Spirit of the age. [volume] (Raleigh, N.C.) 1849-1865, 1856-07-02
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LADIES DEPARTMENT..
ROMANCE OF ANCIENT HISTORY.
A STORY OF ATHENAIs.

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ing his brow with her tears. The fading
beams ofthe setting sun illamincdthc apart
ment, and cast over the check of the dy-
ing man, a glow that meeked the hue of
health, As the weeping Athenais beheld
this rcsy fash, she hushed her voice Of
mourning, and, for an instant, a ray of
hope irradiated her brow, and shone amid
her tears, as a transient sunbeam sometimes
Vilds q stormy cloud, aud sparkles amid
che falling rain. L%eontius beheld the
change, and said In faint but traaquil
tones:
deceive not myself, my dear Athe-
nais, with vain Elusive hopes--they viii
hut cheat thee into q momentary forgctful-
ness ofsorrow, and render the hour efgrief,
that must come, more painful to endure.
Learn to look calmly upon the trial that
awaits thee, and bear with becoming fortl-
tudc, the loss thou art about to sustain.
Ifcelthat | must die. Even nJw the lamp
Of life burns dimly in its socket, and ere
long it will be anenchcd for ever. Weep
not so bitterly, my child, at this decree of
the gods. They are wise-they are mer-
ciful. They have granted me a long So
iourn ontthe earth, andlthcy are now con-
Quoting me peacefully aud pleasantly to
repose. Mnrmur not, then, at their dis
pcnsations, but bow sdbmissiyely to their
will, and pray for nd to strengthen thy
spirit in the comiBg-scason of affection"
Bat AthenaIs renewed her lamentations,
and her tears flowed more freely as she lis
tened to her fathers words. Grief had
gained the mastery over her spirit, and fov
y time it rulod with despotic sway. Calm
" Lcontirs waited till the violence of the
storm had passed, and in the hull of those
passionate lamentations, said: 81 grlevc
TO see, my child, that all the lessons of
wisdom and virtue which have taught
tthee, have failed to lift thy mind to that
elevation which l had hoped it would at
tain. But | despair not that thy soul will
,onc day be as lofty and heroic as my fon-
.dest wish conld desire. Thou art young,
and thy heart is yet tender enough to take
a deep impression from every passing touch.
Let but few more years roll away, and
the breath of sorrow, like the beam of JOY,
will pass almost UNDECIDED over thy spirits
fount of feeling, and wake only a ripple on
its surface. Thus would | have it. And
NOW, my dear Athenais, l have but a few
IllOIt uOlllCllGo W lllECly NV 4 thAiNdb JOu
ITO listen to che voice that will soon be SC
silent forever. Hereafter it might be &
source of deep regret to reflect that you
had not needed my dying words
This adnonition had the desired effec
the yonug mourncr dried her tears-lif
ted her beautiful head, and with a forced
,calmncss and composure, listened to hi
words:
"In leaving thee, my child, to the evil
Of life, and the temptations of the world
i do not leave thee without a protector
for thy W excellent heart will be a guar
dian more ~vigilant and moro useful tina
tho wisest / could appoint-and i'll be
queathjag my patrimony almost entirely t
thy two brothers, | do thee no act ofinju!
tice, forthy youth and lovelincss, and abov
ALL, thy many virtues, constitute a dowr
that queens might envy. What were rich
.cs to one like thee? What storesof spark
ling gems, and heaps of glittering gold
Hast thou not n beauty whose splendor ca
rival tho diamonds light, and treasures
the mind whose value is above all price
These last, my daughter, are a legacy whic
none can take array. Time, who will ste
thy youthful charms, cannot deprive thee
those unlading treasures. They are c,
haustlcss as the earth, and enduring
life. Thou art nobly portioned, and | d
happy in the belief Of thy welfare
The philosopher pauscd-a solemn $
lcncc rcigned in the apartment, and
seemed that death was lowering nea
Faint aud fainter grew the light OF depa
ting day-dim and DINNER burned Il
lamp of expiring life. Low as the softc
whisper o~fieayes when stirred by the brea
OF spring, rose once, more the voice of I
dying sage.
MY daughter, see you not yon lingeri
radiance in the west-how slowly and n
jestically it gives place to the footsteps
night. How softly and sxeetly the
beam fades away, and sinks to rest III
does a philosopher bid farewell to ear
Thus calmly and peacefully sink to his
repose. May such, dear Athenais, W
thy %soiourn here is ended, be thy clos
hour. Blessings he with thee now and
ever. Farewell :"
So gently and 20 TRANQUILITY had he s
into tic arms Of death, that the berea
Athenais dared not disturb, with the v
.of her sorrow, the silent and solemn sc
For many moments she sat fearless, mot
less-alnost breabhless, gazing revere
upon the hnshed and holy features of
departed. But as soon as the awe W
that fearful visitor, Death, inspires in
ry Que, who, for tie FIRST time mark.
approach, had passed away, the yc
mourncr gave full vent to her grief,
bending her blooming cheek to that IN;
brow, she wept with the bitterness of a
olate spirit.
Her father had been so dear-so
measurably dear to her heart, that in Il
him, she faucied she had lost all that
render life endurable. Her mother
been dead many years, and Leontiu'
supplied the place of both parents. l
his eye that had watched over her ir
troublous days Of infancy, and his
that had gladdened, with words of p
the happy years of childhood. Ii
pleasant spring-time Of youth he had
ever near to guide and protect-to lie;
steps in the path of virtue, and her
70 the fount of knowledge. lie had
pareut, companion, friend, and prec
and Athenais had owed as never chill
ed before. 1t is a sad thing, the frs
grief Of a young, fond heart. As
lating storm would bruise aud big
gentle tenants Of n hOwer-garden, $