X
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'WE GO WHERE DEMOCRATIC PRINCIPLES POINT TilK WAY J WliEN THEY CSASE TO LEAD; WE CEASE TO FOLLOW "
BY ANDREW J. UIICY.
EBENSBURG, THURSDAY ALVRCI1 20, 1851.
VOL. 7.NO. 23.
T4'
k h
Or m i . a wa
Vei C Aa mitt r' I'.dinburg Journal.
The Conflict oi' a,oveA T!e
ol Ileal rile.
Iv the north of France, near the Bel
gian frontier, is situated a small, obscure
town. It is surrounded by high fortifiea
uons, which seem ready to crush th
mean houses tn the centre. Inclosed so
to speak, in a net-work ot' walls, the poor
hide town lias never sent a suburb to
wander on the smooth greea turf outside;
but a3 the population increased, new
itreets sprang up within the boundary,
crowding the already narrow space, and
giving to the whole the aspect of some
huge prison.
The climate of the north of France du
ring half the year is usually damp and
gloomy. I shall never forget the sensa
tion of sadness which I felt when obliged
by circumstances to leave the gay, sunny
outh, and take up my abode lor a while
in the town I have described. Everyday
I walked out; and in order to re-icii ihe
nearest gate, 1 had to pass through a nar
row lane, so very steep, that steps were
cut across it in order to render the ascent
less difficult. Traversing this disagreea
ble alley, it happened oue day that my
eyes rested on a mean-looking, gray-colored
house, which stood detached from the
others. Seldom, indeed, could a ray of
sunshine light up its small, greeu-paned
windows, aud penetrate the interior of iis
irlooniv apartments. During the winter
the frozen snow on the steps madj it so
dangerous to pass through the narrow al
ley, that its slippery pavement seemed
quite deserted. I do not remember to
have met a single person there i:i the
course of my daily walk; and my eye use.!
to rest with compassion 0:1 the silent gray
house. "1 hope," thought I. "that i;s in
habitants are old it would be fearful to
be young therel spring came; and mi
the uarrow lane the ice changed into mois
ture; then the damp gradually dried up,
and a few blades of grass began to appear
beneath the rampart wall. Even i 1 ibis
gloomy passage there were tokens of
awakening life, but the gray house rem iin
ed silent and sad as before. Passing by
it, as usual, in the beginning of June, I
remarked, placed on the window-sill of the
open casement, a glass containing a bunch
of violets. Ah," thought I, "there is a
oul here!"
To love flowers, one must either be
young, or have preserved the memories of
youth. The enjoyment of their perfume
implies something ideal and refined; and
among the poor a struggle between the
necessities of the body and the instincts of
the soul. I looked at the violets with a
feeling of sadness, thinking that ihey prob
ably formed the single solace of soma
weary life. The next day I returned.
Even in that gloomy place the sweet re
joicing lace of summer had appeared, and
dissipated the chill silence of the air.
Birds were twittering, insects humming,
and oue of the windows in the old griv
house was wide open.
Seated near it was a woman working
busily with her needle. It would bsdidi
cult to tell her age, tor the pallor and sad
ness of her countenance might have been
caused as much by sorrow as by years,
and her cheeks was shadowed by a profu
sion of rich dark hair- She was thin, and
her fingers were Jong and white. She
wore a simple brown dress, a black aporn
and white collar; and I remarked the
sweet, though faded bunch of violets care
fully placed within tiie folds of her ker
chief. Her eyes met mine, and she gent
ly inclined her head. I then saw more
distinctly that she had just reached the
limit which separates youth from mature
age. She had suffered, but probably with
oat a struggle, without a murmur per
haps without a tear. Her countenance
was calm and resigned, but it was the still
ness of death. 1 fancied she was like a
broken, bends noiselessly toward the earth.
