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VOLUME I. |
BY C. R. HANLEITER,
IP @ £ T BY .
“ Much yet remains unsung.'*
From the New-Orleans Picayune.
SEPTEMBER.
September's come!
The sober Autumn, with a face serene,
Smiles bland adieu to Summer, like a queen
Dismissing a gay favorite; the hum
Os bird and bee is still upon the breeze,
And, tho’ no leaves are fallen from the trees,
September's come!
By the sea side
Sit now, when morn is mellow, and the shells,
All white beneath your feet, seem tinkling bells,
Full of the drowsy murmur of the tide;
While sweeping of the winds, all sad and low,
Chords in the mournful harmony, as tho’
Some spirit sigh’d.
Ay ! summer things!
Well may ye tune together all your notes,
To pour a song of mourning from your throats,
For briefer even than the reign of kings,
Is your swift dooming; cease your busy hum —
Droop summer insects —for September's come
To close your wings!
Now hours and days
Go rolling by, and weeks away recede,
So noiselessly, that we may scarcely read
The calm, slow change of nature, as we gaze;
Until the speeding season yellows o’er.
And we look round for what was green before,
With fond amaze.
Still, need we sigh !
That a bright season passes on its way,
While newness only springs from old decay,
Why mourn we over what has fallen—why ?
While the old lesson chases us from youth,
Unheeded till we bow before its truth,
That all must die ?
Yet are there some
Bright hues of summer left to gild the scene ;
And long shall linger yet the summer green,
While in the sunny land the drowsy drum
Os insect voices, mournfully in night,
Sings fainter, lower to their old delight,
September's come ! PHAZM A.
JOHN ’S ALIVE !
OR THE BRIDE OF A GHOST.*
A Tale of Love and Adventure.
BY WILLIAM T. THOMPSON.
Cli aj> t er I.
John commences his narrative—Declines giving the
usual pedigree, but sets off at once with his story —
Offers a plea in extenuation of his prevailing faults—
A brief allusion to his youth—A description of his
first and only love —Elysian days—Rivalry—Coquet
ry—Jealousy—Lover's quarrels—the party —Mr.
Thaw’s Daguerreotype—The caricature —Hitting a
profile—The lady's man—Blighted hopes—Despon
dency.
I know that it is customary, in writing
one’s own narrative, for the author to set
out with wha* might be called a complete
pedigree of himself; or in other words to
put his readers to sleep over the detailed and
circumstantial account of his life, birth pa
rentage, &c. But as I write neither for
honor or profit, but am prompted solely by
the desire of doing good to others, by ex
hibiting to the world the consequences re
sulting from the unrestrained indulgence of
a sash, impetuous temper, I shall dispense
with a formality which I conceive would add
nothing to the character or interest of the
following veritable history, and leaving my
venerable ancestors to repose in the peace
ful oblivioifcto which mortality has long since
consigned them, shall proceed to cultivate
an acquaintance with the reader on my own
account.
I do not deserve, nor do I expect, gentle
reader, to escape your censure. I know
that your good sense will often be shocked
at my rashness and folly; and I take this
early opportunity of putting in, as a plea in
extenuation of my greatest foible—my stub
born waywardness of disposition—the fact
that 1 was the only son of fond and far too
indulgent parents, and that the sad experi
ence and extraordinary vicissitudes through
which I have passed, were probably as ne
cessary to teach me that degree of humility
which should temper the disposition of eve
ry rational being, as is the training and
chastening which others receive in early life,
from their more discreet and well-judging
guardians. Though you will doubtless teel
constrained to condemn the spirit which
prompted many of my acts and the judg
ment which dictated others, 1 trust that you
wdl concede in the end that I have received
my full deserts.
