. Le Roy, with his lady splendidly attir 
 ed, in white satin, her fine auburn tresses beau 
 tifully contrasting with the costly gems that 
 sparkled amid their dark glossy luxuriance, en 
 tered the hall ; and a plain but noble looking 
 gentleman approached the fair couple, and very 
 politely requested the assembly to rise ; and to 
 the astonishment of the happy guests eloquent 
 ly performed tlv: D"?.viage ceremony. Each 
 face beamed with joy as they saluted the fair
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 155 
 
 couple ; the evening passed in mirth and hilari 
 ty ; and a suitable hour saw all parties quietly 
 seeking that repose, which is very necessary 
 after attending such an unexpected wedding. 
 
 Mr. Le Roy spent his life in happiness with 
 his lovely bride ; though somewhat envied by the 
 Mayfield family. The Gilbert family grew up, 
 respected by all who knew them, acquired lib 
 eral educations, and became useful men ; and 
 made their home a little paradise.
 
 156 THF UNFORTUNATE 
 
 THE FORTUNATE BACHELOR. 
 
 THE light of day had faded from the highest 
 snow-clad peak of the Alleghanies. In a small 
 cottage, immediately upon the bank of the river, 
 some few miles obove its junction with the Great 
 Kanawha, blazed a bright fire, by which was 
 seated a gentleman apparently about forty-five 
 years of age, engaged in earnest conversation 
 with a young lady who had scarcely seen nine 
 teen summers. T^he bloom of health was upon 
 her cheek and her soft blue eyes rested intently 
 upon the speaker at her side. 
 
 " Well, Annah, suppose I ask your father's 
 consent. His refusal cannot make things much 
 worse than they are at present. Suspense, An 
 nah, suspense is the cause of the most miserable 
 of feelings. The captive criminal, who is in 
 doubt even in reference to his punishment
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 157 
 
 must certainly be the most wretched of mortals. 
 I I would prefer the gullotine, yes, the gullo- 
 tine." 
 
 " Why, Mr. Laurett," said the fair girl gent 
 ly placing her hand upon his shoulder, " am I 
 to be your executioner ?" 
 
 " No, you are not ; but I am afraid your fath 
 er will be the executioner of us both, and that, 
 too, out of pure affection for his fair daughter, as 
 he was pleased to call you the other day." 
 
 " You think he loves me, then, do you ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, dear Annah, I believe he loves you 
 I never doubted it ; and I have reason to sup 
 pose that he has more good will for me, than for 
 many whom he calls his friends ; but, Annah, I 
 am poor, and he has more than once hinted, that 
 young ladies who have been reared in affluence, 
 can never be happy in marriage unless they are 
 united to men of wealth. 0, if he knew how 
 matters stand between us, how he would frown 
 at the idea. I want the effervescence of his 
 wrath to be over, and I Avill inform him." 
 
 " We must not be too hasty, Mr. Laurett," 
 said the trembling girl ; " our situation requires
 
 158 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 caution. By a little management we may pos 
 sibly succeed, gloomy as the prospect appears 
 to be. Now do not say anything to papa about 
 it yet I had much rather you would not. The 
 best possible way to accomplish our wishes is 
 not to advance too soon." 
 
 " Too soon too soon, Annah ? Have we not 
 waited a year and more ? and have you not 
 been pleading the same to me too soon all the 
 while ? Too soon, indeed !" 
 
 " Well now, dont be angry ; throw that frown 
 from your countenance, and look pleasant ; and 
 we will immediately decide on some plan, by 
 which we may effect the object you so much de 
 sire ; come, smile away your anger, the skies 
 of love are sometimes clear, and '' 
 
 " Annah, if he refuses positively, the only 
 way will be for us to elope. I Anil introduce 
 the subject." 
 
