• - \ ... . . .. .. ...... :, M r ... A . . . . . S ._ ••• .: . ..' _.. .... • , t., j --- j _r. ( -..,_ . .... _. : .. . . .._ .4,....,..,....„, ..... .... ...,,._..._ U SAMUEL WRIGHT, Editor and Proprietor VOLUME XXVIII, NUMBER 26.] gttrg. For the Columbia Spy The Last Stake. 'Two Persians sat at chess, oue day, /Princes haughty and proud were they, (Playing a deep and desperate play. 'Treasures of gold were lost nod won; 'The vanquished lord at set of suit, Every treasure had lost but one, Ills last stake was his lady bright— marvel not that the haughty knight Paler grew than his chess-king white. They played bsneath the lady's bower, As stars come out at twilight hour, Dark eyes peeped from the princely tower. Dark eyes looked on the fatal board, Dark eyes fell on the gleaming hoard, Dark eyes smiled on their much loved lard .Fierce the struggle for death or life 21mM—a voice o'er the silent strife— " Give your castle and save your wife.' D. C For The Columbia Spy. leaves from an Artist's Sketch-Book EBBE Paul Werner and I sat by the water-side, gazing at the sunset. The waves rippled softly beneath our feet, and warm rays of light came dancing under the shadow of the old wall behind us, and up through the long streets, gilding the projecting gables and quaint time-worn carvings and mouldings of the old fashioned houses, and lighting the window panes, until they seemed all aglow with fire. Piles of massive clouds rolled slowly along the blue sky; towards the west ern horizon, shaped like the enchanted pal ace of some fairy tale, their lofty towers and snow-white domes blazed in the deep golden radiance, flushed with blood-red, crimson, and royal purple, that melted away in the distance to the softest tinge of pearl. Boats glided up and down over the shining river, and we watched their course with longing eyes, wishing ourselves within them. So we sat there until a rising mist hid the love ly view, and the rich tints faded from the sky; then I laid my hand upon Paul's shoul der, and reminded him that it was time to return home. This was our favorite idling place when we were children. Day after day found us in the shadow of the old wall, listening to the murmuring waters, for I cared little fur the ordinary sports of boyhood, and Paul, perhaps in consequence of his frail health, still less. When I was not with him, he wandered to a nook is the cathedral near which we lived, and drank in with costae} , every note that streamed down from the vast•organ overhead, or, seated before his mother's old piano, improvised wild and touching airs. How well I remember his appearance at such times, when I would ,enter unexpectedly, and interrupt him, the bright color burning on his pale cheeks, his whole frame quivering with the strong ,excitement. And his large, dark eyes would sparkle with pleasure when I praised his performances, and predicted a future filled with that impossible success which exists only in youthful imaginations. Our ages were almost the same, and we bad lived together from infancy in a ram bling old house in ono of the quietest streets of Dusseldorf;—Paul's widowed mother, a grave and silent woman, in very limited cir cumstances, renting a few rooms, and my father's family occupying the remainder.— By the departure of my my two elder broth ers, one for Munich, the other for America, I should have been very much alone, had it not been for Paul's companionship. We went to the same school, and conned the same tasks, rarely neglecting them, fur we wore both fond of study. Every holiday hour was employed in unchecked rambles, through the town or along the beautiful banks of the Rhine, which my father, a flourishing tradesman, was too good natured, and my .nother too busy superintending the operations of her maid Katehon, to restrain. So we eat gazing over the water, while the dim shadows of twilight were creeping round us. The sound of dipping oars, and the boatmen's song came floating towards us from the distance, and ono clear bright star shone out from the depths of the sky above. Suddenly a shower of rose•leaves fell on our heads, and I turned round just in time to see a beautiful head with long golden curls, disappearing behind the wall. /Oh, Linda! you wild child,' I exclaimed, .'you need not hide your face, fur I see you!' 'Where have you been all this afternoon, Linda?' asked Paul. -'Aunt Gretta keeps me in,' said she, re appearing from her hiding place, with a missed look upon her fair features. 'She says girls should not play with boys. I wish I was a boy; you would have taken me a fine stroll Carl, wouldn't you?' she added. 