Before proceeding with my nariative, it
yill be necessary to premise that I was born
m Philadelphia, as that city of “ Brotherly
Love,’’ as it is often miscalled, is to be the
theatre of much of my eventful history.—
>th the reader’s permission—and I take it
for granted—l will skip over a period of
shout sixteen years, during which time, as
s matter of course, I passed through the va
nous vicissitudes of baby-hood, childhood,
snd boyhood, and leaving the recollections
°f that happy period of my existence where
l hey are, enshrined in the inmost recesses
°f my own heart, amid the brightest memo
* The above narrative originally appeared in the Au-
BUsta Mirror. At the request of aeveral friends the au
thor has revised it for repuhlication in the Miscellany.
a JFaiutls : ©ctootetr to mteratuve, ftflrCculture, Jfcectiautro, 22&ucaUon, jfotetfln atnr domestic Entelltaence, src.
ries of the past, I will take up the thread of
my hapless story at that period of my life,
when the bitter waters of experience first
became mingled in my sparkling cup of
dreamy hopes.
I had reached my seventeenth year, and
not a single incident had occurred to cast a
shadow upon the bright sunshine of my ex
istence. At that period the future was, as it
ever is with youth, all bright and glowing
—in the past there was nothing to regret,
and the present was but the ecstusy of unal
loyed enjoyment. But, ah, how little does
he know who trims his tir.y sail upon the
glassy tide, and watches the gentle ripple of
the placid river playing in the sunbeam, of
the wild tempests and rugged waves he is
doomed to encounter in his voyage upon
life’s ocean.
As I have said, I was in my seventeenth
year, when I fell in love ! Start not,
gentle reader—for though love was the rock
upon which I split, the catastrophe is more
to be attributed to my own unskilful naviga
tion, than to the dangers of the ocean upon
which my barque was launched. It is an
old saying that “ the course of true love nev
er did run smooth.” Mine was a case in
point, and I will leave it to the reader’s can
dor to say whether the progress of my affair
does not abundantly verify the adage.
My Mary was an object to love. In per
son she was the very embodiment of youth
ful perfection—in mind all I could wish—
and in disposition, so kind, so confiding, so
amiable ! to know her was to love her. We
had grown up together—our families had
long been intimate, and as she had no broth
er, I had, when we were children, filled the
place of one in her regard, and now that
we were older, that feeling had strengthen
ed to a still more tender sentiment, and that
sentiment was mutual. She became my idol
—the theme of my constant thought—her
society was my only enjoyment—l sought
no other, and was only completely happy
when in herpresence, or when in her ab
sence I cherished the fond belief that she
felt towards me the same devoted, jealous
attachment. Mary was but just entering
her fifteenth year. She had not as yet made
her entree into society, and, of course, had
not yet inhaled the pestilential atmosphere
of fashion. She knew not yet what it was
to be admired—to be flattered, and her in
genuous heart had never counted the power
of her superior charms, nor throbbed to the
emotion of female vanity.
Such was the gentle cieature to whom I
had plighted my faith, and from whom I had
received a vow in return to be none othei’s
but mine. Is it to be wondered that I loved
her ardently? We were young—but we
looked forward with bright anticipation to
the period when our union was to he con
sumated ; and when arm in arm we saunter
ed through Washington Square, or strolled
by the banks of the Schuylkill, beneath the
bright moonlight, we spoke of the future
with the same frankness with which we had
plighted our mutual loves.
A year of such elysian days passed speed
ily off; but we were now no longer chil
dren. We had made our debut, and as We
yielded to the requirements of fashionable
life, in our deportment Irefore the world, I
did not fail to notice a material change in
the character of my Mary. She seemed to
receive my marked attentions, especially
when in company with others of her sex,
with an air of triumph, and to delight, when
ever opportunity presented, in awakening
my suspicion of her want of fidelity and at
tachment. Such was my jealous nature
that I not unfrequently manifested my dis
pleasure on such occasions. Indeed I was
too selfish in my passion to allow her that
freedom of action which her own good
sense informed her she had a right to enjoy,
and which prudence and common delicacy
dictated that she should exercise. Frequent
ly were my feelings wrought upon, when in
truth there was but slight cause—and as
often what are called “ lover’s quarrels,” en
sued between us, which of course, as all
such quarrels do, ended in renewed protesta
tions of immutable attachment from both.
“ John,” said she, one evening, as we were
returning from a music party, which wo had
attended at Fair-Mount, “ what makes you
so serious ?”
