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VOLUME I. |
BY C. R. HANLEITER.
P ©H ¥ IS Y „
“ Muck yet remains unsung
For the “ Southern Miscellany
THE LAMENT.
I saw a father silting where
His infant daughter long Bad slept;
Night’s veil of darkness often there
Secreted eyes that wept;
And in a wailing, plaintive tone,
Thus sad and mournfully he sung.
I’ve pulled away the weeds that grew
Too close above thy lowly head,
And broke the wilder boughs that threw
Their shadows o’er thy bed—
That shining from the “ far South-West”
The sun-beams might “rejoice thy rest.”
It was a weary, weary road
That led me to this distant spot ;
And may’s! thou in thy sweet abode
Meet there a blissful, happy lot—
Where everlasting beauty lies,
A peaceful dwelling in the skies!
Yet often to thy haunted grave
Thy infant thoughts will Eastward stray,
To Him who sits where thou wert laid
• And weeps the hours away;
0 But almost enn his grief lorget
To think that thou dost love him yet!
J.L
Savannah, Cctohcr 31, 1813.
©[fU© OKI AIL TALE.
For the “ Southern Miscellany.”
THE DOOMED MAIDEN,
OR TIIE VICTIM OP SUPERSTITION-.
A Frontier Slietch.
It was towards the close of a stormy
November day in the year 18 —, that 1 found
myself wending my way among the hills
and valleys of the mountainous region of
Georgia, on a journey to one of the frontier
counties, where I had some professional
business to transact, the imperative nature
of which alone induced me to undertake
such a trip at that inclement season of the
J’ear.
The shades of evening were fast approach
ing, when I was more than delighted at see
ing the blue smoke curling up against the
lowering horizon, some distance ahead, hut
in the direction of my road. I was more
than delighted—for, besides being wet, cold
and hungry, this was the only house I had
seen for several miles, and I had began to
fear that I might he under the necessity of
passing the night in the woods without a
shelter from the rapidly increasing storm.
I was too well acquainted with mountaineer’s
fair to promise myself very elegant accom
modations at the little cottage which 1 could
hut just distinguish near the base of a lofty
peak ; but a roasted potatoe and a blanket
by a good lightwood fire was preferable to
a “ cold snack” and a damp moss bed ; and
I determined to impose myself upon its in
mates as a guest for the night, if there was
so much persuasion in my purse.
I might have remarked an air of neatness
about the spot, had I been in a vein lor ob
servation, hut 1 rode slowly up to the little
enclosure before the door, dismounted, and
had begun to remove my saddle, when an
elderly woman made her appearance at the
door, whose benevolent countenance and
matronly air, seemed to reproach me for
rny rudeness. With an awkward apology
for my intrusion I solicited’ the hospitality”
of her house for the night, which she readi
ly granted.
“ Walk in, sir, out of the rain,” said she,
“ and I will send a servant to take care of
your horse.”
Relinquishing my faithful animal to the
charge of a little negro, I followed into the
dwelling. The supper table occupied the cen
tre of the floor, and, as I entered, a young girl
of about sixteen rose modestly from her
seat by the fire, which the old lady desired
me to occupy. I was at once struck with
thepolite bearingof the two females, as well
as the airof neatness and comfort which was
in those days, so seldom met with in the wild
region through which I was travelling; and
while 1 endeavored to thank them for their
kindness and hospitality, I inly felicitated my
self that I had fallen upon such quarters
for the night,
A good supper was soon served, and af
ter partaking of a hearty meal, I again drew
my chair to the hearth, where a blazing
lightwood fire dispensed its cheering rays,
and under the influence of whose genial
warmth I soon forgot the inclemency to
which I had been exposed during the day.
After the removal of the supper table, Twas
joined by the little family, which, I soon
learned, consisted of the old lady, a soft and
daughter, the former about fourteen and
the latter about sixteen years of age. Feel
ing a growing desire to learn something of
the history oi the family, whom it was quite
evident from their deportment, had seen
better days, and had, doubtless, moved in
different society from that which is usually
to be met with upon the frontier settlements,
I endeavored to draw the old lady, who was
engaged in repairing some of her son’s ap
parel, into conversation.
“It is a lonely place this, madam, in
which you live, and I must coufess that I
little expected to meet with such a family
in this wild region. You have not long re
aided here I”
Jfcctoapaucr : Ecfcotetr to iLUerKture, &firicultuve, JHecftantnf, smtcatCon, ifore fan domestic luteUf&ttur, #c.