'Certainly,' I replied patronizingly, for my three years' seniority gave me much importance in my own estimation. 'You cannot think how much you lost this after noon, Linda; there are beautiful yellow but ter-cups growing all over the fields; they are fairies, and when they aro tired of staying on their stems they spread out two golden wings and fly up through the air. Don't you wish you had seen them? And great dragon flies are there too; you might have gone riding upon one of them, with a toad stool for a cushion. how delightful that would have beenl' 'Oh, Carl, Carl!' said she laughing, 'you are making fun of me, I know, and I don't believe you have been near the fields this afternoon; have you Paul?' Paul did not answer for his eyes were fixed dreamily upon the stars. 'Linda, Linda!' called a shrill voice, 'come in this instant, Linda!' 'Oh, I must go!' she said hurriedly— 'Aunt Gretta will be so angry! Good-bye —good-bye, Paul!' and the next moment brought the sound of her rapidly retreating footsteps. She lived in an old and decayed house, standing near the brink of the river. It had perhaps been handsome a century before, I when occupied by a small community of nuns, and there were many ecclesiastical designs carved round the narrow doors and high loop-holes of windows—angels heads, and lilies, and crosses, which pleased my boyish fancy. It stood in the midst of an extensive, but utterly neglected garden, of which the wall I have mentioned, formed one of the boundaries. Thus it happened that two years before, the lonely and orphan Linda had made our acquaintance, by shyly peeping over at us through her golden curls, as we sat beneath, and Paul and I succeeded at last in coaxing her warm affection; for 1 1 having no brothers of her own, she came to regard us as such, and we often made her the companion of our rambles, and petted and teased her by turns. The stars shone out brighter and brighter as we strolled leisurely homeward. Paul was silent, and so was I. That bright sum-. mer afternoon, the brilliant sky and the restless waters had filled my mind with an intense longing to realize a dream which had haunted me all my life long; a dream of the myriad forms of real and ideal loveli ness starting into glowing life beneath my hand, upon the painter's canvas. My mem ory furnished me with many examples of those who had risen from obscurity to a high place among the masters of their glo rious art, and I coveted a like career for myself. It is true, I knew there were many difficulties in the way, but that knowledge only increased my desire to grapple with and overcome them; yet one, I feared would not be overcome easily. My father had al ways destined rue fur his successor in busi ness, and although the most indulgent of men, with an equanimity of temper which was very rarely disturbed, he could at times evince the moat dogged obstinacy of resolve; and, what was still worse, lie looked upon all poets, artists, and musicians, with feel ings very mush akin to those with which a well disposed, industrious bee would regard the lazy drones cumbering the hive. So, if I met with no angry opposition, I expected my designs to be thwarted all the same, with the comfort of being treated as one suddenly bereft of all the sense he ever possessed. And my good mother, quite as practical in her way as my father, would coincide perfectly in all his views. I often envied Paul his liberty to to devote himself to the study of music, and planned a thousand ways for opening the matter to my parents; yet always, at the moment, my courage would desert me, and then the shop would rise before my eyes and seem more odious than ever. I mused silently over these things till we reached the door of our home, where I bade my compan ion good-night, and entered the large, com fortable kitchen, our usual sitting room, when the long-dreaded explanation came rather sooner than I had expected. A bright fire burned upon the hearth, fill ing the room with a cheerful glow that was reflected from rows of shining tins upon the wall, danced merrily over the face of the old clock in the corner, and deepened the flush in my mother's cheeks, as she leaned over the blaze, preparing some savory dish for • supper. Katchen had drawn out the table, and was covering it with a snow white cloth, while my father, leaning back in his wide arm chair at the open window, with the smoke from his pipe curling lazily round his I head, appeared to be listening sleepily to the singing of the kettle, and the murmur of insects among the leaves in the garden. ! He looked earnestly at me as I approached, and said, 'You are late this evening, son Carl!' 'lt was such a beautiful sunset,' I replied, 'that I stayed out later than I intended.' 