“ Oh, nothing,” 1 replied, with a suppress
ed sigh, as if I thought more than ] felt dis
posed to say.
“ Ah, John—you are too jealous,” said
Mary, with an ominous shake of her pretty
head. a
“ Jealous! oh no, I’m not jealous—l’m
the last man to be jealous. What makes
you think so ?”
“ Why, you seemed so melancholy all tho
evening, after I sung that duett with Mr.
Thaw.”
“ Pshaw—you only thought so—that was
nothing to be melancholy about.”
“ Yes you did—the girls all said so, and
you don’t know how they plagued me about
it. They said you looked like you could
eat him up.”
“ Well, I don’t like that Thaw—lie’s so
impudent and such a consummate dandy.”
“He sings beautifully, though—don’t
he ?”
“He sings like a strolling player,” I re
marked with affected indifference.
“ And then he’s so graceful!”
“ He has some mountebank flourishes,”
replied I, with difficulty concealing my agi
tation.
“ Well, he's pretty,”
MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 17, 1842.
That was enough ! I could have strangled
him had he been before me at that moment.
It was not the first time he had aroused my
jealousy, and he had rendered himself pe
culiarly annoying to me during the past
evening. Then to hear such compliments
lavished upon him by her, was more than I
could hear. We walked some distance be
fore I could sufficiently subdue my feelings
to utter a reply. Then in a voice that be
trayed my agitation, I remarked,
“ Perhaps, Miss Mary, new faces appear
to better advantage in your eyes than those
that have grown familiar. It may do for
faces, but I would advise you to adopt a dif
ferent rule when you come to make a choice
of hearts.”
“ Miss Mary !” she exclaimed, and cast
ing her large blue eyes to my face, with an
arch smile, “you ain’t jealous then—oh no,
you’re the last man to be jealous! Now
what did I tell you, John ? You arc jealous,
and of Mr. Thaw, who I never saw before
this evening.” Then assuming a soft and
more serious tone, she continued, “ John, do
you think ”
“ I didn’t think you were in earnest,” 1
interrupted, my respiration coming freeer,
aud my heart leaping with glad emotions as
I pressed the little hand that had some how
or other become locked in mine.
“ Ah, John, you were jealous, and you
ought to be ”
“ I am convicted, my dear Mary, and—”
“ You ought to be ashamed, I mean.—
Why the green-eyed monster ’ll eat you up
before we’re married, if there’s any truth
in Shakspeare.”
I confessed the truth, but plead my love
for her in extenuation of my fault, and pro
mised never to be jealous again. “ But,” I
continued, “ you must promise me that you
will give no more encouragement to Thaw.
He knows I dispise him, and seeks to annoy
me by thrusting himself in your society.”
“ I must treat him with politeness, you
know, so long as he is respectful to me. But
as to any farther consideration from me, he
has as little to hope as you have to fear.”
Thus ended one of our many quarrels.
We were soon at her father’s residence, a
neat little cottage near the upper end of
Arch street, and as it was late, I parted with
her at the door, and directed my steps home
ward, with a light heart, since I no longer
regarded beaux Thaw as a rival in the af
fections of the angelic being 1 had just left.
But I was not long to enjoy the delight
ful calm to my fears which succeeded. The
truth is, I had by my own indiscretion con
tributed to spoil one of the sweetest tem
pers that ever were perverted and ruined by
admiration and flattery, and I now began to
suffer the consequences of my folly. Mary
did derive a secret pleasure from teasing
me. Like most of her sex who possess any
claim to personal beauty, she was not en
tirely destitute of vanity, and like far too ma
ny, could not resist the temptation to gratify
that vanity, by testing the power of those
charms, even at the cost of the severest in
flictions upon my feelings. Many wert; the
little coquetries and mischievous flirtations
to which she resorted in older to exhibit the
abject vassalage in which she held my affec
tions ; and many, and severe were the tests
to which her arts had subjected me.
