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A WEEKLY JOURNAL OF POLITICS, LITERATU

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AR RAARAARBAAAAAR® HOME AND FRIENDS. i

BY CHARLES SWAIN.

Oh! there’s a power to make each hour As sweet as heaven designed it ;

Nor need we roam to bring it home, Though few there be that find it.

We seek too high for things close by, And Jose what nature found us;

For life hath bere no charm so dear As home and friends around us.

We oft destroy the present joy For future hopes—and praise them ; Whilst flowers as sweet bloom at our feet, If we'd but stoop to raise them ; For things afar still sweeter are - When youth’s bright spell hath bound us; But soon we're taught the earth has nought Like home and friends around us.

The friends that speed in time of need, When hope’s fast reed is shaken,

Will show us still that come what will, We are not quite forsaken.

Though all were night, but the light From friendship’s altar crown'd us, : *Twould prove the bliss of earth was this—

Our home and friends around us.

=—_oo-

THE QUADROON GIRL.

The tropical heat of noontide was over, but the air was still sultry and oppressive. A slight breeze had indeed sprung up, but too lunguid to raise the heads of the drooping flowers, it only whispered to them, perchance in pratse of their lux- urious grace, and then died again into stillness. wea

There was but one moving figure to be seen, and it ill ae- corded with the desolate character of the landscape, for Lueille, the Quadroon girl, was very beautiful, and, clad in the brilliant hues which so well became her, seemed to tread the lonely path by the light of her own loveliness,

It was indeed a dreary scene, for she was approaching one of those extinct voleanoes with which the island of Martin-| ique abounds, and the rugged ground was seared and darkened by the hot breath which had passed over it. Here and there the masses of gray stone were clothed with the exuberant vegetation of that glowing climate, but for the most part all was bare and black, as though some ancient curse rested upon | the spot, and chilled the generous hand of nature.

Lucille seemed little to heed the scene; her large eyes, | dark as night, were sadly gazing eastward, aud her suiall head | set so proudly on the column like throat, was bent dejectedly. (eceasionally she raised it to reconnoitre, and at last a gleam | of pleasure aud reeognition shot across her face. A stranger | would never have dreamed of human habitation in that wild | spot, but Lucille’s eyes sought out a dark hollow in the rock, | and already distinguished within it the stooping forms of an | aged woman. As she approached, her step quickened, and at last, scewingly in unconquerable impatience, she darted forward into the cavern.

* What, Lucille ! and hast thou come at last ?’ said the old, woman, * and will nothing but sorrow ever bring thee to my | side? Nay, deny it not, there are tears in thy heart, hang- | ing like thunder rain in the heaveus ; and see, the first touch of my hand has brought the torrent down !’

It was true, Lucilie had flung herself to the ground jn an agony of tears, the violence of her sobs shaking down her hair into a wilderness of darkness round her polished shoulders, Very soon, however, like the storm-drups to wich | the old crone had comparea them, the large tears ceased to | flow, and she looked up.

* Mother you are right,’ she said ; ‘ whether by the power of that dark art which al] ascribe to you, or whether by the love you bear me, I know not—but you read clearly as ever the secret of my heart, and [ dare not, if I would deny it.’

‘ Gabriel has deserted thee."

* lt is so, mother, but ol: ! tell me, tell meat least that my heart is still my owu—that he has striven to free it, but cannot.’

* Lucille, canst thou bear it ? I can tell thee somewhat.’

*Oh! mother, there is nothing I could not bear if he but loves me sti!l—did I not tell you long since, when first I bent over him in that wild fever, that L could die content, nay, that I could live, and see bis face no more, if but once | heard him say that he loved me ?”

* And thou hadst that wish.’

‘Yes! dear mother, you foretold that I should live to hear those precious words, and I did.’

‘No wisdom was needed for that prophecy, child,’ rejoined the other, with a fondness of tone that came strangely from her thin withered lips. ‘ Even now, I marvel as L see thee, that he could ever gaze enough on those eyes of thine.’