'Hum!' said my father, and ho resumed his pipe, and smoked away for some mo ments, in silence, which was only broken by my mother inquiring if Paul was with me. 'Carl!' he exclaimed suddenly, "I have something to say to you which may as well be settled at once. You will he fifteen very soon, and have more learning than I ever had. lam going to give you a place in the shop next week. It is quite time for you to know something of business, and you are growing flighty.' 'Oh, Father!' I cried, in an agony—'l cannot learn business—l hate the shop!' 'Hate the shop,' repeated my mother, dropping the spoon in amazement, 'is the boy mad?' 'This is all Paul Werner's nonsense,' said my father. 'Neighbor Bertha shows very little sense in the way she spoils that child, and he has none at all. Why, what do you menu, Carl? Do you expect to doze away your life over sunsets and musty books? What do you want to be?' 'A painter, father!' I answered promptly, 'I want to be a painter.' 'Give up the shop which your father and grandfather kept before you, to be a miser able painter. Oh, Carl! Carl! I wish you were like your brothers,' he said, in a tone which betrayed much irritation. 'Franz and Hein rich never would have dreamed of such folly. Why, you are talking of things which you "NO ENTERTAINMENT IS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING." COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, JANUARY 2, 1858. know no more about than the cat under the table. You will like business well enough when you are in it. Yes! and you will thank me fur putting you there, I know you will!' 'Never, father!' I replied calmly, for I felt the time for a final decision had now ar rived. 'This is no new thing with me, and Paul Werner's influence has nothing to do with it. I have always longed to be painter, and if you allow me, I will study and work hard for proficiency and success. lam sure I shall win them; but I am not suited to a business life, and I should be perfectly wretched shut up in the shop.' 'Wretched, you silly boy!' said my mother, angrily, 'wretched! when you might be earning money, and growing a rich man!' 'Might look out in the street all day long!' murmured Katchen. My father threw himself back in his chair again, replaced his pipe in his mouth, and closed his eyes, and I listened anxiously to my mother, whose mind was divided be tween comments on my conduct, and the la bor of placing supper upon the table, in which she was well echoed and assisted by I her blooming hand maiden. It was not till their preparations were completed, that he resumed the conversation, by saying, 'Peace, both of you! Carl, I have been considering this matter, and have deter , mined to let you have your own way, for two reasons; because, in the first place, I see you will be good for nothing if you don't have it, and in the second, you will soon see the folly of it if you do. I will send you to morrow to the Herr Von Siegel's studio; that will soon disgust you with grinding paints, and daubing canvass, so say no more about it. Ursula, let us have supper!' Ile kept his word, and the next day opened a new era in my life. Four years passed away, four bright and happy years. Revellingiamong, the glorious creations of art, with the companionship of the good and gifted, my own endeavors I crowned with a success which I had scarce dared to hope fur, how could they be other wise? My master, Adrien Von Siegel, was one of the best and noblest of men; enthusi -1 astically fund of his art, because he believed its inspiration a divine gift, capable of rais ing the mind from all that was coarse, and mean, and low, up to the pure empyreal heights of virtue and holiness, and that the minion of the true artist was to regenerate the world, he was yet guileless and single minded as a child. To his teaching, his friendship, I owe more than I can ever ex press, and he did that for me by his delicate tact which I am sure no one else could have attempted successfully. He induced my pa rents nut only to abandon their opposition to my new occupation, but eventually to take a warm interest in it, especially after my brother Heinrich ,settling advantageously his affairs in Muuich, returned to Dussel dorf, and took the place in the old shop which my father had destined one day for me. Heinrich, to my great joy, warmly ap proved my choice of a profession, and sec• onded the advice of the Herr Von Siegel, that I should go to Rome, and study for a year or two among the works of the old masters, which was finally agreed upon, and I looked forward with eager interest to the time when I should tread the classic