One evening, not long after our Fair-
Mount excursion, I accompanied Mary to
the house of an acquaintance, where a large
number of young ladies and gentlemen were
assembled. On entering the parlor, I was
not a little annoyed at hearing the squeak
ing voice of Mr. Thaw, who was striding
about the room bowing and sci aping, grin
ning and chattering, as if he desired to mo
nopolise the attention of all the ladies pre
sent. But I was still more vexed soon after,
by his incessant attention to Mary, who, I
thought, considering what had passed be
tween us in relation to that gentleman, was
entirely too affable in her encouragement of
those attentions. It was not a dancing par
ty, but one of those social evening assem
blies, at which young people generally en
gage in unmeaning plays, and romps, fit on
ly for children,*or pass the time in exchang
ing “small talk;” for neither of which amuse
ments I had much relish, but with a view of
making myself as agreeable as possible, 1
adopted the latter as the choice of the two
evils. I, however, soon found it impossible
to entertain even Mary, while Mt. Thaw
was the master of ceremonies. Ho. was
perfectly an fait in all the little games Usual
ly performed on such occasions, and intro
duced many new fooleries, much to'the gra
tification of the company. And then he
was such a ready poet, aud could say,
“ Well, here I be,
Under this tree,
Miss Mary C.
Come and kiss me,”
in a style so unique, and always had some
thing so pithy to whisper in the ladies’ ears,
and made such rare comparisons, that he
soon became “ the observed of all observ
ers,” totally eclipsing every other gallant in
the room. Mary readily comprehended the
expression of my countenance. A single
look of reproach from me, and a few of her
new admirer’s compliments sufficed to excite
her vanity; and encouraged by Mr. Thaw,
she had in the courseof the evening wrought
me up to such a pitch of jealousy that it was
with difficulty I could restrain my emotion
in the presence of the company.
As it grew late, and after the usual umuse
ments bad been exhausted, the company
became seated round the room. Conversa
tion was flagging, when Mr. Thaw, in the
exhuberance of his inventive genius, struck
upon a novel plan of entertaiuing the com
pany for an hour longer.
“ Ladies,” said he, “ perhaps you have
not heard of the new science, recently “in
vented, called the Daguerreotype. 1 can
assure you that it is a very wonderful art,
by which we arc enabled to portray * the
human face divine,’ (here he hemmed once)
with the most marvelousaccuracy. I should
be very happy to explain the principle, by
taking copies of some of the beautiful faces,
the brilliancy of whose charms illuminate
this room.” After which speech he cast a
conceited look round the room, as much as
to say “ that’s me !”
“ Oh, you do flatter the ladies so much,
Mr. Thaw,” remarked the ugliest girl in the
room.
Mr. Thaw bowed and smiled, and brought
his hand to his lips, then placeddt upon his
heart and bowed again. “ The truth is no
flattery, Miss Julia,” said he.
Miss Julia primped her mouth, and smil
ed back at Mr. Thaw.
“ Light and shade, are the principles of
the science,” continued Mr. Thaw, with the
air of a modern lecturer, “ and though it
has not yet been brought to perfection,
enough is known to establish the great utili
ty of the art. I will illustrate it to you, la
dies, if you please.”
Mr. Thaw then took a sheet of white pa
per from the table, and tacking it to the pa
pered wall, requested one of the ladies to
sit for her profile, the outline of which he
traced with his crayon pencil as it was re
flected upon the paper. Thus Mr. Thaw
went on illustrating the Daguerreotype, ac
companying his performances with a torrent
of silly gab, at which the ladies laughed ex
ceedingly, until nearly all the company had
been supplied with their profiles. He was
quite skilful with the pencil, and though he
occasionally amused himself by slightly
caricaturing some of the gentlemen, most of
his profiles were well drawn.
At length I was pressed in my turn to sit
for my profile, and as none bad refused I
could not well decline. The light was plac
ed in its proper position, and Mr. Thaw
commenced to adjust my head in a suitable
attitude.
“ Hold up your head, if you please, Mr.
Smith,” said he, in a very polite tone, “ turn
your face a little more to the left—a le-e-tle
more, if you please—there, that’ll doj—now
shut your mouth, if you please, Mr. Smith
—that’s it—now hold steady, Mr. Smith.”