“ It is now about five years since my poor
husband sought this place of seclusion for
himself and little family,” replied she, and
as she spoke a deep sigh came tip from the
deeps of her heart, which informed me bet
ter than words that she was no stranger
to sorrow.
“ Your husband is dead, then,” I rejoih
ed.
•’ Yes, sir—he could never survive the
loss of fortune and the treachery of friends;
and though he sought relief in seclusion,
his constitution gradually failed until he left
me and his little orphans for a tatter world.
It is now two yeurs since he died.”
As she uttered the last words her voice
became choked with emotion, and her eyes
filled with tears; and as I cast my eye up
on the lovely girl by her side, I observed
her lay her hand gently upon her mother’s
arm as she cast her large soft eye affection
atelv to her face, and the tears trickled down
her blushing cheeks. I could not hut feel
the deepest sympathy for their bereavement,
and though I would willingly have learned
more of their history, I determined to for
bear t|uestioning farther upon a subject
which could not fail to harrow up recollec
tions and scenes of painful interest, in the
minds of my worthy hostess and her affec
tionate daughter.
“None may judge of the dispensations
of Providence,” I remarked, after a pause.
“ Human wisdom may not scrutinize His
decrees, and often are we led to marvel at
what we do not understand in the divine
policy, when, perhaps, if we were permit
ted to look into the unknown future, our
murmurings would he turned to rejoicings
by what our weak judgments bad viewed as
the direst calamities. They are happiest who
place the greatest reliance upon the infinite
goodness of God, and who receive his chast
ening with humble submission.”
“ Oil, yes, sir, Ido not murmur. God is
good to me and my little orphans—l do not
murmur—hut my heart will throb and the
tears will stait to my eyes when I think of
the past —of him who was ever so kind to me
and his dear children. But his acliingheart
is at rest, and they cannot wound his noble
spirit now that lie is in the grave. Do not
weep my child,” she continued, laying her
hand upon the head of her daughter whose
face was nestled in her lap, “you have a
father who will never forget the orphan or
widowed while we love and serve him.”
With as much delicacy as possible I en
deavored to change the conversation to sub
jects of general interest, and after a little
time the gloom which had just brooded over
our little circle gradually gave place to so
cialcheerfulness; and as I succeeded in draw
ing the daughter into conversation, I readi
ly discovered in her traits of character which
won upon my esteem to such a degtee that
I already began to entertain for her the
warmest sentiments of friendship. I found
her unusually intelligent for her age, and
what rendered her still more lovely, in my
estimation, was the total absence of every
thing like affectation or vanity.
As we sat round the cheerful fire, which
ever and anon was replenished with light
wood, the storm increased without. The
chill wind came sweeping from the moun
tain gaps in blustering gusts —the rain des
cended upon the roof with an incessant
rumbling sound, or heat furiously against
the casement, as some fresh torrent of wind
spent its force against the little dwelling.—
Occasionally a vivid flash of lightning il
lumined the pitchy darkness, and was suc
ceedeiHiy a Imirl peel of Thunder, which
reverberated among the distant hills, until
lost in the howling of the blast.
During one of the intervals of calm a
O
loud knocking was heard at the door.
1 observed a deep blush sufftice the cheek
of the beautiful Ada, as she rose to open the
door, and as she glided past her mother she
whispered in a soft voice,
” It must he Henry !”
On the door being opened, a form ofdoubt
ful gender leaning upon a tall staff stepped
upon the threshold.
“ Why it’s pooroldAutit Sally!” exclaim
ed the shrinking girl, in a tone between dis
appointment and surprise. “Come in, Aunt
Sally, out of the cold and wet,” she con
tinued.
“ Poorold creature,” murmured the moth
er; “ come to the fire, Aunt Sally—why,
what could have brought you out on such a
night ?”
The woman still stood in the door,
while the girl urged her to come in. Slow
ly raising herself upon her staff she exposed
to the glare of the fire one of the most hag
gard and ghastly countenances that I had
ever beheld. Her sallow cheeks were
shrivelled to the hone, with scarce flexibility
enough to admit of a wrinkle—her long
sharp nose arid pointed chin seemed to meet
over her thin bloodless lips, and from her
dark hollow sockets beamed an eye of strange
lustre, while a single lock of coarse grey
hair, which protruded from beneath her hat
directly in front, gave the finish to the un
earthly aspect of her features. A ragged
chip hat was hound upon her head with a
large shawl or handkerchief, and a bundle
of rags were twisted round her neck. A
tattered coat of janes, which had once been
the property of the other sex, hong upon
her shoulders, and a coarse ragged skirt, of
various colors and figures of patchwork,
completed ber attire. After casting a pene
trating glance around the room,she exclaim
ed in a cracked voice, and broken aoccnt,
MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, NOVEMBER 12, 1842.