ground of the seven-hilled city, and gaze upon the immortal works enshrined amid its faded and melancholy grandeur. Paul was still the same—still the earnest and impassioned dreamer he had ever been. We were now necessarily much separated by our different pursuits, yet whenever I entered his room, I found him as I had al ways done, sitting before the piano, with his fingers wandering over the keys, and the floor strewed with music and blotted manu scripts. Not that there was aught of list lessness or indolence in his nature! Beneath the show of a calm and reticent exterior burnt the hidden fires of intense feeling, proud self-reliance, and ambition powerful and restless enough to soar like the pinions of an eagle, up to the sun-bright heights of Fame. Re worked, nay toiled, among his compositisns, with a sort of feverish and im patient ardor, rarely satisfied with the fruits of his labors; and every day his cheek seemed paler, and his tall, slight form, still slighter. There is a head of St. John in the altar piece of one of the chapels in Rome which is a striking resemblance of Paul Werner, as he looked then; it has the same dark spiritual eyes and straight features, the same massive and transparent brow, half shaded by wavy masses of rich brown hair, and is a model of noble intellectual beauty. how often, in after years, it has recalled the past to my mind! There was one, however, whose sweet influence could wile even Paul from his studies, and make my heart throb with strange emotions which I could scarce define. Our little playmate, Linda, still a playful child in heart, was fast approaching the dawn of a most perfect wo manhood, and I had long since learned that in her was centered all my hopes of earthly happiness. She was so simple and innocent that I feared to startle her by avowing the love I felt, willing, rather, to wait patio y until I discovered some signs of reciprocity; and in the meanwhile she called us her brothers, as in the days when we roamed the fields together, and treated us both with perfect impartiality—perhaps she was some what gayer and more unreserved with me. than she was with Paul, but I regarded this as a good omen for my future success, and persuaded myself that to hisundemonetrative nature, she vras dear only ass sister. So I kept my love hidden in th - e depths of my heart; yet the thought of a happy home with Linda beside me supplied a new incentive for exertion, and I worked away with pal ette and brushes, dreaming of her pure and delicate loveliness, and seeing the ripple of her golden hair in every sunbeam that glanced across my easel. 'Carl,' said my master to me one day, 'when arc you going to Rome?' I looked up from the St. Francis which I was copying. Ire was standing beside me, regarding me attentively. My thoughts were elsewhere—and I felt conscious of blushing, as I answered hesitatingly, that I had not yet decided upon the time for de parture. 'So I feared,' he said, 'but this is not well, Carl! remember, art is a jealous mis . tress; those who seek her favors must offer no divided hearts, and I have fancied of late, you are somewhat less ardent in her pursuit than you were wont to be. Never for one moment must your interest flag, my dear boy. You are richly dowered with youth, vigorous health, and talent. Go on bravely asyou have begun; make every difficulty over come, every triumph achieved, a stepping stone to mount still higher, and recollect that energy and perseverance are the true elements of success. He was right, although he knew not the cause of the slight obstruction which he had noticed; but I recognized the force of his appeal, and before I left my master's studio I had determined to start for Rome one week from that date—the day after my nineteenth birthday. One lovely summer evening I walked through the long streets to the old house by the river side, that I might say farewell to Linda. Paul was not with me. I had not sought him, for at that moment I desired none other companionship than my own thoughts. I was leaving home with many bright anticipations for the future, and yet with many fears. If Linda only loved me— but I knew she did not; not at least as I wished. One moment I was almost resolved to risk all by a frank confession; the next, I felt it would be ungenerous to obtain aught from her girlish ignorance which she might afterwards regret. She was so young —scarce sixteen; there was yet time for me to woo and win her, after I had made all the honors my own, to which I was aspiring. The thought that perhaps her love might be given to another would send the blood chill• ing round my heart, but I was too cheerful and sanguine