All was quite still, and I could hear the
scratching of the pencil upon the paper. —
Presently I heard a suppressed laugh, which
seemed to pervade the whole company.
“ Don’t move, if you please, Mr. Smith,
or you’ll spoil it,” said Mr. Thaw.
My position was such that I could not see
him without moving my head. Mary was
sitting directly before me, and I observed
her face became flushed as the laughing in
creased—l thought she looked excited. In
a few moments Mr. Thaw announced that it
was done.
“ Ladies and gentlemen,” continued he,
“ what do you think of the likeness ?”
I turned and beheld him pointing to the
picture of an ass’ head! with ponderous
ears and mouth distended, as if in the act
of braying. The blood rushed to my tem
pels, hut the whole company were convuls
ed with laughter, and with a second thought
I endeavored to laugh too, though it was de
cidedly an up-hill business. My ears burn
ed, and I thought my laugh sounded more
like a bray—it certainly did not come from
the fountain of mirth; but I might have
forced it for a time perhaps, had not the tri
umphant artist, iirthe vehemence of his ex
ultation, carried the joke a little too far.—
Observing Mary who was laughing with the
rest, he temarked, holding up the drawing
to view:
“ I must have your opinion, Miss Mary.
Don’t you think 1 have hit the gentleman’s
features ?”
Mary colored and hesitated. “Oh, of
course, I think it a capital likeness,” she
exclaimed, turning towards me, with an en
couraging smile.
Thaw chuckled at her reply, with a mean
ing grin which I well comprehended. Ma
ry looked confused and agitated. This was
too much—my blood hissed in my veins.
Choking with rage, I exclaimed, “I’ll try my
hand at your profile !’’ and with a blow full
in the face, I sent the gentleman sprawling
among the chairs and tables !
There was a sudden rush, and a loud
scream from the ladies. The aspect of af
fairs was changed in an instant.
“ JVhy John !” exclaimed Mary, grasping
me by the arm, after the first panic had
somewhat subsided, “ why John, I’m aston
ished at you!”
I already regretted what 1 had done, but
itwas too late. I had disfigured Mr. Thaw’s
profile, and my rage had changed to cha
grin. I grasped my hat, while Mr. Thaw,
with his handkerchief to his bleeding nose,
was muttering something about “ d—d un
genteel—in tne presence of ladies—pistols
at ten paces, &c.”—to which I made no re
ply, but passed to the door, amidst the con
fusion I nad occasioned. The ladies were
throwing on their shawls and bonnets. Ma
ry followed me to the door—l turned front
her.
“ John,” she asked in an earnest tone of
voice—“are you going?”
** Yes,” 1 replied doggedly.
“John,” repeated Mary, with something
of supplication in her tone.
“Never mind, Miss Mary,” I replied,
“ you nor Mr. Thaw shall ever make a laugh
ing stock of me again.”
And with this sullen speech I walked off,
leaving her to get home the best way she
might. •
Through the interposition of my sisters,
who where Mary’s most intimate friends, I
had an interview with her on the following
evening ; but I was in no mood to effect a
reconciliation with her upon equitable terms.
I upbraided her with her want of fidelity
which I considered was abundantly evinced
by her partiality for Mr. Thaw, and, calling
to my aid all the firmness of my stubborn
nature, I assured her that I was determined
no longer to be the dupe of a heartless co
quet.
At first the ingenuous girl endeavored to
explain her conduct on the previous even
ing, denying any agency in Mr. Thaw’s at
tempt to throw me into ridicule, and ex
pressing her disapprobation of that gentle
man’s general deportment; but findiug that
I was disposed to attach an importance to
her acts which she conceived they did not
merit, and that in my pique I required her
to make acknowledgements too humiliating
for her to concede, her spirit became arous
ed, and I suddenly beheld my once gentle,
simple-hearted Mary transformed into the
proud and indignant helle.
I soon discovered that my selfish jealousy
together with my impetuous temper had
urged me to an unjustifiable extremity, and
the consciousness that I deserved to lose the
esteem of her I loved, added its poignancy
to my feelings. To increase my mortifica
tion, my evil genius Thaw, so soon as he
had recovered from his black eye, renewed
his officious attentions to Mary, and seemed
to derive satisfaction for the injury I had
done him, hy pxulting in the ruin he had
wrought to my peace and happiness. Mr.
