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164 . . . . . . . . . The Column of the Desert. . . . . . . . . .
den rush of joy which filled his he ort, gain sunk fainting upon the shoulders of
“Ere the morning which, followed this eventful..tight had dawned, Haslan and Benzillar rad-been: both safely conducted to the cheistain's tent: and the care and
maidens, soon placed them beyond the reach of danger. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... “From that day, even to the end of their long lives, Ali Beidwar and Ali Has.
lan lived on terms of the closest amity,
desert could surnish; and many a rich caravan contributed its portion to increase
the sumptuousness of the dresses, and she
luxury of the banquets, which for a who week were spread for all who chose to partake. Haslan and Ayeza, their heans filled with gratitude to heaven for their preservation and happiness, caused yon. der pillar to be erected as a memorialso the deep sense of the blessings they had received; and lived in the full enjoyment ot, those blessings of each other's love, till they saw their children's grandsons playing around their knees, and at length sank to their graves, followed by the jears and regrets of their own. and many neighbouring tribes. . . . . . . . . . ... "And now,” said the Fäkir, placing his turban before him in a convenićnt position for receiving the contributions of His 1. ditors, “ye have heard my friends, the motive which led to the erection of the Column of the Desert. I have only to
add my hopes that you wiłł not forget the
narrator of the legend, nor the guide who so happily led you to this pleasant resting lace.” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Whether Hakim was or was not satio fiels, I take not upon me to say; but cer.
ve:t the weight of the sequins, thrown in o his fellow travellers, from bursting his old though somewh; t odd, though stillso spectable looking turban. . . . . . . . .
A lady's opinion on a delicate suljet . The neatest and most contemptible" mankind may yet fine some human ad". cate;. and cógietts have had, it seems least one defender. The poet, Campo says, that he once heard a lady of dis. guished beauty and rank, defend S. Thomas Lawrence, from the charg?" having been culpable in paying attes"| to ladies, without intending to follow them up with an offer of his hand. A go. tleman remarked that he thought s Thomas was highly blameable... “No." replied the lady, who was said to ol been herself the temporary olject of sho
great painternatientions; monoto"
not caurted at all !” . . . .
would rather be courted and jiltel than
day. Groups were collected near the doors and windows to catch the little air that breathed through the streets, while ot'.ers, in spite of the stifling stagnation of the surrounding atmos here, were seatcd closely together in the interior of the apartment, disputing, with French vehenience of tougue and gestures. Over several tables bent coupses engaged in the game of domino, a pastime greatly in repute . among the grave remnants of the ancient Newspapers were i, the hands of many, and before the bar stood a number of thirsty souls, sipping lemonade or claret, or awaiting the concoction of some favourite beverage. I joined them and called for a cup of coffee, Though a
|resident of New Orleans for the last seven
years, I had never conformed to the cus. tom of my neighbours, in changing my warm evening draught for a cool one, although I would perhaps have evinced bet. ter taste and sense by the substitution. Having leisurely disposed of the contents of my cup, I passed from group to group, catching the current news of the day and commenting upon it. The subject of the sever was but slightly touched upon, for it disturbed not the minds of those, whom reiterated exposure to the cantagion had sunk into disregard of its terrors, After sauntering through the room, 1 paused before a painting whose beauties had often yielded me an enjoyment, which increased by repitition. It was the Ariadne of Wander. lyne, reclining upon the sca shore aster Theseus relinquishing her to Bacchus, had left her slumbering upon the strard of Naxos. The contour and colour of the figure were saultless. Sle seemed lost in voluptuousness, visions of the Hero who had left, or of the god to whom he had resigned her. The soft placidity of the picture communicated its dreaming quietude to the gazer, and I became lost in delicious revenie, as I stood with folded arms before it—A tolerably smart tap on the shoulder aroused me, and turning, I discovered an individual whose appearance made me start with astonishment. “Gracions heavens!”. I exclaimed, “are you here still: I thought you were at the Balize by this time.” The person whom I addressed was a young man, for whom I entertained the
most affectionate friendship. His name
was Augus Wallingford, I had know him as a boy in my native place, in New En gland. He was the only son of a man of wealth. His natural genius had been cultvated by a finished education. As the cómpanions of his brilliant parts, he pos. sessed the wildest enthusiasm and the warmest passions: yet, mingling with this rank exuberance of feeling, there was a lofty generosity of temper and elevation of character. Originality was his aim : yet his eccentricity was riot the flightness of the fool, conspicuous only for his absurdites.—In person he was emitiently preposessing, in ag scarce three, and 'wenty. After the conclusion of his studies, he determined to become a wanderer for a while
To his projects of peregrination his father|
reluctantly assented, wishing him the advantages of travel yet fearing to trust him out of his control. Augus might have gone at once to Europe; his father desired it; but he declared that he would study in his own country first, so that, when catechized by the people of other lands, he might not disgrace himself by ignorance of his own. I.eaving his home about a year since, he traversed nearly thé whole of the western states, and a couple of months back, he had presented himself to me in New Orleans. He had arrived at manhood since I had last seen him. . .] soon saw, in his character, the mixture of faults and excellencies, which composed it, and attaching myself closely to hip, endeavouring to supply to him the want of a restraining friend. . . . . . .