‘Hush ! mother, bush!’ said Lucille, impatiently, snatching away a silken lock which the old woman was smoothing over her fingers ; * you said you had somewhat to tell me ; conceal it not, if it concern him or his.’ :

‘Thine own fears have sufficiently forwarned thee,’ my child. The girl hid her face in her locsened hair. * He will marry!’ she whispered at last, as if afraid to give voice to the words. ‘ But, mother, may he not love me still? Oh! the white woman's eyes may be as blue as our summer heavens, but will she love him as I have done? will her pale cheek

4s mine, at the sound of his footsteps ¢--will she toil for him through the heat of noon, and watch through the silence of the night ?” Lucille raised not her head, and her companion, in compassion as it seemed, broke the pause.

‘My child, he may love thee yet.’

Oa! thanks, mother, thanks, your words are ever true— ‘how will I cast off the selfishness of this sorrow, aud, if only —- sometimes gay that he loves mo still, be happy as of

‘ Lasille, what of thy child? he is wont so to fill thy talk, and today thou hast told me nothing of him.’ was, alas! no shadow of shame on the young girl’s

‘heck as she answered :-—*‘ He is well, mother, and fairer than

CHARLOTTE

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Chis is true Liberty, when Free-born Men, having ta advise the Public, man. spe

AND, MONDAY, JANUARY 5, 1857.

TOWN, PRINCE ED

2 OX OOS. nn

wrongs of our race, she may stoop to save him from poverty and labor, and set bim amongst his father’s people. Thou wouldst be a happy mother then, Lucille !’

‘I know not that I could take aught from her hand,’

‘answered the girl, proudly, looking unconsciously so majestic

in the queenliness of her beauty, that her companion wendered for the hundredth time how Gabriel Delacroix, even with his pride of descentand worldly ambition, could resist its influence.

A moment’s thought, however, and she sighed deeply. What availed the charm of that mien, or the warmth of that heart? Did a European ever wed with one of her despised race? and was not Madelaine de Beaucour, whose name rumor had united with that of Gabriel, a daughter of the wealthiest family of all their wealthy oppressors ?

J-ucille at that moment was saddened by no such sorrowful reflection, her elastic nature had already thrown off for the time the burden of her grief. Of her poverty she thought little ; a flower-maker by trade, she could. always earn a suficieney by the exercise of her graceful art, either amongst the luxurious ladies of the island, or by exporting her handi- work to Paris. ‘To her position, sanctioned, alas | by custom, ‘unongst our race, there attached little idea of disgrace, and could she have hoped to retain something of her lover's affection, and to bring up her child in greater ease and re‘ine- ment than she had known herself, she might have been happy. * Mother,’ she said, after a pause, * it would relieve my heart to look upon the beauty of this white woman, Madelaine; 1 know her father’s chateau well; £ will take the boy in my arms, and if she is alone, I will even speak to her, and hear the voice that has charmed my Gabriel. She cannct see the child unmoved, for he is fairer than the fairest babe ever cradled beneath their rich roofs,’

‘ Doas thou wilt, my Lucille,’ replied the old crone fondly, ‘and,’ she added, with a bitterness that seemed fur better to

accord with her harsh features, ‘ woe unto her and bers, if

she show thee aught of the overweening pride of her people.’

It was a bright burning day, with scarcely a breath stirring even through the cool jalousies of the Chateau Beaucour.

The fair Madelaine lay languidly on a sofa, the delicacy of her transparent skin enhanced by the soft, white drapery and rich Jace in which she was robed, The room was partially darkened, and on one side of her knelt a servant, Who gently agitated the air witha large fan of beautiful eastern Workmanship, while on the other, a young girl, who served as a companion to the heiress, was reading to her the last French novel.