Thaw was precisely what is meant by the
term “ a ladies’ man.” I will not attempt a
particular description of him—for who has
not seen a ladies’ man —the genus is confin
ed to no particular meridian, and their dis
tinguishing characteristics are too well
known as the opposites of everything man
ly and noble, to need a description. Though
hy no means good looking, he jfossessed all
the requisite qualifications of an accomplish
ed dandy, and having mingled much in fe
male society, and studied well the art of
pleasing the young and giddy of the sex, it
is not to be wondered that I regarded his at
tentions to Mary with a suspicious eye ; or
that she found it difficult to repulse them
even though she held his character in con
tempt. Now that I was no longer her gal
lant, and we had absolved each other from
our early vows, and exchanged rings and
tokens, he'became the ready instrument of
her wounded pride, which prompted her to
receive his addresses with much apparent
satisfaction, when indeed she detested him
from the bottom of her heart. For a time
1 affected the utmost indifference at the suc
cess of my rival; but a canker was gnaw
ing at my heart which soon unmanned me
of my strength, and I could no longer dis
guise the intensity of my suffering. I felt
indeed the truth of Bulwer’s beautiful lines:
“ There is no anguish like the hour,
Whatevcrelse befall us,
When one the heart has raised to power
Asserts it but to gall us.”
* Chap ter 11.
John’s malady increases until it becomes a settled me
lancholy—Lackadaisical philosophy—Revenge medi
tated—Thoughts of suicide—Funeral procession—
The grave yard—A plan conceived—The farewell
letter—Graveyard at midnight—The doctors surpris
ed —The interview—Bribery—The resurrection—
The Dutchman and the corpse—Drowning by proxy.
In vain did mutual friends seek to effect a
reconciliation. If I was obdurate and sul
len, Mary was no less proud and unyielding;
and time only settled deeper and deeper the
sad melancholy to which I had become ut
terly abandoned. No exertion of my own,
nor the playful ralleries or friendly sympa
thies of my intimates could dispel the gloo
my despondency of my thoughts. Consti
tutionally of a sombre cast of mind, my
meditations tended greatly to increase my
mental malady, until my family began to
entertain fears for my recovery. Already
had my health began to fail, and it was se
riously contemplated to submit me to medi
cal treatment. But I did not desire con
valescence. I began to enjoy a secret sat
isfaction in the thought, that let what might
be the consequence, the worse the calamity,
the more complete would be my revenge
upon the treacherous fair Une who bad caus
ed my distress.
I agree with you, reader, that I was very
silly for entertaining such a thought, or for
allowing myself to become such a very Lack
aday. But as that prince of lovers very
gravely observes, “ Human natur’s human
natur, Mr, Curtis,” and such was my nutur
—the peculiar bent of my disposition. If
like him or me, you were ever “ balked in
your pgrspiring passion,” you will lie the
better able to appreciate my feelings, and
the more disposed to view my weakness
with charnP
One gloomy afiernoon 1 rose fiom my seat
before the grate, from which I had poked
the last blackening coal, as I sat meditating
upon the various modes of suicide, and,
pressing my hat nearly over my eyes, walk
ed out into the street, and with my hands in
| NUMBER 25.
¥. TANARUS, THOMPSON, EDITOR,
my pockets, and my chin upotr my breast,
sauntered on, I cared not whither. Whit
a glorious revenge it would be, thought I,
as I pursued my ramble, to drown myself,
and then haunt the cruel girl that had caus
ed me such pain. But could ghosts return
to this world ? That was an important ques
tion. And then I wondered how it would
feel to jump into the river at that season of
the year. This problem was more readily
solved by means of an illustration, for the
jiext moment I stepped plash into the gutter,
which was running ankle deep with cold
water! There was an end of my project of
drowning, unless it might be done by proxy,
which, after a little reflection, I discovered
was by no means impracticable; and as I
ouly wished to indulge my revenge, such an
expedient would answer my purpose infi
nitely better than if I were Ucput an end to
my life in reality. I had only to deposit a
portion of my clothing upon the wharf, to
write a letter to Mary, declaring my inten
tion, and to absent myself from the’eity, in
order to establish my death; and then, should
she relent, I would be alive to enjoy my tri
umph. My mind was made up to the deed,
and my thoughts were busied in arranging
the preliminaries, when I was startled from
my revery, by coming in contact with a long
funeral procession. I was just in the vein
to attend a funeral, and as it passed, 1 fell in
to the traiu, without knowing whose mortal
remains I was following to their long home.