“ God bless ye—God bless all the good
people,” and then with a slow and tottering
step she drew near the fire. She was point
ed to a low chair in the corner, where she
drew her drenched garments around her
shrivelled form, and extended her skinny
hands to the fire. Dry clothes were offered,
but she would not accept them. Well
knowing her favorite beverage, the young
girl tendered her a cup of strong tea, with
other refreshments, which she received with
out remark, and after satisfying her appe
tite, she drew herself again close into the
corner, and covered her face in her rags,
muttering to herself,
“God bless the darlint—she's always
kind to pore old Sally, and old Sally’ll put
her dying blessing on the so
she will.”
The strange appearance of the woman,
and her apparent destitution excited my
cur iosity to know who or what she was.—
I learned from the lady of the bouse that
she had no relations in the settlement, but
had since the time of her first making her
appearance among them, been in the habit
of wandering from place to place in the
manner she visited her house, and that tho’
she professed the art of fortune-telling, and
occasionally procured a few shillings in that
! way from the young people, she was mainly
j indebted for her support to the charity of
the neighbors, who, as they knew nothing
had of her, never refused her a shelter and
food.
“ She is a very strange woman,” contin
| ued my informant, “preferring to roam from
place to place, rather than accept, for any
considerable time, the hospitality ofher ac
quaintances. She has often come to my
house at the dead of midnight, and in the
morning before light she would take herde
; parture without the knowledge of arty of
! the family. Some think she is crazed, and
| indeed no one can understand her. She
! sometimes lives for months in the woods,
j and when all suppose her dead she will
make her appearance, when little expected,
| and depart, perhaps, as suddenly and as
I strangely as she came.”
“ Poi-e old Sal,” murmured the oldoroao,
; who seemed not to hear or heed what the
I lady was saying of her ; “ no one gives any
1 thing to old Sal. But she has a home a long
way off—a long way off—Laws ha’ massy
upon pore old Sal.”
“ Site says she has a home,” continued
my kind hearted hostess, “ but whether she
has indeed a home, or whether it is but a
vain fancy of her disturbed mind, no one
can tell.”
With the double purpose of patronising
the miserable old creature, and with a view
of enlivening the few hours till bed time,
1 proposed that she should tell our fortunes.
“ Come, Aunt Sally,” said I, “ brighten
up, now—here’s a silver dollar for you to
tell us our fortunes.”
My hostess declined having her fortune
told, remarking that she did not believe in
fortune-telling.
“ Nor I,” replied I, “ which is the reason
why I make the proposition—l have not a
shadow of faith in any human fortune-teller,
or 1 would be very loath indeed to patron
ize them. What say you, Miss Ada, do
you believe in Aunt Sally’s art 1”
“Ma says I must not believe in such
nonsense, hut I think Aunt Sally tells very
true sometimes.”
“ Well, we must have a trial of her skill
to-night,” I jocosely remarked, as I extend
ed the dollar towards the old sybil, who
reached forth her shrivelled hand to grasp
it, while her haggard features assumed a
ghastly smile.
“ BlesS ye, sir, I will run my cards for
you. But why need old Sally try the child’s
luck ? Bless her, every body in the settle
ment can tell her fortune—for isn’t she to
he married, day after to-morrow to Henry
W ilberton ? apd isn’t he the handsomest
youth and the hast in all the country. Bless
the pair o’ them, they was born for other—
and they’ll he happy, so they will. Ye
needn’t hide yer pretty face child. The
gentleman knows old jSally’s speakin the
truth.”
Then, after caressing and playing with
the ringlets of the blushing girl, who had
drawn a chair between the woman and j
her mother, who sat gazing thoughtfully in- I
to the fire, she essayed to produce the book ‘
of fate from which she was to read our ties- j
tiuies. After removing several dirty enve
lopes, a pack of well worn car ds rolled • p
on her lap.
While the old woman was preparing her
self for the exercise of her mystic art, I
learned from the lady of tho house that
wlrat she had said in relation to her daugh
ter’s marriage was true.
“ I am to lose her soon,” said the old la
dy, in a thoughtful tone, “ but I console
myself with the thought that she is about to
bestow her hand upon one who is worthy
the affections of her heart.”
“ Day after to-morrow night ? Should the
weather continue,” I replied, “ I may have
the pleasure of attending the wedding.—
What say you, Miss Ada ? Will you not
give me an invitation
“ Oh, certainly, sir,” said the blushing
girl, as she threw back her flowing ringlets,
while the crimson tinge of her lovely fea
tures taspoke her native modesty.
“ It may rain, then—for I love a wedding
—besides, I wish to see the happy Henry
who is to be enriched by tho possession of
such a treasure. If I should be disappoint-
ed in him, I do not know hut I should be
. induced to forbid the bans, such is tire grow
ing interest which I confess I feel for your
welfare. He should be a proper fellow
now to possess such ”
| “ Oh, sir, I know you’ll like him—he’s
] so good, so generous—every body likes
j Henry.”
I I was about to unbosom still further the
deep interest, which almost amounted to
affection,for the little family in whose socie
ty chance had thrown me so unexpectedly,
when the old woman in the corner attracted
my attention by drawing the two ends of
her dirty pastboards through her bony fin
gers with a rattling sound, at the same time
| that she announced that she was ready to
open the hook of fate, with an air of gravi
ty that illy comported with the practice of
such mummery, and which forced from me
an undisguised laugh.
“Do not laugh, sir—l can tell a true for
tune to them as believe. But if you doubt
—theft all is dark, and I cannot read what
the cards say.”
“Faith, then, is at the bottom of your art.
Well, then tell Afiss Ada’s fortune first, and
if you tell her a good one, perhaps, I can
believe better.”
Turning to the girl she bade her cut the
cards three times. Ada made the first cut
—as she drew tta cards towards her, one
fell from her hand into her lap. The sybil
seized it, and as she raised it to the light a
shudder ran through the frame of the terri
fied girl, and the cards dropped from the
hand of the fortune-teller, who covering her
face with her hands muttered in a hollow
tone, “ Death !” while her whole frame
shook with violent agitation.
“Oh, mother—my dream!” exclaimed
the trembling girl, throwing one arm round
her mother’s neck, and burying her ashy
face in her bosom.
“ Poor child,” sighed her mother, “how
often have I told you not to place any con
fidence in Aunt Sally’s foolishness. Come,
be calm now—’tis utterly ridiculous to be
lieve such nonsense.
“ Mother, it was the death card that flew
into my lap—and then my dream—oh, that
fearful dream,” replied the terrified girl,
bursting into a flood of tears.
I had sat in silent amazement for some
moments, exceedingly mortified that I should
have thoughtlessly introduced a matter
which had given rise to so much alarm oil
the part of the girl, and consequently so
much painful anxiety in the mind of her
mother. The old croan, after hastily re
placing the cards in her wallet, had drawn
her form close into the corner, and sat mo
tionless and silent. 1 endeavored to relieve
the poor girl’s mind from the gloomy appre
hensions which the event had occasioned,
assuring her that neither Aunt Sally nor her
cards could foretell our destinies—that her
faith in such mystic nonsense was merely
the result of a childish superstition which
her good sense should teach her to over
come. But argument was in vain, and nei
ther her mother nor myself could dispel the
gloom which enveloped her thoughts for the
balance of the evening.
Bed time having arrived, an old negro
woman entered to spread me a paiate be
fore the fire ; after which the fortune-teller
in moody silence accompanied her to the
kitchen, and the lady of the house and her
daughter bidding me good night retired to
their room. Being weary I soon embraced
the comfortable quarters assigned me, and
in a brief time was dreaming of homo.
I arose on the following morning after a
refreshing sleep. The storm had some
what abated, hut the wind was still high,
and the heavy black masses of clouds that
were dragging lazily over the mountain
peaks, totally obscuring the rising sun, in
dicated that the elements were only gather
ing for another deluge. After visiting my
horse, at the little mill which stood perhaps
some two hundred yards from the house, in
company with the son of my hostess, a like
ly little fellow who was already astir and
attending to the duties assigned him, I re
turned to the cottage. The lady and her
daughter were up, the former busied in aid
ing and directing in the preparation of the
morning meal. The daughter was gazing
out of the window at the little creek, that,
swollen by the recent rains, came leaping
impetuously from the mountain gorge, and
chafing with its banks, which it now filled
to the top, passed on to the little mill, where,
after leaping the dam, it was lost amid the
jutting rocks and over-arching branches of
the trees that skirted its meandering shores.
To my morning salutation she replied in a
subdued tone, and as she turned, I thought
her face was even more lovely than when 1
first beheld it. There was an air of pensive
sadness about her countenance that almost
startled me, and at once recalled to my mind
the scene of the past evening. I thought
to rally her, and dissipate, if possible, the
sad forebodings which seemed to oppress
her mind.
“ Why, Miss Ada,” said I, “ you should
be all smiles to-day, so near your wedd'trg.