to dwell lung upon the possi bility of disappointment, where I hoped for success, and my heart was light and buoyant as I opened the gate, and passed up the grassy and dew-laden walks, to a little honeysuckle porch, where Linda generally sat. She was there, and I stood for a moment gazing upon her, as an exquisite picture, framed by the slender pillars bearing the heavy masses of leaves and flowers; her hands were folded negligently upon her lap as if weary with the garland she was weav ing, and those deep blue, wondrously resplen dent eyes were upraised in the clear moon light, which poured a flood of silvery radi ance over her snowy dress and shining curls. A slight rustling I made attracted her at tention, and she welcomed me frankly and gaily, as she was always wont to do. 'This is a farewell visit,' I s *i 'tomorrow I start for Borne.' 'Are you going tomorrow, Carl? I am very sorry,' and oar , stole into her eyes, as she turned them towards me. 'Theo you will not forget me, dearest Linda?' 'Never,' she replied; 'but I fear you will forget me among the pictures and statues of Rome. You will study and paint, and be come a great artist, and you will never think again of poor Linda.' 'I will think of her at all times; she shall be my guiding star, my inspiration. Linda laughed merrily at my raplisody, and taking up the flowers in her lap, com menced anew the garland she had been braiding. •I must have that wreath for a keepsake, and one of your ringlets, Linda; will you give them to me?' She complied promptly with my last re quest by taking a pair of scissors which lay 1 near her and severing a long tress which she placed in my extended hand. I had just hidden its glossy curls in my bosom when Aunt Gretta joined us, arrayed as usual in the highest of starched caps, and the most immaculate of white aprons, anx ious to hear all the particulars of my pro jected tour. I happened to be a great favorite with the old lady, and although not very well pleased with the interruption I entered into the full history of all I had been doing and expected to do, and Linda listened with the warmest interest depicted upon her sweet face; so the hours flew past all too rapidly, and I rose to depart with many kind wishes from Aunt Gretta. Linda accompanied me for a short dis tnnce through the moonlit shrubbery, and the tears shone again in in her eyes when I said: 'Farewell, dearest Linda, God bless you forever;' yet I felt her response was that of an affectionate sister, nothing more. Paul was much with me during the week preceeding my departure, interrupting there by the completion of a piece of sacred music upon which he had been deeply occupied.— He spoke very freely of his plans for the future, and of the grand works which were to make his name immortal. His last words were, 'ln a year or two I will join you in Rome, Carl.' From my dear old master I received sev• eral introductory letters addressed to h:s friends in Italy, one of them to a very emi nent artist, in whose atelier I placed myself upon my arrival. Signor Cumillo interes ted me much less than von Siegel, yet I felt conscious of making rapid improve ment under his care. Then too I was upon classic ground, hallwed by all the po etic inspiration of past centuries. With what intense delight I wandered through the magnificient galleries of the Vatican, and gazcd upon the colossal works of Michael Angelo, the exquisite grace and glowing tints of Raphael and Titian, or gathered materials fur many a sketch from the pie turesque groups of lazzaroni, which met me at every turn. My fellow students were all gay, genial young men, chiefly Italians, sonic of them possessing no ineonsidereble degree of talent, and the fame of the Signor Camillo brought many admiring visitors to his atelier. One of them an elderly gentle man, evidently a German, attracted my at tention by the frequentcy of his appearance among us, and the interest with which he contemplated every easel. I enquired his name and learned he was of high rank, the Count von Leichtenfels. One day I wns very busily engaged in giving a few slight touches to the picture I was finishing, when chancing to look up I espied the old gentleman peering curiously over my shoulder. 'You are very industrious, my young countryman,' he said. 'Success cannot be won without industry,' I replied. 'True, true,' said be, 'though few think . Are you from Munich?' 'From Dusseldorf,' I answered. 'Dusseldorf. Oh! And I doubt not you have come to Italy expecting to equal, if not surpass, all the painters who have existed since the art was known!' 