Part 7

For a few short years after her marriage, although I lived in a distant part of the country, I could hear of Isabella, now Mrs. Simson. For sometime she apparently luxuriated in the golden vision, for which had been sacrificed her earliest and fondest anticipations. She gave the largest parties, and the most splendid fetes, and the fashionable world pronounced her marriage _fortunate_. But soon this illusory existence vanished, and I learned, what nothing can conceal, that the decay which halteth not had settled itself upon her beautiful form. A few months and she was confined to her house, and then to her room, and then to her bed--and then came from her a brief but thrilling letter, ardently desiring me to come to her before she died. I did go; and did hear from her dying lips, how a mother's mistaken love had made her faithless, and of the years of hopeless and bitter anguish that followed and dragged her down to the grave. I have stood by the dying bed of friends and relations--I have seen the last struggle of a father, of brothers and sisters, and for all of these I have had deep sorrow. But it was in the presence of that broken hearted sufferer, and from the revealings and monitions of her departing spirit, I learned that enduring lesson of life, which time nor circumstance can ever obliterate. Yes! my dear girl; it was there I received that lesson which I have so often endeavored to impress upon your mind,--to guard you against the snares that are every where spread by those who have wrecked their own happiness, to draw the young and thoughtless into the vortex of their own dazzling but heartless pleasures. Could you have been in that chamber, and have seen and known how one so lovely, and whose morning of life was so fair, had been snatched from the world of her bright dreams,--prostrating in her fall all the years of earthly bliss that might have been hers, and all the proud aspirations, the promised felicity of him, the betrothed of her heart,--you would never again breathe one sigh, or one wish,--or weaken one chord of pure affection, for all that wealth and fashion can promise or bestow.

A few days after this interview, she left this world of trouble,--and the papers of the day, announced in the usual manner,--Died, on the ---- instant, of a "pulmonary complaint," Mrs. Simson, wife of Mr. ---- Simson; and who thought otherwise? who of all that surrounded her, could deem she had a _heart_ to _break_? Thus she passed away; and the world, busied with its own little and great schemes, soon ceased to remember that she had ever lived, or loved, or died.

With Isabella ends our tale. And it is only necessary in conclusion to say, that George never knew how fully and fearfully she had atoned for her fatal error. Before I had an opportunity of communicating to him my last painful interview with her,--and her prayers for his happiness and forgiveness, he had fallen in the struggle of South America for liberty and independence. Mrs. Barclay is still alive, and so is Mr. Simson, though now some ten years older than when he led Isabella a victim to the altar. I presume he is still in the market; he is ten years older, he is ten years richer, and thus doubly desirable to those mothers who _love_ their daughters, and wish to have them _well married_.

I have endeavored to be as brief as possible, but my letter has extended itself too long, and yet I fear it is too short to make that impression I could wish. I cannot but hope, however, that Isabella's fate will awaken in your breast, as it did in mine, those reflections that will lead you justly to appreciate how false and empty are the world's opinions, when compared with the conscientious dictates of our own calm and unbiassed judgment,--and determine you to choose that life whence rises and flows the streams of all our earthly happiness. If I have failed, and that flower which now blooms so fair and fragrant by the banks of Powhatan, should be plucked by a hand insensible to its sweets, to ornament some princely hall, and wither amid all its splendor, then you may recollect the warning voice, and think of one, though humble, who would have sacrificed every other hope of happiness to cherish that flower--you may then remember----

B----.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SKETCH OF VIRGINIA SCENERY.

The following Sketch of Virginia Scenery is sent with the hope the author will excuse the liberty taken, as it was written without the slightest idea of its being ever published, by a traveller through some of the scenes of Western Virginia:--