 " Do not yet, Mr. Laurett, I entreat you. 
 We'll take a little more time to think, and then-" 
 
 " No ! Annah, we have thought of it too long 
 already : lot us know our destiny. I will see 
 you again soon. Good evening."
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 159 
 
 So off went Mr. Laurett, leaving Annah, his 
 betrothed, in a sort of half good-natured pet. 
 Lovers are impatient sometimes, and perhaps not 
 without a cause, for fortune is a fickle dame, and 
 the poor only professed particular fellowship for 
 Cupid and his votaries under certain circum 
 stances. She it was who first gave rise to the 
 remark that the course of true love doth not al 
 ways run smooth ; and doubtless upon some 
 rough portion of the tide there is sufficient to test 
 the integrity of another such a man as he who 
 held forth iu the wilderness of Uz, and perhaps 
 even he would have flinched, and remained wife 
 less, had he been obliged to encounter some of 
 the difficulties and dangers which have assailed, 
 in these modern times, the sailors upon the seas 
 of love. Many things have been said about 
 lovers' philosophy, but the philosophy of love is 
 another thing, and in many points of peculiar 
 trial, is found to be a scarce article. Annah 
 possessed about as much and may be a little more 
 than most girls of nineteen certainly more 
 than Laurett. She was really truly, and deep 
 ly in love : but so far from having lost her reason
 
 160 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 in the matter, she could coolly advise, and that, 
 too, with her impatient suitor teasing at her side. 
 
 A lover who is crossed in his purpose may be 
 compared to a ship in a storm with sails all up 
 and no rudder to regulate her course. She is 
 tossed upon the billows like a mote upon the wind, 
 but the magnet directs her needle upon her deck 
 with unerring accuracy; no veer of the ship, 
 however sudden, can interrupt its range, and its 
 point is ever toward the steady pole. Circum 
 stances are the winds and waves which rave in 
 mad riot around the lover's hopes, his heart is 
 in his compass, and while his unfortunate mor 
 tality is driven about by tempests which he can 
 not control, it remains fixed upon its fair enchan 
 tress. Augustus Laurett had loved Annah wild 
 ly, deeply, passionately for nearly three years. 
 One year and more had passed since they had 
 pledged themselves to share the fortunes of a 
 cold-hearted world together. No wonder her 
 lover had become impatient ; a year would seem 
 a short eternity to wait upon the eve of bliss, 
 and yet delay the happy consumption. 
 
 There is a point of courtship, where, if mat-
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 161 
 
 rimony should not ensue, it were far better for 
 the parties concerned that they never were in 
 love ; a millstone about their necks and they 
 cast into the depths of the ocean, were prefer 
 able, for, then, instead of being driven about 
 upon the surface of misfortune, they would sink 
 to the bottom and be at peace. Who has been 
 delayed in love and not felt the truth of the re 
 mark ? 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Annah Walton was the daughter of a wealthy 
 shipper. He was an upright and highly honor 
 able man, but withal an old school aristocrat, 
 whose ipse dixit was law supreme wherever his 
 power could be exercised. It was Annan's mis 
 fortune to lose her mother during her early in 
 fancy, and though she had been carefully reared
 
 162 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 by a devoted nurse, yet it must be confessed 
 that unlimited indulgence had not allowed her 
 disposition to become amiable to that degree 
 which may be styled insipidity, nor was old Aunt 
 Sarah's system of education such as was eminent 
 ly calculated to prepare her young mistress for 
 the ordeal of modern society. Annah Walton 
 had acquired a liberal education at the North, 
 at the age of eighteen, and was beloved by 
 Lawyer Wentworth ; who aspired to her hand, 
 which she obstinately refused, notwithstanding 
 his warm entreaties, and the threats of her pas 
 sionate father ; still she remained unmoved and 
 asserted that she would never consent to become 
 the bride of one whom she did not love. 
 
