Southern sentinel. [volume] (Plaquemine, Parish of Iberville [La.]) 1848-1858, 1857-08-29
From Ballou's Pictorial.
The Brown Cottage and the Old Well.
By Margaret Verne.

: The oldest of our villagers point with
a mysterious shake of the head, and deer
solemn expression Of face, to the brown
house that is seated close by the shining
river, closed in from the village by tall
stately trees, and sombre-looking foliage
And when they speak of the well, whose
tall sweep has been poised untouched, ia
the air, through so many weary years,
whose 'oa ken bucket has grown parched
and dry, and over the top of which busy
spiders have woven their webs, they will
shudder aud mutter strange, low-spoken
words of a long~ago night, when its was
ters sparkled in the glass goblets which
stood upon the weIl-fiIIed board of the
brown cottage near it, where young and
beautiful woman went through the now
neglected aud dilapidated apartments
with smile upon her face, speaking in
low and gentle tones to her friends, and
gazing with a look of mingled love and
worship upon the undetermined man who
that night had clasped her hands in his,
and promised, reverently and tenderly, to
love, cherish and protect her.
The villagers will tell you of the flow
ers that hung in garIands across the cot
tage walls, and down the window sides;
of the music that filled the hearts of the
listeners with solemn, fearful joy; tell of
the wonderment of the guests on behol-
ding the rich apparel of the bride; the cost
| ly Jewels that shone in her brown hair,
| and sparkled upon her white arms and
| neck, when she had been but the daughter
of poor man, and had only known life
in its its simplest phases. With strange
feeling of awe and wonder, they looked
upon the scarcely known but wonderfully
handsome bridegroom, and thought what
| if the dark reports which had been circu.
lated about him in the village should prove
true?- thought what if Henry Chancil
did, in reality, get his gold unlawfulIy and
sinfuIly from the purses of his fellow
men?-if, indeed, he did not scrupIe TO
spill the hearts blood of the bravest and
best who attempted to protect what was
rightfulEy their own2
They wondered if his heart had been
buried so long in selfshness and vilIainy,
that it could not grow pure and true again
in the holy love Of the gentle woman who
trusted him SO wholly,-if the congealed
waters of his soul would not melt, in the
warm light of her smiles, and gush forth
gladly again.
Aud SO the company stayed and won
dered in the cottage through the long even
Ing; walked upon the fine carpets, to tile
time Of the music, which, to them, in their
simplicity, unused as they were to the lux
uries and refnements of life, seemed grand
and unearhly. At eleven clock at nigh,
wild tempest arose, which prevented
them from going TO their homes,--a tenn
pest which made the strongest and bravest
quail 10 fear. The trees about the house
looked as if wrapped in flames, and the
thunder and wind seemed to shake the
very earlh's centre. Henry Chancil sat
with his bride in his arms, his lips COM
pressed and his cheeks white with terror.
At times, when the lightning played at his
feet, his features were convulsed, and he
shrunk back like guilty creature, hold
ing his bride still closer to his breast, as if
in her young purity, she could keep all
harm away from him.
After the storm had died away, and the
roar of the thunder had grown sullen in
the distance, and the wind had eoiened
down to gentle breath, when the rain
drops grew scattering, and the moon look
ed out upon the refreshed earth from be- |
hind her curtain of clouds, and when the |
guests at the cottage were prepared TO take
their leave of Mr.. and Mrs. Chancil, with
a strange, incomprehensible weighing
heavily upon their hearts, arap was heard
at the outer door of the cottage, and
loud, stern voice called for Henry Chan>
Gil.
The bridegroom met the stranger at
the door, and for while confusion of /
words fell upon the ears of the guests.
Chancil addressed his companion in a
low tone of entreaty, to which the man
replied with mingled contempt and scorn.
1T is useless, all this play upon words
said the stranger, decidedly. i must do
Iny duty. We have long been in search
# you. Will you submit quietly, or shall
Icall for help?'
Good heavens, man! you would not
tale me to-night, would you9' groaned
Cmncil. This is my wedding night. You
would not take me from my bride?'
Henry Chancil, the sooner you go from
thai poor, deceived woman, the better for
her. Come; | cannot daily longer
Atthat moment, Agnes ChanciI, in her
bridal robes, sprang through the open
door Of the parlor, near which she had
been eagerly listening, and wound her
arms about the neck Of her husband.
aNNhat sr,n.,II ho L. NTH .zol, Hnnrn1 4