Every day I saw her in the same place,
and, without speaking, we exchanged a
salutation. On Sundays I missed her,
and concluded that she walked into the
country, flJf each Monday a fresh bunch of
violets appeared in the window. I con
jectured that she was poor, working at
emoroiuery tor her support; and 1 discov
ered that she was not aloue in the house,
lor one day a somewhat impatient voice
called "Ursula!" aud she rosa hastily.
The tone was not that of a master, neither
did she obey the summons after the man
ner of a servant, but with an expression of
heartfelt readiness, yet the voice breathed
no aiTection; and 1 thought that Ursula
perchance was not loved by those with
whom she lived.
Time passed on, and our silent intima
cy increased. At length each day I gath
ered some fresh flowers, and placed them
en the window-sill. Ursula blushed, and
took them witli a gentle, grateful smile.
Clustering in her girdle, and arranged with-
in her room, they brought summer to the
old gray house. It happened one even
ing that I was returning through the alley
a sudden storm of rain came on. Ursula
darted to was d the door, caught my hand
as I was passing, aud drew me into the
narrow passage which led to her room.
Then the poor girl clasped both my hands
in hers, and murmured, softly, "Thanks!"
It was the first time I had heard her voice,
and I entered her apartment. It was a
large, low room, with a red-tiled floor,
furnished with straw chairs ranged along
the walls. Being lighted by only one
small window, it felt damp and gloomy.
Ursula was right te seat herself close by
the casement to seek a little light and air.
I understood the reason of her paleness
it was not that she had lost the freshness
of youth, but that she had never possessed
it. She was bleached like a flower that
lias blossomed in the shade.
In the farthest corner of the room, seat
ed oa arm-chairs, were two persons, an
old man and woman. The latter was
knitting without looking at her work she
was blind. The man was unemployed;
he g ized vacantly at his companion with
out a ray of intelligence in his face; it was
evident that he had overpassed the ordi
nary limit of human life, and that now h'is
body alone existed. Sometimes in ex
; treme old age the mind, as though irritated
j by its long captivity, tries to escape from
I its prison, and in its efforts, breaks thj
! harmonious chord that links them together.
I It cUaies against the shattered wall
; it
no
h3 not taken flight, but it feels itself
longer in a place of rest. :
These, then, were the inhabitants of the j
silent gray house a blind old woman, an j
imbecile old man. and a young irl faded ;
before her time by the sadness and gloom
that surrounded her! Her life hud been a
blank; each ear had borne away some
portion of her youth, her beauty, a id her i
nope, and left her nothing but silence aud
obuiiun. I often returned to visit Ursula,
and oue day, while 1 sat next her in the 1
window, sh.s told me the simple story of
tier life. j
I w3 born," said she, "in this house, j
end I have never quitted it; but my pa- I
rents are not natives of this country thev ;
came here as strangers, without either;
friends or relatives. When they married; '
they were already advanced in life; for I
cm not rem j m be r them ever beia - , oun r .
.My mother became blind, and this misfor
tune rendered her melancholy and austere,
so that our house was enveloped in "loom.
I was never permitted to sing, or-play, or
make the slightest noise; verv rareiv did I
receive a caress. Yet my parents loved
me; they never told me that they did; but
I judged their hearts by my own, and 1
felt that I loved tiiem. My days were
not always as solitary a they are now; I
had a sister" Her eyes filled with tears,
but they did not overflow; they were wont
to remain hidden in the depths of her
heart. After a few moments, she contin
ued "I had an elder sister: like our moth
er, she was grave and silent, but toward
me she was tender and affectionate. W e
loved each other dearly, and shared be
tweeu us the cares which our parents re
quired. We never enjoyed the pleasure
of rambling together through the fields, for
one always remained at home; but which
ever of us went out, brought flowers to the
other, and talked to her of the sun, and
the trees, and the fresh air. In the even
ings we worked together by the light ol a
lamp; we could not converse much, for out
parents used to slumber by our side; but
whenever we looked up. we could see a
loving smile on each other's face; and we
went to repose in the same room, never
lying down without say ing 'Good-night! I
hope, dear sister, you will sleep well!'