 Annah was standing alone in her parlor one 
 evening in December ; while the soft moonlight 
 streamed over her lovely features ; she fold 
 ed her arms across her throbbing bosom and 
 tears of anguish streamed down her burning 
 cheek as she murmered aloud : " Shall I con 
 sent to become the bride of one whom I detest. 
 and despise ? or shall I seek a home in the 
 heart of him "
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 168 
 
 " Yes, ray dear," said Mr. Laurett, who at 
 that moment entered the half opened door and 
 approached the agitated girl, " you shall find a 
 home with me " gently throwing his arm 
 around her delicate form and drawing her to 
 his side. 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Laurett, but should my proud and 
 smiling lover ever become the cold and indiffer 
 ent husband ! If ever in consequence of some 
 deficiency in my nature, you should feel in your 
 noble heart an aching void that " 
 
 " Come ! come, dear Annah, away with such 
 misgivings ; this world must be an aching void 
 to me without you. Believe me ! I will ever be 
 all to you that a devoted husband can be. But 
 now to the point ; the sliip sails for England to 
 morrow, and are you ready, and willing, to en 
 trust yourself to my care and accompany me 
 thither ?" 
 
 " To-morrow V" said Annah with surprise. 
 
 " Yes, Annah, to-morrow, since your father 
 has strictly forbidden our union, it is necessary 
 that we should improve the present opportunity 
 for our escape. Annah, if you accept my offers
 
 164 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 we will embark for Liverpool to-morrow ; if not, 
 this must be our last interview ; I shall leave 
 you to decide the question alone." 
 
 So saying he warmly imprinted a kiss upon 
 her marble brow, while a tear stole down his 
 manly cheek saying as he left the room, "I 
 will call at three o'clock for you." 
 
 Annah sat motionless and here yes rested in 
 tently on the form of her lover as he departed. 
 Here the poor girl was left in a dilemma. She 
 must forever abandon the thought of becoming 
 the bride of Mr. Laurett, or forever bid her 
 early home adieu. " Yet," said she, starting 
 from her seat, " God is love ! He is able and 
 I trust will make our union a happy one." A 
 smile of hope passed over her countenance as 
 she moved noiselessly about the apartment ar 
 ranging the baggage for their embarkation.
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 165 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Up and down, and sometimes round. 
 But still their course was Hymen bound. 
 
 The next morning witnessed Laurett with his 
 intended bride embarking for Liverpool. Lau 
 rett smiled proudly as he gazed on the lovely 
 being who was standing at his side on the deck 
 of the proud vessel which bore her onward. She 
 watched the fast receding shore of her nativity 
 fading away into a blue line upon the horizon's 
 verge, and silently dropped the farewell tear as 
 she murmured, in despair ! " For me no more 
 a home ; henceforth Annah Walton is indeed an 
 mtcast- " 
 
 "No! no! dear Annah," said Laurett, press 
 ing her to his bosom, " I trust our home in L., 
 will be as pleasant as the home of your child 
 hood." 
 
 We will not pretend to describe the feelings 
 which this rash move occasioned, in the bosom 
 of the devoted parent, when convinced of his 
 daughter's elopement, but will pass lightly over
 
 166 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 the heart-rending scene. Mr. Walton, though 
 by birth a Southerner, had been educated at 
 Northern institutions, where his youthful excess 
 es, and very liberal principles, had gained for 
 him the reputation of a generous and whole- 
 souled associate, but a wild and uncontrollable 
 student. The most prominent deficiency in his 
 character was a curious combination of energy 
 and volatility, which rendered him the abandon 
 ed slave of whatever passion for the moment ex 
 cited, or influence which for the time being sur 
 rounded him. This was more especially applica 
 ble to his college days, for years of married life 
 had made him a moral and respectable man ; 
 especially since the death of his companion, he 
 had been an affectionate and devoted parent and 
 studied only for the happiness of liis darling 
 child. From that memorable morning, Mr. 
 Walton, in appearance, became a different man. 
 He strove to banish his grief, and to forget his 
 sorrows in the hilarity of a fashionable world. 
 