Within the shrubbery, and not many paces from the house, poor Lucille had lain, crouching in the stifling heat, for many “hours ; anxiety to accomplish her object, and the fear of detection, having induced her to take up her station much earlier than was necessary.

The excessive heat, and the want of nourishment, had made her very faint, though her child, whom she had fed, and rocked to slecp in her arms, lay still and peaceful asa waxen image of iufancy.

She had dressed herself with unusual care, and bore in a light basket on her arm, some of the choicest specimens of her skill—delicate, uight-blossoming buds, and gorgeous tropical flowers, imitated with wonderful accuracy and grace.

At length her child awoke, and she began to fear from his restlessness that she should be obliged, for that day at least, to give up her plan, when from the lofty door of the chateau, Madelaine de Beacour, attended by a Jady and gentleman, entered the grounds, Lucille’s eyes dilated, and her bosom heaved, but no! it was not he, she saw that at a glance, and her gaze was again rivetted on the lady. Some- thing like disdain flashed aeross her beautiful face as she looked, and then faded into an expression of relief and congratulation ; truth to tell, the Jady, with all the adjuncts of wealth and luxury around her, could not bear a moment’s comparison with the dark-eyed Quadroon, and Lucille felt this instinctively.

Awhile she paused, irresolute, then caressing her child, slowly advanced, with her stately tread, to where Madelaine had seated herself; but her tongue failed her, and she could only silently display her gracefully-fashioned flowers.

The lady looked on coldly, and made no answer to her companion’s warm comments on the rare beauty of the mother and child. Her gaze was directed to the proffered flower- basket, and after turning over its contents with a careless hand, she glanced at the Quadroon.

‘Your own work. I suppose? Ah! [ would have purchased seme, for they are really very well done, but you have nothing all white, I see, and these gaudy colours hardly suit my complexion.

‘Strange, is it not?’ she continued turning languidly to her companion, ‘that the absence of refinement in these people should be so perceptible even in their dress—they all prefer those glaring colors.’ ;

‘Nay,’ he answered quickly, but with as little care to subdue his tones as she had displayed, ‘ if they have all the gorgeous beauty of this splendid creature, they should wear no other hues.’

Lucille stood motionless, only her curling lip betraying that she was conscious of their words—‘ Would the white magnolia, or the silver lotus, please the Lady Madelaine ?’ she asked in her soft rich voice.

‘Yes; either would do,’ replied the lady. ‘You may make me a wreath of the white magnolia, I think, and bring it here by next week—not later,’ she added, with a half smile, and waving her hand in token of dismissal. But the young girl by her side had started up—‘ Oh! Madelaine, the child, have you noticed it? I never saw anything half so lovely ! what magnificent eyes ! may I not hold him a mo- ment,’ she continued, with a pretty beseeching look at Lucille, and already taking one tiny hand in hers.

The mother’s face softened, though she held the closer to her bosom,

‘ Therese, Therese, of what are you dreaming ?’ exclaimed Madelaine, angrily, rising from her seat. ‘1 forbid you to touch the child; every other girl, of common modesty, shrinks from these low-born creatures, and the offspring of their depravity ;’ and she swept haughtily into the chateau with her companion, the abashed girl giving a deprecating glance at Lucille.

boy still

ever; you Say that my skin bears scarcely a trace of the iil hue of our people, but his—oh ! i is purer than’ that ets our darkness has all fled into his eyes! 1 would seth y had been blue, but he has at least his father’s rosy that em Clustering golden hair. Did I tell you, mother, | me last Gabriel saw bim, he wept ? Kab ot dst not, child. Iam glad for thy sake that the if ties fair, perehance even yet he may save thee, or even | cee wed this Madelaine de Beaucour, who is doomed may be ate or other to cross thy path in life ; even her heart by the beauty of this child, and kuowing the

The Quadroon followed Madelaine’s retreating steps with a look of fiery disdain, and long after the party had disap- peared, still she stood, transfixed to the spot, every muscle quivering with suppressed anger.