"It was a charming evening--the sky was almost cloudless, and the sultry air of summer seemed to be gradually giving way to the cool and refreshing breezes of autumn. Accompanied by a few companions and some persons acquainted with the surrounding country, I ascended the large and romantic rock near the village of Rockymount, known by the name of the '_Bald Knob_.' This rock is about 200 feet above the level of the water, and the ascent exceedingly steep and difficult. Its name is indeed descriptive of its general character and appearance, which are calculated to strike more by its novelty of height and rugged aspect, than its beauty of herbage or richness of attire.--We wound up among ledges of rock, and now and then found our progress retarded by the intervention of some stunted cedars and oaks, which had clung to a soil which would seem hardly able to afford any sustenance, except to the moss, long celebrated for its fondness for the flinty rock. This moss, consisting of several rich and beautiful species, has wove a seeming carpet of the most vivid green, and surpasses in softness the finest fabrics of the Turkish looms. Delighted and amused, we strolled from cliff to cliff, gazing on the works of Omnipotence, which arose around, above, beneath us, and feasting our delighted senses on the rich magnificence of the scenes presented from its summit. The lofty mountains dimly seen from afar; the 'rural cottages' in the vales below; the smoke richly curling from the unseen hamlets among the lofty trees; the startling sound of the huntsman's gun re-echoed from the rocky heights--were an assemblage of pleasures rarely enjoyed by so short an excursion. The 'Peaks of Otter,' appeared with much distinctness and beauty, while a rich and variegated cloud seemed to rest on their summit, as though it had stooped to gaze with us on their magnificent heights. A branch of the Alleghany is also visible between two lofty hills, and the blue tints that rested on its brow, contrasted with the glowing greens of the adjacent forests, presented to the eye a grateful and pleasing variety of shade.--The picturesque village of Rockymount appears to much advantage from this rock, and the country around is one of much wild and romantic beauty. Long did we gaze on the works of nature's God,--displayed in majestic, rural, and beautiful scenes; and then turning from these glorious manifestations of wisdom and power, traced the names of many a youthful swain and maid, who had chiselled out their initials on the flinty rock, urged no doubt by the puerile ambition of being remembered long after they had ceased to roam among its rocky alcoves. There could the poet's soul catch sparks of inspiration from nature's open volume, and the painter's pencil vainly strive to touch with living lines his there _faithless_ canvass. 'Who can paint like nature?' would echo from each lovely object; and man, in all his pride of nature and of art, shrink from the task of copying her rich and gorgeous dyes. There would the Christian pour out his soul in adoration and praise; and, lost in contemplation of the Hand that raised the mountains and spread out the plain, stoop not to draw his sources of delight from the _poorer, yet still rich_ pleasures afforded to the carnal mind. The fanciful may, aided by this sketch, catch a glimpse of the beauties of the scenes,--but let them, like me, view them as they are, and they will own how far the reality exceeds the most vivid colorings of even a wild and enthusiastic admirer of the works of nature's God."

J. W. C.

_September, 1832_.

From the Scottish Literary Gazette.

COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE.

There lived in a country not a thousand miles from Edinburgh, a decent farmer, who, by patient industry and frugality, and without being avaricious, had made himself easy in circumstances. He enjoyed life without being profuse; for he tempered his enjoyments with moderation. At the age of sixty, he still retained the bloom of health on his cheek. He lived till that age a bachelor; but his household affairs were regulated by a young woman, whose attentive zeal for her master's interest made it easy for him to enjoy his home without a wife. She was only in the character of his humble servant, but she was virtuous and prudent. Betty allotted the tasks to the servants in the house, performed the labor within doors, during harvest, when all the others were engaged. She saw every thing kept in order, and regulated all with strict regard to economy and cleanliness. She had the singular good fortune to be at once beloved by her fellow-servants, as well as respected and trusted by her master. Her master even consulted her in matters where he knew she could give advice, and found it often his interest to do so. But her modesty was such, that she never tendered her advices gratuitously. Prudence regulated all her actions, and she kept the most respectful distance from her master. She paid all attention to his wants and wishes; nor could a wife or daughter have been more attentive. When he happened to be from home, it was her province to wait upon him when he returned, provide his refreshment, and administer to all his wants. Then she reported to him the occurrences of the day, and the work which had been done. It did not escape her master's observation, however, that, though she was anxious to relate the truth, she still strove to extenuate and hide the faults of those who had committed misdemeanors. Her whole conduct was such, that, for the period of fifteen years, the breath of slander dared not to hazard a whisper against her.

It happened, however, that a certain _maiden_ lady in the neighborhood had cast an eye upon the farmer. She was the niece of a bachelor minister, and lived at the manse in the character of housekeeper. But, with all opportunity to become a competitor with Betty, she could never gain her character. Those people who want personal attractions take strange means of paying court, and endeavoring to open the way for themselves. What they cannot effect by treaty, they endeavor to do by sapping. Scandal is their magazine, by which they attempt to clear their way from all obstructions. This maiden lady made some sinister remarks, in such a way, and in such a place, as were sure to reach the farmer's ear. The farmer was nearly as much interested for the character of his servant as he was for his own, and so soon as he discovered the authoress, made her a suitable return. But he made ample amends to Betty for the injury she had suffered, and, at the same time, rewarded her for her services, by taking her for his wife. By this event, the lady, whose intentions had been well understood, and who had thought of aggrandizing herself at the expense and ruin of poor Betty, found that she had contributed the very means to advance her to the realization of a fortune she had never hoped for. May all intermeddlers of the same cast have the same punishment: they are pests to society.