Was it not a trial to part? Yet 1 do not
murmur: Martha is happy in heaven. I
know not if it is the want of air aud exer
cise, or the dull monotony of her life,
which caused the commencement of Mar
tha's illness, but I saw her gradually lan
guish and fade. I alone was disquieted
by it; my mother did not see her, aud she
never complained. With much difficulty
I at length prevailed on my sister to see a
physician. Alas! nothing could be done:
she lingered for a time, and then died.
The evening before her death, as I was
seated by her bed, she clasped my hand
between her trembling ones, Adieu! mv
poor Ursula!' she said: 'take courage, and
watch well over our father and mother.
They love us, Ursula; they love us, al
though they do not often say so. Take
care of your health for their sake; you
can not die before them. Adieu! sister:
don't weep for me too much, but pray to
our heavenly Father. We shail meet
again, Ursula!' Three days afterward.
Martha was borne away in. her coffin, and
1 remained alone with my parents. When
my mother first heard of my sister's death
she uttered a loud cry, sprang up, took a
few hasty steps across the room, and then
fell on the ground. I raised her up, and
led her back to her arm-chair. Since thn
she has not wept, but she is more silent '
than before, save that her l?p3 move in se
cret prayer. I have little, more to tell.
My father became completely imbecile,
and at the same time lost nearly the whole
of our litde property. I have succeeded
in concealing this los-s from my parents;
making money for their stipnort by selling
my embroidery. I have no one to speak j
to since my sister's death; I love books, i
but I have no time for reading I must
work. It is only on Sunday that ij
breathe the fresh air; and I do not walk j
far, a3 I am alone. Some year since, j
when I was very young, I used to dream j
while I sat in this window. I peopled j
the solitude with a thousand visions which !
brightened the dark hours. Now a sort of
numbness ha3 fallen on my thoughts I !
dream no mora. While I was young, I I
used to hope for some change ia my des- j
liny; now 1 am twenty-nine years old, and I
sorrow has chastened my spirit: I no Ion- j
ger hope or fear. In this place I shall !
finish my lontly days. Do not think that j
i have found resignation without a conflict, j
There were times when my heart revolted !
at living without being loved, but I thought
of Martha's gentle words, 'We shall meet!
sgata, Msterl ana I found peace. Now I
oiiea pray I seldom weep. And you.
madam are you happy? :
I did not answer this question of Urs'j ;
la's. Speaking to her of happiness would
be like talking of an ungreatful friend to ;
one whom he had deserted. j
Some months afterward, on a fine au- '
t i;nn morning, as I was preparing to go to
Ursula, I received a visit from a young j
officer who had lately joined the garrison, j
He was the son of a:i old friend of my
husband's, and we both felt a lively inter-
est in his welfare. Seeing me prepared I
for a waik, lie oiieied his arm,' and we pro- '
ceeded toward the dwelling of Ursula. I
chanced to speak of her; and as the young ;
officer, whom I shall call Maurice d'Erval,
seemed to take an interest in her story. I !
related it to him as we walked slowly
along. When we reached the old gray '
house he looked at her with pity and re- ;
?pect, saluted her, aud withdrew. Ursu-
la, startled at the presence ol a stranger,
blushed slightly. At that moment she I
looked almost beautiful. I know not
what vague ideas crossed my brain, but I j
looked aiiier, and then, w itt.oui speaking, !