'No, indeed," said I, provoked by his sar castic tone, 'I expect nothing of the sort; but if I cannot rival the great masters of antiquity, I will at least emulate their ex ample.' 'Very right, very right! persevere and you will do well. Come and dine with me to morrow;' and throwing his card into my lap, my eccentric companion sauntered off, leaving me much surprised by the con% or sation. Singular as the Count Von Leichtenfels certainly was, he proved my best friend in Rome. It a-as partly owing to his rowel ful patronage that my pictures sold rapidly, and several found a place in his own choice col lection. Among them was a sunset view on the Rhine—a quaint old house near the wa ter's edge, and two boys sitting in the shad ows of a broken wall, watching the gliding boats upon tiro river. A little girl with golden ringlets and violet eyes looked over the crumbling wall, and a red glow burned upon the window panes of the town in the back ground. As I found afterwards, the Count was noted for his kindness to young artists, although ho admitted few persons, even among his own rank, to any degree of intimacy. Unmarried, and posses .ing• im mense estates, he spent hia time chiefly in gratifying his passionate fondness for music and painting. My fellow students noticed, i perhaps with some little jealousy, that he always sought my society, and at last, in- I sisted upon my constant %kits at his house, and they attributed it entirely to my being his countryman. I soon found his brusque and odd manners, hid a warm and most be nevolent heart, whilst his superior know ledge of the world, great learning, and keen, critical acumen, made his ads ice most use ful to me. Year after year stole by, and found me still lingering in Italy. I examined the buried treasures of Pompeii, and the stately ruins of imperial Rome, and gazed upon the sunset from the bay of Naples, and stood upon the Rialto and watched the gondolas glide by moonlight through the streets of Venice. I still worked hard; not so much from ambition, as love to her whose sweet memory had been indeed my inspiration; for, from the moment of my arrival, till now, when fortune, and some little fame seemed dawning upon me, through all the difficul ties which I had met and conquered, the bea con which Hope kindled before me was happiness with Linda, and my deepest do sire was to be worthy the affection of her innocent heart. I received frequent and I encouraging letters from my old master, I Adrian Von Siegel, and very affectionate. though rare messages from my parents, ; Heinrich, and Paul. There was a mystery which I could not solve. Paul wrote often during the first two or three years of my absence—pleasant, hopeful letters, giving me news of the old town I had left; of Linda; of the great ora torio which he had been composing. Then his letters ceased. Heinrich, indeed, told me of a long and terrible illness from over exertion, and I wrote to him frequently, but received no answer. I could only suppose that some unknown cause had estranged him, but what it might be, I could not even guess. Five years bad passed since my absence from Dusseldorf, when I returned thither. It was a bright afternoon, and the streets were filled with gay groups in their holiday garb, reminding me that it was the season of some church festival. None were $ • : '4l : : IN IV: C •82 00 • NO IN s • at home when I reached there hut the stot and rosy Katcher), who informed me all the folks had gone out 'pleasuring,' as she stood before the glass, arranging some scarlet rib bons in bows over her blue dress, prepari.- tory to following their example. I aske,l for Paul. 'Oh he had gone away,' she said, 'gone from there soon after his sickness. Would I have some dinner?' I refused her offers, fur I Faw she was longing to show her finery in the street, and when I had obtained the place of Paul's present residence, I departed in search of him. Many strange misgivings crowded through my mind as I approached it. Knowing nothing more of him than I have already stated, except that the last letter T received from Heinrich, in Italy, told of his mother's recent death, I felt perplexed beyond mea sure by his long silence and neglect. These reflections assumed a more painful charac ter, as I observed the air of discomfort and poverty about the house to which I had been directed, but I was told upon opening the door, that the per.on whom I sought lived there, in an upper room; thither I repaired. Paul did not observe my entrance; he sat near the window with his back towards me, his face buried in his !lanai. I advanced, calling him by name. the!' he sprang up. and come forward. Oh, Heaven! what did it mean, that trembling form, those strained eyes, those groping hand.? Alas! I under stood it all, even before the words came from Iris white and quivering 'Oh, Carl! blind! blind! blind!' I raised him, fur he fell like one dead into my arms. For a few moments neither of us spoke; I could not; he burst into a pas -don of tears, and sobbed until I feared he would pour out his life in thu long pent-up El= 'Why did I not know of this?' I said, 'Oh, Paul! why did you keep it from me?' 