As we proceeded to Ronaldsoti’s beauti
ful burying ground, I learned that the de
ceased was a young man of my acquaint
ance, who had died rather suddenly on the
day previous. He was about my own age,
and what was a little singular, we resembled
each other so exactly in appearance, that
those who were best acquainted with us
could scarcely distinguish one from the oth
er. He had lived in a different part of the
city, and we were only slightly acquainted,
but the circumstance [of our near resem
blance excited my sympathy for his death,
and I was perhaps not the least sincere
among the numerous train of mourners who
attended him to the grave. After the sol
emn ceremony of depositing the body in
the family vault, was concluded, I lingered
by the place so well suited to the gloomy
tenor of my thoughts, and did not observe
the departure of the procession. It was
long after the sexton had closed the gates,
and not until the marble monuments began
to throw their lengthened shadows upon the
cold ground, that I discovered that I was
alone in that solemn place. Suddenly arous
ing from my gloomy reverie, I followed
round the wall in search of a place by which
to escape, until I arrived at the north-east
corner, where I discovered a board placed
against the wall, by means of which I was
enabled to gain the street. That board,
which had doubtless been placed there by
some resurrectionist, suggested an idea
which capt the climax of the scheme upon
which I had been meditating when my at
tention was attracted by the funeral, and I
resolved at once to put my plan in execu
tion that very night. m
Accordingly I returned home, and going to
my solitary room, wrote a long letter to Ma
ry ; in which, after recurring in a very feel
ing manner, to the many happy hours I had
passed in her society, when I had indulged
the fond hope that my love for her was not
unrequited, 1 poured forth the agony of my
feelings in a strain of eloquence which only
the of my deep despair could
prompt. Then invokingthechoicest blessings
upon her, I freely forgave her past conduct
towards me, bade her an affectionate adieu,
and concluded with the assurance that ere she
broke the seal of my farewell letter, the
hand that inscribed it, and the heart that dic
tated it, would lie cold beneath the flood.
Leaving this precious production upon
my table, duly addressed to “Miss Mary Car
son, Arch street,” I muffled myself in my
cloak and sallied forth, unobserved by any
member of the family, who, perhaps owing
to my strange deportment, had for some
weeks past, endeavored to keep a close
watch upon mv movements. I directed my
steps to the old Drawbridge, where I pur
chased a suit of sailor’s clothes, in which dis
fuise I then proceeded to the grave yard.
had provided myself with every thing which
I thought would be necessary for my expedi- ■
tion, such as a dead-lantern, a crow bar, a
pair of pistols, and the suit of my own
clothes which I had just taken off.
The state-house clock struck twelve, as I
approached the solemn city of the dead.
At any other time my heart would have
failed me in such a palace and upon such an
errand. But now I was insensible to eve
ry rational feeling. The romance of my na
ture was aroused by the bold and reckless
enterprize, in which I was embarked, and
no consideration could sway me £-om its ac
complishment. It was a cold, drizzling night,
and so dark that I could scarce see the near
est objects, as I groped my way amid tho
Solitary tombs, in the direction of the vault.
As 1 approached near to the dreary char
nel house, whose low white marble walls
were but just discernible in the midnight
gloom, my blood curdled to my heart, and
my hair sprang on end, as my ear caught a
souud proceeding out of the vault. I stood
fixed to the apt# —the noise reached me
again, and the next moment the low accents
of a human voice fell upon my car. My
fears subsided and I approached the low por
tal, when I perceived a dim ray of light pro
cecding from the cracks in the door. A key