Original. THF LAST LETTER OF BEATRICE. BY EDWARD MATURIN. tion of that image you one day told me, perhaps sadly anticipating your present lot. Do you not remember you said absence, though a present evil, was an ultimate blessing; it conceals from our view all the foibles and blemishes of our loved one, and gives to beauty of mind and person a bold and strong relief, you said it was like a Seraph's song, whose momentary suspension gave sound more sweetness, and harmony a more delicious cadence. 'Tis true-I feel it. I loved you when I could look on and speak with you, and love you not the less in separation. Yet love must have his ministers of external sense, and I would fain see and hear, Giulio, once again. Would I had never known that fatal word-Passion! yet what would our heart be without dignifying sensibility or sympathy ?— and what, my Giulio, is it, even when hallowed by its influence? A sterile rock beetling from the mountain-side; the sport of every flash, and mark of every storm; which, THE hour has at length come, and the link is broken. Perhaps 'tis better, than, that day after day should pass in mockery of Hope, and the chain of our ideal world should still continue to bind hearts together, which fate seems cruelly to have severed. In the intoxicating power of Joy and Passion I often wept, when he I loved stood by and spoke to me; but strange the support which disappointment lends to those she crushes: I can but sigh now, and misfortune has brought with it resignation. Oh, my Giulio, do Men think when in the insensible phrase of the world, they talk of Love, that their words have the cruel energy of weapons, and first robbing woman of all that can create her happiness, or consecrate existence to itself the sense of an unshaken independent heart-exultingly fling it off as a possession worthwhile it almost shudders at its own nakedness and peril, less in itself, when vanity is gratified and the triumph sure, and by the coldness of neglect, or baseness of desertion, cruelly extinguish the very last drop which animated itbut in love for its destroyer? Think not, my love, I would blame thee-no, I can only weep and pity thee. Thine absence is not a voluntary one, if it were, the brightest page in life had closed on me. cannot but regard itself with the pride of desolate and solitary grandeur, when it surveys the pigmy fragments which surround its giant form, whose insignificance protects them from the wrath of the tempest. Passion is a proud but fearful dignity. The mantle is on me-let me bear, not sink beneath its weight! Do you remember, among the sacred ruins which surround us, the exquisite statue of a Cupid?-one hand across his eyes, while the other bears a torch, whose flame is half concealed? The truant seems anxious to hide from his votaries the flame which may yet consume the heart itself has kindled, like the Phoenix on her selfcreated Pyre; but, alas!—is too forward in exhibiting the bitter departments of the Lover's task, that self-deceiving credulity which is determined to be blind to the blemishes of fancied perfection; as also to conceal those difficulties which the lover never failed to encounter in the perilous ascent of the mountain, whose final conquest enhances the prize he clasps to his heart. These also, I must now feel. But-patience—yes, I must also add one other name, an obscure, but sincere one, to the scroll of Woman's martyrdom; Woman, without whom even Paradise was a desert to new-born man; and whom even her Creator regarded as the fairest among his works-Woman, whom society and the boasted honor of chivalry, pretending to exalt to her proper sphere and dignity within the heart, have made but the victim of sordid passion; and though a momentary idol, she lives yet to be crushed beneath the chariot wheels of her idolatry. I speak bitterly, my Giulio, 'twere mockery, alike of circumstance and feeling, to dissemblé mirth. I have often wept when I have thought of the weakness and dependence of woman-a being endowed with intellect in strength and expansion equal to man; yet the tenderness of sex, and weakness of physical organization, have rendered her only tributary to the stream whose source she should have guided, and whose waters impregnated with her purity and strength. Alike the ornament of society, and the more limited sphere of domestic charm, she seems to be acknowledged but as a slave, where her sway should be avowed and felt as a queen. Amongst savage nations what is she? The sanctity of domestic ties is exchanged for the bond of the menial; and woman, weak woman, is condemned to tasks of unremitting labor; while man, her lord in physical endowment, condescends to survey the primal curse of toil inflicted on his suffering partner, while he, forsooth, basks in the sun, and beguiles the tedium of an animal life by the monotony of inertness. And yet, my Giulio, this is the being who, conscious of the power over weakness and confidence which chance has consigned him, cruelly abuses it; and not content with having plucked the flower, must needs spurn the perfume, and scatter the leaves. But still it leaves behind one surviving relic-the flower's heart, from Ah! to woman, when abandoned by the triumph of which spring seed and blossoms. It is an emblem of momentary admiration, the adulation of the lip that woman, whose unshaken constancy and burning faith, speaks, only in the end to change ardor to apathy; and amid the wrong of violation, or the cruelty of unrequited of the eye that looks, only like the bird of Heaven, to passion, still survive, like the phosphoric spark, amid paralyze and entrap its prey; when left to solitude and the tempest, to testify that love for her destroyer, which silence, after the inoxication of rivalry and blandishment, lives to gild her death. Such death, my Giulio, I hope where can she turn for hope or alleviation? To her will be mine; I can now live but to say I love; thesport of God, my Giulio—yes to her God! in the sober quiet of Fate has for ever severed the reality of the tie. Still || the cloister, and stillness of conventual life, like Eloise, amid the desert which now opens upon me blank, sterile | let duty and conscience crush the last seeds of earthly and void, I have one only consolation left in the recollec-attachment, and triumphantly struggle against the re How like collection of the idol, to whom perhaps we have given || Far, far behind, with all its fading joys And ceaseless woes. Those mountain waves that burst This is my fate—and to this I am resigned. Start Hermit. [Wildly.] What art thou? Speak! St. P. Nay-nay, I come not thus, old man. Lie down beneath the cloudless moon, and hold St. P. My friends! Original. THE REVENGE. BY THE REV. A. A. LIPSCOMB. If the malignity of the human heart be exhibited in one manner, more strikingly than in another, it is in the unhallowed resentment of injuries. Let us not be understood, as referring to the conduct of the individuals, who fly to the sanctuary of justice, for refuge from those who wantonly assail the purity of their intentions, and sully with their tarnishing breath, that richest of all property-reputation. We allude to the practice of duelling-a practice, which has torn from society, some of its brightest ornaments, and robed many a family in the drapery of morning: a practice that originated in unsound views of honor, and has been supported by false pride. What can be offered to palliate so monstrous a crime? What principle of nature, what decision of correct reason, or what doctrine of revelation, can the Duellist adduce, in extenuation of his guilt? If he appeal to the tribunal of nature, he will find, that her sentence is, that no passion should be indulged in, that has the suffering of others for its express object. If he listen to the voice, which sounds forth from the throne, which the Deity has erected within, he will hear his condemnation. If he consult the oracle of revelation, that "more sure word of prophecy," he will meet with a corroboration of this fact and be impelled to the conclusion, that resentment ill-becomes those who derive all present joys and all future hopes from mercy. Must not the institutors of this law of honor, have had very imperfect ideas of true dignity? Did they not place too light a value on usefulness, relationship and life, when, in the sageness of their determinations, they adopted such a regulation? We love honor. We believe, that it is not only a source of pleasure, to its possessor, but that it also diffuses around his character, an atmosphere, in which confidence may live and friendship 66 move and have its being," but that mistaken quality, which prompts to unholy deeds-which urges him, in whom it dwells, to repair to the duel ground and attempt to destroy his fellow's existence, we look upon, with disgust and horror. In whatever light, we contemplate duelling, we perceive its absurdity. Let it be viewed, as the resort of an injured character to obtain reparation, and what importance or usefulness, can be attached to it? If neither the Sovereign of the Universe, nor the civil constitution has made provisions for the recovery of a wounded reputation, we contend, that no man has a right to fly to so shocking a custom, for redress. Better far, would it be for himself, his family and his country, if we would pass through life, with a settled disgrace upon his name, rather than murder his brother, to perpetuate his respectability. Where duelling kept up for good purposes, did it prevent any harm from resulting to the world or did it draw into exercise the manly and virtuous dispositions of the heart, we might be inclined to look upon it, with more favor, but believing, that depravity is its parent and sorrow and woe, its saddening consequences, we cannot but raise our voice in its opposition and pray Heaven, that ere long, this deep stain may be wiped || it is not strange, that they made it their choice. Upon away from the world. These remarks have been made by way of introduction to the narrative, which I am now about to give. Should it be destitute of incident, we hope, that it will not be, without moral power. Many years have rolled away, since accident threw me, into one of those lovely valleys, which are formed by the irregular ridges of the lofty Alleghany. During my transient stay in that region of fertility and beauty, I formed a considerable acquaintance with two young persons, who were highly esteemed for the intelligence of their minds-the amiability of their hearts and the correctness of their deportment. the arrival of the time for their departure, they went forth from the scenes of their life's happy innocence, and directed their course towards the distant seaport. Their moistened eyes and sad tones betokened, that to them, "there was no place like home." When the descending sun numbered the flight of the sixth day since their absence from home, the two friends came in sight of the place of their destination. In a short time, the gallant ship had unfurled her sails and turned her head towards the ocean. If thou hast never, dear reader, been on a voyage to sea, thou little knowest the feelings, which arise in the heart of him, who, borne along by the swiftly sailing vessel, sees the hill-tops of his native land gradually sink from the vision and the wide waters open before him. When the heavy hand of Death presses on the eye-lids, is it painful to utter the last adieu ? Not much Robert and Gustavas were, certainly, uncommon youths. Born in the vicinity of each other, they had early contracted an ardent attachment. Ere the corruptions of earth had stolen into their hearts, they had given to one another, the uppermost seat in their affec-less distressing are the emotions of the sailor, when he tion. The highest bliss they knew, was to sport together on the same spreading lawn, or roam together, over the same fields. Discovering their remarkable fondness for each other's society, the parents of Robert and Gustavas, did all in their power to continue and confirm their mutual regard. When their boyhood had expanded into youth, they were placed in the same academy, where, after a quick passage through the preparatory studies, they were sent to one of our most respectable colleges. Amid so many other associates, they here retained that deep love for each other, which had been their constant characteristic, in the hours of childhood. They drank from the same fountain of science. Led by the hands of their Poets, they wandered back into ages past and conversed with men and things of other days. They witnessed the brave exploits of ancient chivalry-heard the thundering eloquence of olden time, rousing the inactive and animating the noble to heroic effort, and listened with enraptured hearts, to the soft numbers of the lyric bards. Reaping here no small harvest of honor, they returned to their homes,-the delight of their parents and the pride of their friends. They were now separated for a few months-few in reality, but many, seemingly to the parted friends. Upon the business of his father, Robert was sent away, but, transacting it as speedily as possible, he again enjoyed the company of Gustavas. If their love admitted of increase, it was surely augmented by their temporary disunion, for who does not know, that removal from a friend has an astonishing tendency to make the fibres of the heart draw still closer around him! When business has taken us from home, for a time, have we not come back to its sweet bosom, with an enlarged affection for the mother, who illumined it, with her smile and the fond father and sister, who gave it its magnetic power? Verging rapidly towards manhood, the two associates began to think of their future course. With the approbation of their relatives, they determined to enter the Navy. Their uncurbed imaginations had often thrown the highest attractions around a sea-fairing life and hence, fixes his eye, in sad contemplation upon the diminishing spires of the forsaken harbor, for he has no assurance, that e'er again they shall greet his vision or cheer his spirit. The repose of sleep is not more like the repose of the grave than is the agony of a temporary, uncertain separation, to the emotions which are awaed by the utterance of the final farewell. So it was with Robert and Gustavas. In leaving their kindred and home, they felt, as if they were removing from all that gave life its charms. Their cruise continued several years. Novel as it was to the two friends, they could not fail to derive some pleasure from it. During the whole voyage their mutual esteem flourished in undeminished vigor. They were seldom out of each other's sight. When the dark clouds that held in their ample folds, the gathered tempest, spread their dun banners o'er the ship—when the waters above appeared to mingle with the waters beneath, they stood side by side, in all their native intrepidity, and looked unmoved upon the awful scene. And when nature's calm was restored and the sun looked down upon the placid waters, they would sit together and talk of the endearments of home. Upon the termination of their voyage, they visited their relatives, and in their pleasant society, forgot the dangers to which they had been exposed, and the trials through which they had passed. And here, in the progress of our narration, it becomes our duty to mention an unhappy rupture, which took place between the two associates. What small causes produce mighty effects. Whether we look at natural or moral operations, we discover the truth of this fact. The towering oak, that wrestles with the sweeping hurricane was once, an insignificant shrub, that might easily have been destroyed. The little rill, that murmurs along the mountain's base, becomes at a distance, a mighty river, bearing upon its broad surface, the contributions of commerce. And in the political world, how many kingdoms have had their glory extinguishedhow many thrones have been made to crumble and how many sceptres have been wrested from the hands of monarchs, merely by the plans of a single individual! But more particularly, in matters of friendship, simple things produce vast consequences. How often has the silent expression of the eye or the tone of the voice, severed unions, hallowed by affection and rendered strong by time! How frequently has a peculiar look or word undone the work of years! hesitate to believe no longer. This challenge is from him. Deluded man! Is he in his senses!" Without the least delay, Robert repaired to the dwelling of Gustavas, and endeavored