Her boy’s soft fingers wandered in wonderg@ averted face, re-called her thoughts, and she ted with a step of yet statelier pride than the lady. \)~

Through that night and the next, and again the Hesby two | women sat together in the cavern of the gray roc naught pure and holy was their talk, for as the by, the beautiful face of the younger woman was

r_ her away

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to something like the bitterness and Her oecupation accorded little with the expression of her features, for she was skilfully fashioning, into all but living beauty, the snowy flowers and sweliing buds of the white magnolia.

‘Are you sure that it cannot fail, mother ? she whispered, after a Jong pause. .

‘ As sure as that the sun will rise to morrow.’

‘Bat you have not tried it, she added, with a creeping shudder. Sere

For all answer the old crone tottered across the room, and uplifting the folds of a bright-hued shawl which lay heaped tipon the floor, displayed the motionless form of a small mountain goat, Lt seemed to have lain down and died there withoat a struggle, so peaceful was its attitude. The girl shuddered violently as her companion dragzod the body across

o> the cave, and precipitated it over the hill side. 4 ~*No son shall she live to bear him,’ muttered the old woman, fiercely, as she took the wreath trom the girl’s band ; then drawing a phial from her bosom, she poured into each open cup and half-closed bud, a few drops of clear white liquid,

. The following day was one of rare festivity at the Chateau Beaucour. A grand fete, at which the heiress, in her bridal array, was to appear for the last time as Madelaine Beaucour, bad been planned ; for the next porning was to see her the bride of Gabriel Delacroix. As she sat in her chamber, robing for the ball, she was told that a Quadroon girl waited without, asking to see her.

‘Ah! my white magnolia wreath,’ she said gaily, ‘ twill be more becoming than this tiara of pearls; bring the git! here, Therese, quickly.’ With her own hands, Lucille placed the clustering flowers amid the lady’s hair, and then retired with a deep reverence. Through the open windows she watched the bride elect, threading with Aim the graceful mazes of the danee, her cheek flushed, her blue eyes sparkling.

Still she watched on, and prayed with clenched hands, until she saw the lady’s cheek blanch, and her hand seek her brow with a troubled gesture. Then she laughed wildly, and sped away from the perfumed air and'the brilliant light of that festive scene. Even as she fled, the bride elect had fallen to the earth, and was borne to her room, silent and motion- less. Only when they uncovered her pale bosom, and loosened her shining bair, her hand, in obedience to some strange spell, sought the fowers on her brow, aud none could ‘remove them, !

The next sun rose upon her, a bride indeed in her bridal array, fuir and flewer-cruwned, but cold, voiceless, and still forever.

THE BAGH-NUK. It sometimes happens that two individuals of utterly een et tastes and dispositiongsare thrown together by * God's

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forward sworn allies, or what is far better, sincere friends for life, without the eneambrance of any oath of fealty. It so chanced that Mark Thorne and T, both eadets, were fellow- passengers in the David Seote bound for Madras. He was a fiue robust young fellow of nipicteen, two years my senior, and more than double that time’my superior in every quality and qualification that fits a man for active duties, Dold, dashing, yet heither presumptuous vor scornful, he soon be- came a favourite with everybody; and though not handsome —for ardefeet in one of his D etoeu: occasioned by an accident in extreme youth, marred the symmetry of one side of his face—his fine dark cyes, genial and expressive, and well-proportioned figure, were decidedly i his favour. Fond of all mascaline sports, jocuiar and jovial, yet without boister- ous or coarse habits, he was little addicted to reading; whilst I, the opposite of all this, was a shy, sickly Jad, much given to the perusal of sentimental romances, timid and awkward, with a strong tendency to seerect verse-making—the least likely individuel in the world to become the intimate com- panion of one whose character was so different. Iam not too proud to confess that the interest he took in me might have had its rise in a sort of commisseration. Hesaw my embar- rassment and restraint when quizzed by less generous shipmates than himself; and thence sprang up a desire and a deter- mination to defend me. Moreover, it so happened that at Madeira, where we landed for a day, I awkwardly stepped from the boat which was taking us ashore into the deep sea, where, not being a swimmer, [ might have rested till now, had not Mark Thorne instantly plunged into the water, and, at the peril of his life, resued me. From diat day he accounted me as his particular charge—patronised me with the j affection of an elder brother, and was the kindly means of improving me into a passably manly and rational youth, As for me, L was proud of his friendship, and loved him beyond all my former experience antkattachinent. As it was, [ am not sure that I did not exercise some beneficial influence over him, in my turn, for [ believe that I inocculated him with a share of my love of books,