'I could Coot bear to let them tell you; I have been mad, Carl, mad! You were making your way steadily onwards to suc cess and fortune, while I lay writhing be neath the weight of this fearful curse, with all the hopes of my life utterly blighted. I prayed for death, Carl. I would have sought fur it long ago, but for my poor mother, and now—' 'Hush, hush!' I exclaimed, alarmed no lees by his terrible despair, than by dread of its effect upon his worn out frame. 'I cannot!' he cried. 'They tell me it is the will of God; n chastening sent in mercy, but I cannot believe it; it is more than I can bear, living in this perpetual night; going down to the grave in such utter loneliness.' 'Oh, Paul, Paul!' was all I could say, 'God pity and help you!' By degrees he grew calmer, and avoiding all mention of his late terrible bereavements, I led him on to'speak of other things. The flush on his cheek grew deeper, when he mentioned music, and the compositions at which he had labored with so much ardor; but otherwise be betrayed no emotion.— Poor fellow! it seemed indeed as if every earthly hope was blighted. He listened ap parently with much interest, when I told him of my life in Italy. of the pictures I had finished, and of the one I had painted from memory; the sunset of Dusseldorf. and the two boy; gazing at the water, from the shadow of the old wall. Then he turned deadly pale, and grasped my hand tighter, sayihg: 'Oh, Carl! my own brother, you have never known!' 'What?' I nuked anxiously. 'llow intea,ely and adoringly I have al ways loved Linda. It is the bitterest drop in my cup of suffering, to feel 5110 is lost to me forever. 'And Ludo.: does she love you, Paul?' I asked, while I felt a faintness like death creep over me. 'I cannot tell; yet sometimes I have Le- Herod that she does. But I have nut seen her for a long time. I came here to hide myself from every one—even from her.' Poor Paul! I saw how he had shut himself in this gloomy place, broading over his sor rows, till his proud, silent, impassioned na ture was goaded almost to frenzy. And he too loved Linda! had long loved her! and I saw he believed, ns I had believed of him, that she was nothing more to me than a dear friend; for had it been otherwise I know he would have concealed his passion until that day when the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed, rather than cause sorrow to a friend and brother. I remained with him for seve ral hours, and when I left he appeared to be is a much more cheerful mood. 'Come often, Carl,' he said, 'you bare com forted me by this visit; you were always my good angel.' The warmest of welcomes and the most profuse of suppers awited me on my return home, and my parents blamed themselves for the absence which my ncgligenc had occasioned, for I had not told them when to expect me. Time had dealt kindly with my kindred, and as I looked around the cheer ful apartment and marked the evidences of domestic comfort on every Sid:, ill° happy and beloved faces near me, I could scarce repress a sigh—my thoughts went back to the scene! bad just loft. We spoke of Paul, and I found my conjectures respecting him were nll correct. At the death of his mother, following so closely upon his blindness, caused by intense and injudicious exertion, he left the house, refusing to see any one whom be had known before. But Heinrich sought him out, and my mother ministered [WHOLE NUMBER, 1,431. to his comfort in many ways of which be was not aware. lie had first exacted a promise that none would tell me of his al tered eircumstrnces, and they gave it, be lieving him indeed to be as he said, mad.— My father's reasoning was characteristic: 'Poor boy!' said be, 'we did our best to comfort him, and keep him with us, but as he would not hear reason, I concluded it was better to let him have his own way, and not worry him with opposition that could do no good; he will soon see his fully, and come back.' The next day saw me at the old house 'by the river side, sitting near Linda, gazing into her glorious eyes; listening to her sweet coke; abandoning myself unresistingly to the influence of her intoxicating presence. She was, if passible, more beautiful than ever; for the mirthful, half mischievous ex pression of her childhood had subsided into the softer glow of deep fueling and awakened thought. Yet I saw, or fancied I saw, through all her rapidly maturing lovliness, a slight tinge of something like sadness, and her cheek paler than it was wont to be.