I drew the rich bauds of her ha.r imo "a
more becoming form, I tjk a narrow
black velvet collar o3 my n neck, and j
passed it round hers, and I ar.anged a few
brilliant flowers ia her girdle. Ursula j
smiled without undetstanding why I did ;
so; her smile always paii.ed me there is ;
nothing more sad than the smile of the un-
happy. They seem to smile for others, !
not lor themselves. Many days . passed j
without my seeing Maurice d'Erval, and '
many more before chance led us together J
near the old gray house. j
It was on our return from a country ex- ,'
cursit.ii with a large gay party. On enter- I
ing the town, we all disappeared in differ- 1
cut thrections: 1 took the arm of Maurice, t
and led .him towards Ursula's abode. It'
was one of those soft, calm autumn even- '
ings, when the still trees are colored by I
the rays of the setting sun, and every thin'-
breathes repose. It is a time when the !
soul is softened, when we become bettor, '
when we feel ready to weep without the !
bitterness ol sorrow. Ursula, as usual. 1
was seated at the window. A slanting!
ray of sunshine falling on her head lent
an unwonted lustre to her dark hair: her!
eyes brightened when she saw mc, and she !
smiled her own sad smile. Her sombre '
dress showed to advantage her slender, j
gracefully-bending figure, and a bunch of j
violets, her favorite flower, was fastened j
in her bosom. There was something in j
the whole appearance of Ursula which
suited harmoniously the calm, and beauty j
of the evening, and my companion felt it. j
As we approached, he lixedjiis eyes 0:1 the i
poor girl, who, timid as a child "of "fifteen
hung down her head, and blushed deeply, j
Maurice stopped, exchanged a few words!
with lis both, and then took his leave.
Dot from that time he constantly passed
thiough the narrow alley, and paused each
time for a moment to salute Ursula. One j
day, accompanied by me, he entered her !
house. !
There are hearts in this world so unac
customed to hope, that they can not com
prehend happiness when it comes to them.
Enveloped in her sadness, which, like a
thick vail, hid from her sight all external
things, Ursula neither saw nor understood.
She remained under the eyes of Maurice
as under mine dejected" and resigned.
As to the young man, I could net clearly
make out what was passing in his mind.
It was not love for Ursula, at least so I
thought, but it was that tender pity which
is nearly allied to. The romantic soul of 1
Maurice pleased itself in the atmosphere
of sadness which surrounded Ursula.
Gradually they began to converse; and in
sympathizing with each other on the mis
ery of life, thpy experienced that happi
ness whose existence they denied. Months
passed or; the pleasant spring came back
again; and one evening, while walking
with a large parry, Maurice .d'Erval drew
me aside, nd after some ' indifferent re
marks, said, "Does hot the-most exalted
happiness consisUamiliinj others share
it. with you? . Is there not great sweetness
iu impirtiug joy to oue who would other
wise pass a life of tears? I looked at
hattn inxiously without speaking. "Yes,"
said he, "dear friend, go ask Ursula if she
wiil ntarry me!"
An exclamation of joy was my reply,
and I .hurried toward the gray house. I
found Ursula, as usual, seated at her work.
Solitude", silence, and the absence of all
excitement had lulled her spirit into a sort
of drowsiness. She did not suffer; she
even smiled, languidly when I appeared,
but this was the only sign of animation
she displayed. I feared not giving a sud
den shock at this poor paralyzed soul, or
stirrinr it into a violent tumult of happi
ness; 1 wanted to see if the mental vigor
was extinct, or merely dormant. I placed
my chair next hers, I took both her hands
in mirte, and fixing my eyes on hers, I
said, "Ursula, Maurice d'Erval has desired
me toask you if you would be his wife!"
Th4 girl was struck as if wuh a thun
derbolt; her eyes Learned through the tears
that filed them, and her blood, rushing
through the veins, mantled richly beneath
her skn. Her chest heaved, her heart
beat abiost audibly, and her hands grasped
mine vuh a eonvelsive pressure. Ursula
had ouly slumbered, and now the voice of
love awakened her. She loved suddenly;
hilherjo she mitght. perchance, haveioved
unwitingly, but now the vail was rent,
and sle knew that she loved.
AfHr a few moments, she passed her
hand across her forehead, and said, ia a
low vice, "No: it is not possible!"
I simply repeated the same phrase,
'Mauiiee d'Erval asks you if you will be
his wife." iri order to accustom her to the
sound of the words, which, like the notes
of a harmonious chord, forma 1 for her,
poor t'ling, a sweet, unwonted melody.