Amongst our fellow-passengers there were but two charac- ters who need specification in my narrative—Mrs. Lrwin, the wife of a civilian, returning to India, and a little bright-eyed, tawny-skinned girl, the daughter of her Mohammedan ayah, who died at the commencement of our voyage, leaving Hazara to the protection of her kind mistress. Lt seems that the ayah had been for many years the attendant of Mrs. Irwin—had married a worthless creature, who had abandoned her, taken to evil courses, and latterly escaped from justice, having joined a party of planderers, and been suspected of even worse crimes than robbery. Hazara took a wonderful fancy to Mark, insomuch that it became a standing jest of the quarter-deck to ask him how his little swarthy wife was—a joke that, though reccived by him with a Jaugh, excited furious anger in the youthful ayah, whose fiery nature Mrs. Irwin had some difficulty in controlling. Hazara, not yet twelve, was a wo- man id feeling and thought, and the susceptibility of her temperament éalled for more serious restraint than the gentle disposition of her mistress was aocustomed to exercise. When we landed at Madras, her grief was so uncontrollable, that a new light struck upon all of Us, and Mark himself felt it a relief to be rid of her pregence. { We were separated—he and J—and when we met again, after some five years, it was nojphs strangers, for the episto link which unites severed figs had been faithfully kopt in repair. I way thon em roupeto rejoin my regiment at Nag pore, and he ‘was holdiggla staf-appointment at Bellary where I had determineddpn remaining his guest for a In the Madras presid there 18 no er station Bellary, and yo hopes egath than Maxelt; and of al in the year, th g—whe with cramped and w yht-travel, I jumped ¢ 0 . cool myse f b ; 40 we aud

alt free.--EURIPIDES.

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which no dewy grass to sweep aver, came kiss that menaced increasing heat as day grew, cantonment of Bellary is placed amidst a grotesqu

of rocky mountains ;-and as [ moved on lang it upon a cluster of singularly shaped eliffs on the s’4/¥ plaix amongst which, nestling in a crany, beneficielly Yiaded by an enormous banian-tree, I observdd the red and white flag of a tekiah, or shrine, where the buried remains of some. ™ saintly devotee is watched over by a fakir, or religious men- — dicant of the Moslem creed ; and sure enough, as [ drew near, { became aware of a gaunt and grisly man, who stood’in earnest conversation with a female, half hidden by one of the corner pillars of the quadrangular structure which composed the dervish’s tomb, At my approach, disturbed by the huns of the palanquin-bearer’s song, the speakers turned round, and [ could not but observe the striking contrast or by the singular beauty of the woman and the forbidding ~ aspect of the man. My glance occasioned her to draw ee chudder quickly round the lower part ot her face, yet not so quickly as to prevent me from observing a style of expression

which struck me as being familiar, "Her dress was simply

that ofa Mohammedan woman in comfortable circumstances.