Betty's success had created some speculation in the country. Though every one agreed that Betty deserved her fortune, it was often wondered how such a modest, unassuming girl had softened the heart of the bachelor, who, it was thought, was rather flinty in regard to the fair sex. Betty had an acquaintance, who was situated in nearly the same circumstances as herself, in being at the head of a bachelor farmer's house; but it would appear that she had formed a design of conquering her master. If Betty used artifice, however, it was without design. But her neighbor could not, it would appear, believe that she had brought the matter to a bearing without some stratagem; and she wished Betty to tell her how she had gone about "courting the old man." There was, withal, so much native simplicity about Betty, and the manner of relating her own courtship and marriage is so like herself, that it would lose its _naïveté_ unless told in her own homely Scotch way. Betty, into all, had a lisp in her speech, that is, a defect in speech, by which the _s_ is always pronounced as _th_, which added a still deeper shade of simplicity to her manner; but it would be trifling to suit the orthography to that common defect. The reader can easily suppose that he hears Betty lisping, while she is relating her story to her attentive friend.

"Weel, Betty," says her acquaintance, "come, gi'e me a sketch, an' tell me a' about it; for I may ha'e a chance mysel'. We dinna ken what's afore us. We're no the waur o' ha'ein' some body to tell us the road, whan we dinna ken a' the cruiks and thraws in't." "Deed," says Betty, "there was little about it ava. Our maister was awa at the fair ae day selling the lambs, and it was gey late afore he cam' hame. Our maister verra seldom steys late, for he's a douce man as can be. Weel, ye see, he was mair herty than I had seen him for a lang time; but I opine he had a gude merket for his lambs, and ther's room for excuse whan ane drives a gude bergen. Indeed, to tell even on truth, he had rather better than a wee drap in his e'e. It was my usual to sit up till he cam' hame, when he was awa. When he cam' in and gaed up stairs, he fand his sipper ready for him. 'Betty,' says he, very saft-like. 'Sir,' says I. 'Betty,' says he, 'what has been gaun on the day--a's right, I houp?' 'Ouy, sir,' says I. 'Very weel, very weel,' says he, in his ain canny way. He ga'e me a clap on the shouther, and said I was a gude lassie. When I had telt him a' that had been dune throu' the day, just as I aye did, he ga'e me another clap on the shouther, and said he was a fortunate man to ha'e sic a carefu' person about the house. I never had heard him say as muckle to my face before, tho' he aften said mair ahint my back. I really thocht he was fey. Our maister, when he had gotten his sipper finished, began to be verra joky ways, and said that I was baith a gude and bonny lassie. I kent that folks arna' themsels whan in drink, and they say rather mair than they wad do if they were sober. Sae I cam' awa' doon into the kitchen.

"Twa or three days after that, our maister cam' into the kitchen--'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,' says I. 'Betty,' says he, 'come up stairs; I want to speak t'ye,' says he. 'Verra weel, sir,' says I. Sae I went up stairs after him, thinking a' the road that he was gaun to tell me something about the feeding o' the swine, or killing the heefer, or something like that. But whan he telt me to sit doun, I saw there was something serious, for he never bad me sit doun afore but ance, and that was whan he was gaun to Glasgow fair. 'Betty,' says he, 'ye ha'e been lang a servant to me,' says he, 'and a gude and honest servant. Since ye're sae gude a servant, I aften think ye'll make a better wife. Ha'e ye ony objection to be a wife, Betty?' says he. 'I dinna ken, sir,' says I. 'A body canna just say hou they like a bargain till they see the article.' 'Weel, Betty,' says he, 'ye're very right there again. I ha'e had ye for a servant these fifteen years, and I never knew that I could find fau't wi' ye for onything. Ye're carefu', honest, an' attentif, an'--.' 'O, sir,' says I, 'ye always paid me for't, and it was only my duty,' 'Weel, weel,' says he, 'Betty, that's true; but then I mean to mak' amens t'ye for the evil speculation that Tibby Langtongue raised about you and me, and forby, the warld are taking the same liberty: sae, to stop a' their mouths, you and I sall be married.' 'Verra weel, sir,' says I; for what cou'd I say?

"Our maister looks into the kitchen another day, an' says, 'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,' says I. 'Betty,' says he, 'I am gaun to gi'e in our names to be cried in the kirk, this and next Sabbath.' 'Verra weel, sir,' says I.