I introduced him to the best society of the place, in which he made a brilliant figure. With his usual vérsatility, he caught at once the tone of the circles of fashion in which he moved. He became the favourite of his associates of both sexes and formed for them an equal predelection. Thus he had gone on, enjoying himself among a people whose manners and mode of life he found pleasingly congenial to his own notions. As the period drew near, when the epidemic of the climate was to commence its ravages, I constantly urged him the necessity of a time. ly withdrawal. He promised to be ruled by my advice, but declared that he would stay till the last allowable moment and not be too easily frightened from so paradisai
had done so in this instance. Bút sinc; you, are here; explair. I pray you how
you got here.”
cal a spot. Not until several cases of
yellow sever had occurred, of peculiar
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . virulence, could I persuade him to take passage in a ship bound for Savannah, ...
Twenty-four hours ago, I o
he iss, you wish me to my face an o: away; I will be more chary another time. encountering the plagué for the pleasured.
“I trust you will; and would to God on
slowly, that I thought. I might as well town, promising to be back before the ship had travelled ten miles further. Ho: riyed at the City Hotel just at two o'clock.
and as I dismounted from my gallah! seed, who should come up but my particia;
gundy.” The flush upon his face confirm. present state of excitement, I knew to useless. I therefore merely askéd, when o “Oh, so as to catch her somewhere bo.
surety enough for my persuing her:
my moveables and money are smugino.
The following::from the Pickwick, papers, is of all other means of getting a debtor out of prison, the most novel. Samūy," whispered Mr. Weller, look ing cautiously around,” my duty to your gother, and tell him if he thinks better o this here bis'ness, to communicate with to me; Me and a cab'net maker has dewissed plin for gettin' him out.—A pianner, Samoivis-a pianner!” said Mr. Weller, striking hissohon the chest with the back of his hand and falling back a step or two. "." "Wot do you mean?” said Sam. "Aorianner forty, Samivil,” rejoined Mr. Weller in a still, more mysterious o, manièr, "as he'can have on hire; vun as
Mr. Weller delivered, this hurried ab. his plot with great vehemenge of .
****Achman a salute and vanished. . .
how to read, and supposing it to be from one of her ibsent sons, she handed it to a friend present, who opened it and began thus: : * . . – . . . “Charleston, June 23, 1821.
“Dear mother';*—here the reader stopped, for she could make out no more, when the old lady exclaimed, “Oh,' 'tis from poor Jerry—he alwaya stut: tered. ' ' " ' ". . . . . . . . . . . ." .
To My wife
Bafore the altar we have stood, ' ' ' " Our lips have breathed the vow, * so cleave through evil and through good, And ever love as now, * *
a • -
' ' '.' ...' . . * - -
9ur hearts, our hands, our fortunes, one,
'Tis sweet to think no more we part,
o-dearest; check that trembling sigh, - Forbid that rising tear; Let smiles but sparkle in thine eye, . . . What East thou now to ear? My prid and happiness 'twill be, ... Through lie to love and cherish thee, Most gentle and most dear:— Believe me, thou shalt ever find
... My heart anchanging, true and kind—
- - -
ceived a letter through the post-office. Not knowing. .
The swelling slope, whose wordure cover'd breast-
They call to me! I hear each kindly voice Biding me stay with them a brief while longer,
4.And while I feel that I have not the choice
Of Life or Death the wish to live is stronger; For it is terrible in Lie's young morn, , , • To part from all that I have loved forever, And o'er my brow fruitions wreath his worn . To see the hand of Death the chaplet sever.
The damps of Death are settling on my brow
My long delay, the victor is upbraiding: I come, I come, I bow beneath the rod , of thes—the King of Death—I yield to thee, 0. God! - - * -
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Hope and hope its flight wu
To Fancy's gay wrought plains and bright: