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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