"IKs wife!" repealed she with ecstasy;
'his vift.-!" And running toward her
mother, she cried, "Mother, do you hear
it? He asks me to be his wife!"
"D.ughter," replied the old blind wo
man, rny bt.ne! daughter, I kr.ev,- that,
Suoiioi or iater, Clo l would recompense
your virtues."
'.Mi' God!" cried Ursula, "what hast
Thou done for me this day? His iclft!
belovci daughter!" And she fell on her
knees with clasped hands, and her face
cov ertjl with tears. At that moment foot
steps vere heard in the passage. "It is
he!'' ried Ursula. "He brings life!" I
hasiesed away, and left Ursula glowing
with tiarful .happiness to receive Maurice
d'Ervil alone.
Eran that day Ursula was changed.
She gfew young and beautiful under the
magia influence of joy, yet her happiness
partook in some measure of her former
character: it was calm, silent, and reserved;
so ihut Maurice, who had first loved a
pale, &ad woman, seated in tiie shade, was
not obliged to change the coloring of the
picturr, although. Ursula was now hippy.
They passed long evenings together ia the
low, ilad room, lighted only by the moon
beam), conversing and musing together.
Urjuia loved with simplicity. She sail!
to Maurice, "I love you I am happy
aud I thank you for it!" The old gray
hou: was the only scene of these inter
view. Ursul i worked with unabated dil
igence, and nev er left her parents. But
the vails of that narrow dwelling no lon
ger o-nhned her soul: it had rien to free
dom, and laken its flight. The sweet
magic of hope brightens not only the fu
tu re, bv. the present, and through the
medium of its all-powerful prism charges
the coloring of all thing?. The old house
was as mean-looking and gloomy as ever,
but fine feeling, enshrined in the heart of
a woman, changed it to a palace. Dreams
of hope, although you fleet and vanish
like golden clouds in the sky, yet come,
come to us ever! Those whp have never
known you, are a thousand times poorer
than those who live to regret you!
Thus there passed a happy time for
Ursula. But a day came when Maurice
entering her room iu haste, said, "Dearest
we must hasten our marriage; the regiment
is about to be moved to annotiier garrison,
and we must be ready to set out."
. "Are you going far, Maurice?"
"Does it frighten my Ursula to think of
seeing distant countries? There are many
lands more beautiful than this."
"Oh, no, Maurice, not for myself, but
for my parents: they are too old to bear a
long journey." Maurice looked at his
betrothed without speaking. Although he
well knew that, in order to share his wan
dering destiny, Ursula must leave her pa
rents, yet he had never reflected seriously
011 the subject. He had foreseen her
grief, but confiding in her affection, he
had thought that hi devotfd love would
sootne every sorrow of which he was not
himself the cause. It was now necessary
to come to ari explanation; and sad at the
inevitable pain which he was about to in
flict on his betrothed, Maurice took her
hand, made her sit down iu her accustom
ed place, and said, gently, "Dearest, it
would be impossible for yonr father and
mother to accompany us in our wandering
life. Until now, my Ursula, we have led
a loving, dreamy life, without entering so
berly into cirr future plans. I have no
fortune but ny sword; and now, at the
commencement of my career, my income
is so small, tnat we shall have to submit
together to many privation?. I reckon oa
your courage; but you alone mui follow
me. The presence of yoi r parents would
only serve 10 entail misery on them, and
hopeless poverty on us."
"Leave my father and my mother 1"
cried Ursula.
"heave them, with their little property,
in this house; confide them to careful
hands; snd follow the fortunes of vour
husband."
"Leave my father and my mother!"
repealed Ursula. "Bui Jo you know that
the pittance they possess would nevtr
suffice for their support that without
their knowledge, I work to increase it
and that, during many years, I have tended
them alone ?"
"My poor Ursula!" replied Maurice,
"we must submit to what is inevitable.