Far from favourable was the impression her companion made

on me; for his was one of those types of countenance whieh, originally handsome, become absolutely ugly from thu collision

of such passions as Geform al! beauty. As he thrust the

woman roughly behind him, ard came forward with thé Whining demand for alms that is observable only in the least

worthy members of the fakirhood, an inconceivable dislike of

the man pervaded, so to speak, my whole nature. There are

few of us who have not, at some period or other of our lives,

felt this mysterious, and apparently causeless, shrinking from

certain individuals; and is it a superstitious weakness if I

profess my belief’ that such feclings are given in warning, if

not as prophecy? Time will shew how fur those sensations

were warranted towards Boorbua Sha, the fakir of Bellary.

Warm as the glimate was the weleome [ received from Mark Thorne, whom I found but indifferently well, though —. surrounded by all the comforts of an elevated position. He told me that ere long he hoped to wed the only woman he had ever loved, ‘She is here,’ said he, ‘residing with her rts an old friend of mine aud yours. You remember Mrs.

rwin ?

“ Perfectly,” said 1. And aftera moment's silence: “ As - sure as I live, I saw that wild, passionate litle HHasara this morning.” And I told him of the impression made upou me by the fakir, x

“Yes,” said he; “you are right. Iv another month, I hope to be the husband of the sweetest creature on earth ; mM good and gentle as Mrs, Irwin is, I shall be glad to take hee™ | niece to a home of her own, where she will be free from the ‘\ strange but very unmistakeable tyranny which Hazara 5 <i cxereisesvover that household.«.Shecis a singular girl, ando-- < — since My. Lnwin’s decease has wed to regulate all the, widow's actions ; berself influenced, [ have reason to believe, by that Qdious fukir, Boorhun Sha, her father.”

“ Qdious, indeed,” I added. “1 cannot account for the disagreeable impression be made on me. But what else is’ kuown about him 2” be

“ Tt appears,” said Mark, “ that he treated his wife—whom you may recollect as Mrs. Irwin’s ayah—so cruclly, that her husband, as collector of Cuddapaht, where they then were, interfered, and had him punished. | He disappeared for some years, and then started up all at ohee at Naypore, where I first saw him, He was then, as now, a fakir; but his con- duct, in insulting some English Jadies,,came under the eye of the residents and [ had the merit, Gor sach L account it, of having him seized, and in accordance wild the judement of & punrhayet (vative jury). he was severely Toma arp obliged to leave the cantonment. Neither my astonishment uor wy regret was small to find him, after five years, extal. lished here, and in close correspondence with Mrs, Liwin, Whose indulgent affection towards his daughter blinded her to the insolent intrusiveness of the fellow. His looks, as I pass him, constantly remind me of the dawa reveuze he vowel against me, when I superinteaded his expulsion from Nagpore.”

A week passed pleasantly at Bellary; my friend's tempo- rary indisposition had disappeared, and I was introduced to Margaret Douglass. She was a sweet gentle creature, evidently much attached to him; and there was nothing to anticipate but happiness in the union which was sosoon to be ‘solemnized, and to assist at which [ had consented to apply for leave—leave granted as soon as solicited. I eannot say that during this period any suspicions were excited in wy mind by the assuredly eccentric conduct of*Hazara, for [ had come to consider her simply as a girl of pessionate and capri- cious disposition, so spoiled by the over-indulgence of a weak mistress as to render her both presuming and intrusive. More than once 1 was cognizant of her almost insolent behaviour to Margaret, and more than twice the same idea that haunted me on board ship flitted across my thoughts, and [ set her down in my mind as being, soto speak, in love with Mark. Bat I kept such thoughts to myself, whether wisely or well,

L dare not say. However, it so befell, that a fow nights _ before the day fixed for the marriage ceremony, wi contrary to her habits, complained of her attend” singular behaviour of late, and turning to YA she had observed it? | Z “ Why, yes,” was'the reply. “Tm quite angry this morning because swallow (fasting) 4 magreal drau will not ouly increase my atg appear youthful in the eyes * How ridiculous !” sai

such a fool,” ~

“ She has b. cn tog@ae [rwin, * and hee head.”

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