to expostulate with him. But all that he said and done, had but little effect upon him. flict?" "We must," replied Gustavas, in a furious passion. "Why this reluctance on your part to settle a dispute in an honorable manner." Will the reader believe me, when I inform him, that "And must we fight,” asked Robert, as he turned to thus it was with these interesting companions! They leave him. "Must we, who like two shrubs, twined had been present at a ball. Participating in the light around each other, must we engage in this horrid condance and enjoying the gay amusements of the evening, they had pleasantly passed their time. Upon the close of the festivities, Robert in his usual gentlemanly manner, kindly offered to attend a certain lady home. This act was contrary to the wishes and request of Gustavas, who, blinded by false notions, imagined himself to be grievously insulted. Here was the beginning of their difference. Small, indeed, it was, but, however, trifling, when a commencement of this character has been made, whose vision is so acute, as to foresee its termination? "Honorable," exclaimed Robert, "Pray, where did you get so strange a definition of honor? Such a practice, comports not with my notions of honor." "I will persist in my course. You have degraded me. Who does not taunt me, with their reproaches? The world laugh at me and call me a vanquished fool. I will be revenged." Withdrawing from the presence of the raging Gustavas, in a slow step and, meditating mood, Robert retired to his residence. The solemnity of the night and the sad scene which he had beheld, combined to make him feel, in a peculiar manner. "How can I fight!" asked he. "Was it not the last charge of my dying Perceiving the change in the manners of Gustavas, Robert had an interview with him and in his amiable way, offered an apology. Upon the most ferocious tempers, mildness will have some influence. It exalts over the mind, the same power, that sedatives do over the body. "A soft answer turneth away wrath." Although Gustavas appeared to forget the conduct of father that I should never fight?" Memory told him it his friend, yet he did not do so, in reality. His countenance would sometimes wear its former smile, and his tongue would now and then profess some respect, but in his soul, there was enmity. His passions only slept-ing-—“ never fight a duel.” they were not dead. The "roots of bitterness" were there, waiting for circumstances to give them, a developement. Unrivalled by Robert, Gustavas had hoped to secure the regard of Miss B. and consequently, when he understood, that she and his old companion had corresponded on the subject of matrimony, his unrestrained dispositions broke through all bounds and manifested themselves, in deep aversion to Robert. His anger grew fiercer and fiercer, until the report of Robert's intended marriage, raised it to its highest pitch. What an unfortunate quality is an irritable temper! How miserable does it make its possessor and what disorder and trouble does it introduce into families! Heedless of consequences and seeking, at every hazard, its own gratification, it rushes on, like the mountain torrent, impatient to reach its end. Under the influence of this mental phrenzy, Gustavas, losing sight of all the devotion of other years, determined on revenge, and hastily seizing a pen wrote Robert a challenge. When the note was received, who can pourtray the feelings, which it excited? Robert could not credit it. As he walked the floor and pondered the strange occurrence in his mind, he asked himself: "Can it be so. Is this menacing, insulting language from my former friend?" He doubted for a moment, but, drawing from his pocket-book, a friendly letter which Gustavas had written, in happier days, he compared the hands and lo! they were the same. "Alas!" exclaimed he, "I can oblivion into which Time had plunged it, he fancied that was, and as she wakened the parting scene from the he heard again the same low, tremulous, voice whisper But the world-the world-what would the world think of him! Engaged in these reflections, he reached his abode, and hastening to his chamber, flung himself upon his bed, not to rest but to think. clouded brow and heavy heart, and ere the arrival of the Unrefreshed, Robert rose early in the morning, with a breakfast hour, his mind was made up, to fight. No way of relief presented itself, and hence, he formed the unwise conclusion to risk his existence, for the gratification, not of himself, but of the evil wishes of his antagonist. When That night, Robert spent, at the house of his betrothed. An engagement had taken place between Miss B. and himself, and the period, fixed for their marriage was that he should fall, he exerted all his philosophy to divert rapidly approaching. Though he had a presentiment himself of the gloom, which had crept over him. he was about to go from her presence, he took from his bosom, a small gift and requested her to keep it for his sake. For the last time, he beheld her countenance— for the last time, he heard the mellow tones of her voice, and parting in the usual manner, he walked towards his mother's, almost oppressed to the earth on which he trod. The afternoon for the duel arrived. At the appointed hour, the parties were on the ground. The distance was measured, and the preliminaries settled. The two young men stood up and at the word fired! Who fell? The accomplished, amiable Robert fell, another mourn ful victim to the horrible custom of authorized murder |