 Four months from the time of which Ave speak, 
 on a glorious Sabbath morning, Mr. Walton led 
 forth his betrothed to the marriage altar ; as it
 
 MOUNTAIN U1RL. 167 
 
 were to commence life anew. The lady appear 
 ed to be about twenty-eight years of age. Her 
 attire, though rich, was marked by an elegant 
 neatness ; and the absence of all superfluous 
 ornament showed her taste cultivated and re 
 fined. Her rich brown hair was parted and ar 
 ranged with much simplicity over a high fore 
 head, and her countenance bespoke peace and 
 contentment. The Pastor performed the mar 
 riage ceremony with great solemnity, and an 
 expression of satisfaction passed over the pallid 
 features of Mr. Walton, as he departed with his 
 adorable bride leaning upon his arm. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Reader, we will now take a short voyage to 
 Liverpool, where we find Laurett seated with 
 his young bride, in a neat little parlor arranged 
 with great taste and simplicity. Mr. Laurett 
 was not wealthy as we have said before ; but
 
 168 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 with his small fortune he had managed with such 
 economy as to enable him to purchase a small 
 cottage-house, and rent a shop in which he com 
 menced business on a small scale. He was an 
 honest and upright man, and withal, a devoted 
 Christian, who soon gamed the confidence and 
 esteem of his fellow-citizens, who conferred on 
 him many offices of honor. 
 
 Three years had passed pleasantly away and 
 Laurett's efforts in obtaining wealth had evident 
 ly been crowned with success. It was Thursday 
 morning a bright, clear autumnul day, as ever 
 dawned upon the earth. The heat of summer 
 had passed away, the chilly month of September 
 had followed in its footsteps, and tke fading sea 
 son, as though loth yet to retire to its long sleep, 
 and resign its sceptre to dreary winter, still lin 
 gered with a sort of melancholy pleasantness 
 about the scene in which it loved to dwell. Lau- 
 rett entered his peaceful cottage, greeted by his 
 affectionate wife, with whom he exchanged a 
 kiss, which was their mutual custom, and led 
 her to the sofa, saying, " My dear, I have news 
 of importance to impart. We have this day
 
 <!1UL. 169 
 
 become heirs to an inheritance of thirty thou 
 sand dollars, deposited in England Bank." 
 
 " What do you say ? You are jesting " 
 
 " No, dear Annah," said the husband, exhibi 
 ting the letter, and reading aloud its contents. 
 
 " Merciful Heaven !" exclaimed the astonish 
 ed wife, " is it possible that Providence has con 
 ferred upon us unworthy creatures so great a 
 fortune ?" 
 
 After a short conversation, Mrs. Laurett, 
 throwing her arms playfully about her husband's 
 neck, said with a smile : " Now let us return to 
 America, I am sure papa would gladly receive 
 his children and rejoice with us in our prosperi 
 ty. Will we not ?" said Annah, while hot tears 
 gushed over her still blooming cheek. 
 
 Laurett remained silent a few moments and 
 then said : " Yes, my dear, if it is your desire 
 to visit your father ; as soon as matters can be 
 arranged we will embark for America." 
 
 His prosperity was soon rumored abroad, and 
 people of high rank and station dropped in to 
 congratulate Mr. Laurett and his young bride 
 on their good fortune, and expressed feelings of
 
 170 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 the deepest regret when informed that they 
 were so soon to leave Liverpool, with the inten 
 tion of spending the winter in America. Two 
 weeks had scarcely elapsed and all things being 
 satisfactorily arranged, Laurett, with his lovely 
 bride, went on board the Ocean Bird, which lay 
 in the stream with her anchor hove short, ready 
 to commence her cruise when the tide should 
 turn. It was a benutiful sight, and as the Bird 
 bounded on her billowy path, hundreds of spec 
 tators gathered on the shores to witness her de 
 parture for America. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Mr. Walton had pleasantly passed two years 
 and more with his new bride, who was equally 
 well adapted to grace the drawing-room and to 
 superintend the operations of the kitchen, and 
 in either position showed herself perfectly at 
 home. One evening, Mr. Walton, returned
 
 MOUNTAIN 01UL. . I. I 
 
 home with a heavy heart, in view of the gloomy 
 prospect before him. 
 
 " What's the matter ?" asked Mrs. Walton, 
 as he entered the dining-room ; " you look as 
 disconsolate as if you had lost your last friend." 
 