Hitherto you have concealed from them
the loss of their little fortune; tell it to
them now, as it can not be helped. Try
to regulate their expenditure of the little
whicii remai.'is; for, alas ! we shall have
nothing to give them."
"Go away, and leave them here ! Im
possible ! I tell v?u, I must work for
til em !"
"Ursula, my Ursula !" taid Maurice,
pressing both Iter hands in his, "do not
allow yourself, I conjure you, to be carried
away by the first impulse of your gener
ous heart. Kt-fieot for a moment: we do
not refuse lo give, but we have it n '..
Even liv ing alone, we shall have to endure
many privations."
' 1 c.:n not leave them," sn -l Ursula,
looking mournfully at tiie two old people
slumbering in their arm-chairs.
"Do you not love me, Ursula ?" The
poor giil nmy replied by a torrent of tears.
Maurice remained long with her, pour
ing toiili -.ro e-stations of love, and repeat
ing explanations of their actual poHtio::.
She listened without replying; and at
length he took his leave. Le.'t alone,
Ursula leaned her head on her hand, and
remained without moving for many hours.
Alas ! the tardy gloom of happiness which
bri Thter.ed her life for a moment was pas
sing away: the blessed dream was fled
never to return ! Silence, obiiv ion, dark
ness, regained possession of t.iat heart
whence love had chased ihem. During
the long midnight hours who can tell what
passed
knew :
in th- poor girl's mind ? God
she never spo,;e ot
it.
Wtiea day dawned, she shuddered,
closeel tiie window, which had remained
open during the night, and, trcmbiing from
tiie chill which seized both mi.ld and body,
she took paper and pen, und wrote
"Earewell, Maurice! I remain w ith my
father u;u! my mother: they have need
of me. To abandon them in their old aBe
would be to cat!e their death : they have
only me ia the world. My siste-r, on her
death-bed, confided them to me, saving,
'We shall meet again, Ursula !' If I ntg
lected my duties, 1 should never se her
more. I have loved you woll I shall
love you always. You have been very
kind, but I know now that we tire too
poor to marry. Farewell! How hard
to write that word ! Farewell, dear
friend 1 knew thai happiness was not
lor me, Unsi'LA."
I went to the old gray house, and ?o did
Maurice; hut all our representations were
useless she would not leave her parents.
"I must work fur them !" she said. In
vaia I spoke to her of Maurice's love,
and, with a sort of cruelly, reminded her
of Iter waning youth, anil the improbabil
ity of her meeting another husband. She
listened, while her tears dropped on the
delicate work at which she labored with
out intermission, and tiiea in a low voice
she murmured, "Thv would die: I must
work for them !" She begged us not to
tell her mother what had passed. Those
for whom she had sacrificed herself re
mained ignorant ol her devntion. Some
slight reason was assigned for ihe breaking
off of the marriage, and Ursula resumed
her place and her employment near the
window, pale, dejected, and bowed down
as before.
Maurice d'Erval possessed one of those
prudent, deliberating minds which never
allow themselves to be carried away hy
feeling or by impulse. His love had a
limit: he prated and intrcated for a time,
but at length lie grew weary, and desist d.
It happened one day, white Ursula was
ated in her window, !i it she hoard a
distant sound of military music, and th
measured trampling of many feet. It 3s
ihe regiment depaiting. Tremblingly sh.r
listened to the air, which sounded as :t
knell in her ears; and when the last faim
notes died away in the distance, she let
her work fall oa her lap. and covered her
face with her hands. A few tears irickled
betweea her fingers, but she speedily
wiped them away, and resumed her work:
she resumed it for the rest of her life. On
the evening of this day cf separation
lais day when the sacrifice was consum
mated Ursula, after having beslowcd her
usual care on her parents, si ated herself
at the foot of her mother's bed, and,
bending toward her with a look, w host
tearful tenderness the blind old womn
could not know, the poor deserted one
tood her hand, and murmured softly,
"Mother! you love me; do you not? l.i
not my presence a comfort to you T
Would you not srieve to rart with r.ui.
my mother ?"