-- But this impression soon vanished before her affectionate greeting and the eager in terest with which she questioned me about my long absence, and again the hopes which had ever gilded my future glowed brightly within my heart. I spoke of Italy and its wonders; of my return; and of Paul. I glanced anxiously at her, and saw the red flush mantling her cheek at mention of his name; but I went on, determined to know the worst, and told of his ill health, and the sorrow and loneliness in which I had found him. My voice faltered as she turned aside, covering her face with her hands to hide the starting tears, arid sighed out, in a tone of inexpressible mournfulness, 'Oh, Paul! So I learned whom it was that Linda loved And did I nut feel all the bitterest pangs of disappointment? Only for a moment.— Then there arose befure me a pale form, with sightless eyes, and feebly groping hands, and I heard a voice crying in my ears, 'This is more than I can bear; living in perpetual darkness, going down to the grave in such utter loneliness.' In my heart I blessed God that it would not be so. My plan was soon formed; I told Linda of all Paul's wores—ail the deep love he had avowed for her, and though her tears fell faster than ever, I saw they were partly tears of joy; and when I said, 'You have loved Paul, Linda, will you love him less now that ho is blind and suffering?' she raised her eyes to mine, with a look of pity- Mg tenderness, an angel might hare worn. 'Oh, Carl! she replied,' how little either you or Paul know of a woman's heart! He would be dearer to me, far, far dearer; I would watch: him, tend him, aye. even toil for him. My love should guide him through the darkness, and be his interpreter fur the light of which he is now bereft. Oh, must gladly would I do this, Carl!' 'I know it, Linda, my sweet sister; I know your noble and unselfish nature, would shrink from 11 U sacrifice for those you love.' 'This is not sacrifice,' she replied, 'and in true affection there can be no selfishness, Carl!' No, there could not. Those words sank deeply into my heart, and I resolved thence forth to purity and ennoble my love, by being to her the brother she had ever thought me. Day after day found we by Paul's bedside, fur he sank into a low nervous fever, and I would gladly have administered to him the sweet cordial of hope, had it not been for the physician's prohibition of all that would tend to exult° him. So I watched beside his restless pillow—waiting the fitter season of returning health, and through those anxious hours my mind resolved many plans for removing the obstacles in the way to his happiness. Yet I could decide upon none; for I knew he would shrink from ac cepting pecuniary obligaticn, even from rue. The only person who.° advice might have aided me, my master, Herr Von Siegel, woe then absent in France, and every day saw me plunged deeper in solicitude and per plexity. Two \reeks after my return, I found the following letter awaiting me. My Dear Carl:—Ere you receive this I shall be in Germany, called thither by some villainous law busiaesq, relating to an estat. in your vicinity. I shall r.aell Dugiehlorf by the 20th; then come t , ) me. Ever your friend. LEOPOLD VON LLICIITENFELS. This unbxpected intelligence gave me the truest pleasure. Knowing the Count's lkindne‘s of heart and generosity, I deter. mined to confide in him. Accordingly, a !day or two after his arrival, I told him of Paul, our early friendship, of his Wit:does. his love. I have oftmu thought ainco that he learned more than I intended he should; but ho made no comments as I proceeded. walking thoughtfully up and down the room, with his hands clasped behind him, then stopping suddenly, be gated scrutini. zingly in my face. 'Your account hoe touched me,' he said. will see this young friend of yours. Take me along next time you isit him.' I did so, merely introducing the Count u an old friend, by his desire. Paul was then slowly recovering, and his mind seemed gaining a healthier tone. I had removed him to another room, lighter and more cheer ful than one he formerly occupied, and be I now received with pleasure all those friends whom ho had formerly shunned. He veld corned me more cheerfully than he bad done for a long time, and the racy conversation of the Count Von Leichtenfels sosmed to re . awake the dormant energies of his own
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