 " It is something, Julia, which you could not 
 remedy, so why need you know ? The knowl 
 edge of it would only pain you, and will come 
 soon enough." 
 
 " But I insist on knowing. Have I not a 
 right to share your sorrows as I have been a 
 partaker in your joy." 
 
 " Well, then, I will tell you. I have befriend 
 ed my friend, lawyer Wentworth," (whom our 
 readers will recollect AVC mentioned in our sec 
 ond chapter,) " in so much that my whole es 
 tate is to be sold at auction on the sixteenth of 
 November." 
 
 " For what amount ?" 
 
 " For twelve thousand !" 
 
 Mrs. Walton looked disappointed and per 
 plexed for a moment, but again assuming her 
 usual cheerfulness, she said with a smile, " This 
 is rather hard, my dear, but we must trust in the
 
 172 
 
 THE UNFORTUNATE 
 
 Lord. He will open some door for our escape." 
 At that moment a coach stopped at the door, 
 from whence a gentleman and lady alighted, 
 who were very courteously accosted by the ser 
 vant who ushered them into an elegant parlor. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Walton soon joined the strangers, 
 in Avhom the former recognized his darling child. 
 In a moment she was in his arms. This was 
 indeed a happy meeting, and Mr. Walton was 
 now as cheerful and happy, as he had been un 
 happy, but a moment before. Mr. Laurett and 
 his bride were cordially received by the step 
 mother, who had once more made Mr. Walton's 
 home indeed a pleasant one. 
 
 Tea was now ready and the happy family 
 once more surrounded a table richly spread 
 with the luxuries of life. Mr. and Mrs. Lau 
 rett observed with admiration the tasteful and 
 elegant appearance of the table and the proprie 
 ty with which every thing was served, and felt 
 that their mother was indeed a treasure. Tea 
 being over, the merry guests were again seated 
 in the parlor, pleasantly recalling past events. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Walton rejoiced in the pros-
 
 MOUNTAIN GIRL. 173 
 
 perity of their children, and Laurett was happy 
 to pay the sum required to redeem his father's 
 estate. Laurett purchased a splendid estab 
 lishment where he spent the remainder of his 
 life in happiness with his lovely bride, and in 
 the enjoyment and society of their affectionate 
 parents.
 
 LINES, 
 
 I love to sit, at dewy eve, 
 Beneath the willow tree ; 
 And listen to the night-bird's song, 
 Which seems so wild and free. 
 
 I love to kneel at close of day 
 Beneath the willow tree, 
 And pour out my soul to God in prayer 
 Who listens when I pray. 
 
 I love to sing the Christian's hymn, 
 It does my soul relieve ; 
 While angels listen to my glee, 
 Beneath the willow tree. 
 
 I love to know that when I die, 
 Beneath the green sod I must lie : 
 I only ask that I may rest, 
 Beneath the tree that I love best. 
 
 On the marble at my head, 
 Be a weeping willow spread ; 
 And sacred to my memory placed 
 Those lines which cannot be erased : 
 
 Sweetly did she resign her breath 
 Her spirit's gone to a world of rest ; 
 And peaceful now her dust shall be, 
 Beneath the weeping willow tree.
 
 INDEX, 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Preface, 3 
 
 The Gipsy Girl, 5 
 
 The Peaceful Cottage 17 
 
 The Orphan's Soliloquy, 23 
 
 I think of thee, 24 
 
 The Young Heiress, 25 
 
 The Young Tutor, 47 
 
 A Cheering Thought, 56 
 
 The Orphan Child, 57 
 
 The Orphan's Benefactress, 58 
 
 The Reward of a Dutiful Son, 71 
 
 Era, the Little Christian, , 84 
 
 Emma, the Belle of the Village, 85 
 
 The Berry Boy, 104 
 
 The Lover's Soliloquy, 110 
 
 The Broken-Hearted Girl, Ill 
 
 The Early Graves, 117 
 
 The Mysterious Strangers, 125 
 
 The Great Levee, 138 
 
 The Fortunate Bachelor, 166 
 
 Lines, 174
 
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