The daily phoenix. [volume] (Columbia, S.C.) 1865-1878, 1868-02-26

EeStSu mysnbnQ upon uJbt6 lnOulQ-
ing which ofnan1ented, the back T
had not remained Z In this position
many moments, when o sharp pain
caused ME to start suddenly and
looking down to examine the c&nEe,
/ observed q little spring, half hide
by the carving which surrounded it.
I haa ,seen q spring nke this before,
and, knowing what it purported, I
eagerly pressed ,it with my finger,
and opened by its aid little secret
drawer, of the existence of which I
had never before had the slightest
suspicion. In this drawer, we're
several papers and small kid bag.
The latter / opened Immediately,
and found it contained the miniature
of female and lock of curly hair.
With my curiosity fully aroused, I
seized my treasure, and, running
down to my own little room, closed
the door, and, seating myself in my
little rocking-chair, began to examine
it at my leisure. The portrait was
that of very young and lovely girl,
whose hair corresponded to that of
the curly tress which lay beside it.
The papers were four in number;
two were little notes of invitation,
written in q lively, familiar manner,
beginning, Dear Mark" and end
ing, "Your cousin Stella;" the third
was n scrap of poetry in the same
hand, and the fourth was O manu-
script, in large, business-like cha
racters, but evidently not legal or
business document. Manuscript
at least, any except my own-always
fascinates me, and I composed my
self for the perusal of this waif of
my own finding. The paper was old
and yellow, the characters faded by
time, but, by dint of perseverance, +
at length deciphered it. It ran as
follows:
STELLA.
Love, true and perfect love, is not
the wild, tempestuous, stormy feel
ing which some believe it to be.
Love which really merits the name,
flows on noiselessly and softly; not
the loud and glittering ripple and
wavelet on the shore of life, but
rather the resistless under-current-
more like quiet, undemonstrative
giant, than q noisy, passionate, hot
Drained little dwarf. Love will sacri-
flee itself for, the happines of the
beloved object-separation, nay, even
death, cannot end its life. An ever
burning lamp in the unseen inner
most of the heart, it's very existence
is often unknown save to the vestal
soul which trims and watches it.
Stella! Stellal loved of my youth
and age, lost forever here, but
garnered up for me among the gems
of heaven, dost thou know now, in
that bright sphere to which the angels
bore thee long ago, how we'll loved
thee!
I pause and start. The moon,
falling through my study window,
lights up the mirror upon the wall,
and reveals to me my own reflection.
I see an old man. gray haired and
care-worn; not feeble or decrepid vet,
but past the blessed age of sentiment
and romance-the spring and sum-
mer time, which Byron calls "the
passionate part of life" A fitting
person, truly, to write and speak Of
love-"a proper hero for a love tale. {"
Yet I, Mark Ashford, sitting here in
my lonely study, with law books
piled about me, with nothing near
which does not speak of dry business
and money transactions, could write
love tale from the memories of my
old heart, which might put to shame
the records in the lives of younger
men, on whom the whole world looks
as heroes. Come, old goose quill,
there are no briefs or deeds upon the
desk-there is no case for you to
draw up to-night-Doe vs.. Roe can
lay over until tomorrow me use
you for myself once; open for me
the closed tomb of the past, and
record the dead feelings and actions
which time has buried there. Stella,
bright star of my boyhood! how
sweetly your picture seems to smile
upon me. You look now as you did