"About eight days after this, our maister says to me, 'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,' says I. 'I think,' says he, 'we will ha'e the marriage put owre neist Friday, if ye ha'e nae objection.' 'Verra weel, sir,' says I. 'And ye'll tak' the grey yad, and gang to the toun on Monday, an' get your bits o' wedding braws. I ha'e spoken to Mr. Cheap, the draper, and ye can tak' aff onything ye want, an' please yoursell, for I canna get awa that day.' 'Verra weel, sir,' says I.

"Sae I gaed awa to the toun on Monday, an' bought some wee bits o' things; but I had plenty o' claes, and I cou'dna think o' being 'stravagant. I took them to the manty-maker, to get made, and they were sent hame on Thursday.

"On Thursday night, our maister says to me, 'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,' says I. 'To-morrow is our wedding-day,' says he, 'an' ye maun see that a' things are prepared for the denner,' says he, 'an' see every thing dune yoursel,' says he, 'for I expect some company, an' I wad like to see every thing feat and tiddy in your ain way,' says he. 'Verra weel, sir,' says I.

"I had never ta'en a serious thought about the matter till now; and I began to consider that I must exert mysel to please my maister and the company. Sae I got every thing in readiness, and got every thing clean--I cou'dna think ought was dune right except my ain hand was in't.

"On Friday morning, our maister says to me, 'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,' says I. 'Go away and get yoursel dressed,' says he, 'for the company will soon be here, and ye maun be decent. An' ye maun stay in the room up stairs,' says he, 'till ye're sent for,' says he. 'Verra weel, sir,' says I. But there was sic a great deal to do, and sae many grand dishes to prepare for the dinner to the company, that I could not get awa', and the hail folk were come afore I got mysel dressed.

"Our maister cam' doun stairs, and telt me to go up that instant and dress mysel, for the minister was just comin doun the loan. Sae I was obliged to leave every thing to the rest of the servants, an' gang up stain, an' pit on my claes.

"When I was wanted, Mr. Brown o' the Haaslybrae cam' and took me into the room among a' the gran' fouk, an' the minister. I was maist like to fent; for I never saw sae mony gran' folk together a' my born days afore, an' I didna ken whar to look. At last, our maister took me by the han', an' I was greatly relieved. The minister said a great deal to us--but I canna mind it a'--and then he said a prayer. After this, I thought I should ha'e been worried wi' folk kissing me,--mony a yin shook hands wi' me I had never seen afore, and wished me much joy.

"After the ceremony was o'er, I slipped awa' doun into the kitchen again amang the rest o' the servants to see if the dinner was a' right. But in a wee time our maister cam' into the kitchen, an' says, 'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,' says I. 'Betty,' says he, 'ye must consider that ye're no longer my servant, but my wife,' says he; 'and therefore ye must come up stairs and sit amongst the rest of the company,' says he. 'Verra weel, sir,' says I. Sae what could I do, but gang up stairs to the rest of the company, an' sit doun among them? I sat there in a corner, as weel out o' sight as I could, for they were a' speaking to me or looking at me, an' I didna ken how to behave amang sic braw company, or how to answer them. I sat there till it was gey late, and our maister made me drink the company's healths, and they gaed a' away.

"When the company were a' gaen awa', I went doun to the kitchen, and saw that every thing was right; and after I put a candle into my maister's bed-room, I took another, and gaed away up to my ain wee room, in the garret. Just whan I was casting aff my shune, I hears our maister first gang into his ain room, and then come straight awa' up towards mine. I think I can hear him yet, for it was siccan extraord'nar thing, and I never saw him there afore; and every stamp o' his feet gaed thunt, thunt to my very hert. He stood at the cheek o' the door, and said, very saftly, 'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,' says I--'But what brought ye here, sir,' says I. 'Naething,' says he. 'Verra weel, naething be it, sir,' says I. 'But,' says he, 'remember that ye're no longer my servant, but my wife,' says he. 'Verra weel, sir,' says I; 'I will remember that.' 'And ye must come down stairs,' says he. 'Verra weel, sir,' says I; for what could I do? I had always obeyed my maister before, and it was nae time to disobey him now.

"Sae, Jean, that was a' that was about my courtship or marriage."

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

REMINISCENCE:

OR, STORY OF A SHIPWRECK.

In the year 1797, I left the United States, having under my control a new clipper built schooner of about eighty tons, bound to Cape Francais, in the island of St. Domingo, with a cargo, chiefly munitions of war, for the colonial government of that island. The harbor of Cape Francais is one of the best in the world,--capacious, safe, and of easy access; the entrance under a high point of land,--on the side of which is a strong fortification called Fort Picolet, which completely commands the pass. Above the fort, on very elevated ground, was placed the observatory, in view of the town, although two or three miles distant.