The old woman turned her face to th
wall, and said in a fretful tone, "Nonsense,
Ursula. I'm tired; let me go to sleep !"
'i he word of tenderness watch she had
sought as her only recompense was nc;
uttered; the mother fell asleep without
pressing her daughter's hand; ar.d the
poor girl, falling on her knees, poured out
her sorrows in prayer to One who could
both hear and heal them.
From that time Ursula became more
pale, more filent, moie cast down than
ever. Tiie last sharp sorrow bore aw av
ail traces of her youth and beauty. "Alt
is ended !" she ued to say; and all, savs
duty, u-as ended for her' oa cardi. No
tiJaigs came of Maurice d'Erval. Ursula
had pleased his imagination, like soma
graceful melancholy picture, but time ef-ta.-cd
its coloring from his memory, and
he forgot. How many things are forgo. ten
in lliia life ! How rarely do ihe absent
mourn each other long !
Uae v ear aiier these events, Ursula
mother began visibly to decline, yet with
out su tiering from tav positive malady.
111 "
tier daughter watched and prayed by her
bed, ana received her last benediction.
"'Once more she is v. uh thee, .Martha !"
s.g tied Ursula: "he it thine to watch over
her in heaven." Site knelt down, and
prayed by the side of the. solitary eld
man. She dressed him in mourning with
out his being conscious of it; tut on the
second day tie turned toward ihe empty
arm-chair next nis own, and cried, "M v
wife !"
Ursula spoke to him, and tried to divert
his attention; but he repealed, "My wife !"
while tiie tears rolled down his cheeks.
In the evening, when his supper was
brought, lie lumed away from it, and fix
ing his eves on the vacant chair, said.
"My wife!"
Ursula tried every expedient that love
and sorrow could suggest; but in vain.
The old man continued watching the place
which his wife was wont to occuov; and
relusing foaJ, he would look at Ursula,
and with clasped hands, in the querulous
tone of a child imploring some forbidden
indulgence, repeat, "My wife !" In
month afterward he died. Ilia last move
ment was to raise his ci:ped hands, look
up to licavea, and cry ".My wile! a
though he saw her waiting to receive him
a
When the last cofiia was borne away
from the old gray house, Ursula murmured
soldy,".My God! couldst thou nol have
spared them to me a litile longer?" Shu
Was
leti aior.s; and many years havo
passed since then.
1 left the dark old town and Ursula u
travel into distant Luds. Hy degrees she
ceased 10 write to me, and alter many
vain efforts to induce her lo continue liu
correspondence, I gradually lost all trace
of her. I sometiir.us ask tavse-lf, "V'h:
has been her fate ? Is she dead ?" Alas
ihe poor girt was ever unfortunate: 1 fear
she stiil lives !
Compliment lo Jiaicrlcan Snip-Build
ers. 1 he lialtiii.ore turi
Mjuda v
says "An English meic3ntue house i:
New Yoik received by the L'.sC he ordeM
fn :a parties in England to have a cl pper
ship ut 1,100 tons b-tih in this co-Jutrv -I
lie admirable running qualities cf t!t -clipper
hue between cir porU and Sm,
Francisco seems to have waked up '.!.
Eagl.sh ir.erchauts, aud the tt cei, t rf
suca an order lie re is a tacit ac'in.-wh-Jg -intra
of the superior f Amei cuo
shipwrights. We may also mention, a.-?
another complimentary circumstance, th.
fact tbai the Br.tish Government h 11
chaiteied thy American clipper ship Ilj
man, to convey tiu -ps to Bombay.
! tV'A b: ai:ti;al form is Ik tier than a
j beautiful face; a beautiful behavior ii
j teitt-r than u beaut ful f.-ra-. It cives a
; higher pleasure than statues or picuircs;
' it is the finest cf the fine arts.
Tit:-
n sdnjj wiiic'i iijver ttn-'Kcr