1 fear you are jealous of your lover's ab
sence, hut you need not he, for, l know, he
would travel far before he would find a fair
er face.”
A crimson blush Suffused her cheeks and
neck, hut no word escaped her lips,
“ When is he to come 1” I inquired.
“ To-morrow—he .cannot cotne before,”
replied the blushing girl.
“ And you are dying to seo him"-
I was continuing, in a strain of playful rail
lery, when I observed her downcast eyes
fill with tears, and a heavy sigh escaped her
parting lips, as in a scarce audible whis]>er
she said,
“Oh, I hope I may see him again.”
The words, the tone, the manner in which
she spoke, indicated the settled dread of
some awfli! calamity whh.li rom<l upwi hcr
mind, and though pained to witness ber stif
fening, from what I regarded only as an idle
superstition, I knew not how to remove it.
Just then her mother entered, to whom I re
marked,
“ I have been trying to persuade Miss
Ada to be cheerful this morning. But it
seems some mysterious fear has been excit
ed in her mind by the mummeries of that
old woman, which renders her extremely
unhappy.”
“ Yes, sir, I am very uneasy about her.
She did unt close her eyes last night, hut
sobbed and sighed as if she would break
ber heart. It mortifies me to see her so
supeistitious.”
“ Mother, l am not superstitious, but 1
feel that something sad is about to hoppeu.
Night before last 1 dreamed that I saw
Henry, dressed all in white, standing upon
the hank of a wide and angry river that ran
between us, and last night the death card
fell in my lap.”
“ Nonsense,” I remarked, almost petu
lently ; “ when your waking ami sleeping
thoughts are so constantly dwelling upon the
object of your affections, it is not at all
strange that fancy, in her wild vagaries,
should present him in a thousand positions
and in as many garbs. And the cards—
why, if any other piece of pasteboard had
fallen ftom the old woman’s hand, l should
have regarded it equally as ominous.”
“ Oh, sir,” said the now weeping girl, “1
cannot shake off the dreadful fear that op
presses me. That dream so like my poor
father’s, and that ugly card ,” and
her words were choked with sobs.
“Why, Ada, do not he so foolish, my child
—do not think tqpre about it —Henry will Ire
here to-morrow, and it will break his heart
to find you in such a state of mind.”
At breakfast I endeavored by every ar
gument to convince her how ridiculous it
was to put faith in such prognostics of fate ;
assuring her that if we were to heed all the
various signs and indications of destiny that
are regarded as infallible by the supersti
tious and ignorant, we would ever be in
constant dread. Every tree that put forth
Irlossoms out of season, every insect that
ticked in the wall would foretell our deaths,
and a thousand other things equally as tri
vial and common, would indicate some of
the numerous ills that flesh is heir to.
After some time the poor girl succeeded
in drying up her tears, but all the argument
or persuasion 1 could invent did not effect
ually dispel the melancholy of her thoughts.
The storm had almost entirely cea.-ed,
but as the ally was still over cast with heavy
clouds, and as it was more than probable
that the water courses were impassable, I
gladly accepted the invitation of my kind
hostess to remain an inmate of her house at
least for the uay. The time till noon passed
pleasantly off in conversation and in perus
ing some old hooks with which the daughter
supplied me. I learned that Mr. Burgess
(for such was the family name) had remov
ed to the frontier from one of the southern
commercial cities—that he had been a mer
chant of handsome property, but meeting
with misfortune, and suffering much perse
cution, thruugh the treachery of pretended
friends, he had sought seclusion from the
world upon a small farm iti this wild region.
Henry YVilbertnn, the young man, who was
to ho wedded to Ada on the following day,
was a yotltli who had been brought up in
tho Family. Being an orphan, he had been
taken at a veiy early age hv Mr. Burgess,
by whom he was sent to school, until he had
acquited the rudiments*of an English edu
cation. When misfortune came upon the
family, and they were compelled to forego
the luxuries which they had enjoyed, their
generous protegee was desirous of sharing
with them their poverty as he hail partici
pated iu their wealth, and insisted upon ac
companying them to their new home, where
by his labor he might make some return for
the kindness of his benefactors.
” Since the death of my husband,” said
Mrs, Burgess, “ Henry has been nil a son
could he to a mother; indeed he lius.hee.ri
our protection and support. By h : s indus
try arid management our little farm has been
made to yield us u comfortable sujrport. I
know his noble qualities—and were my
daughter worth the dowry of it princess, I
feel I could not better bestow her hand.”
” l must stay to this wedding,” said
I, “ I delight above all things to see the hap
piness of others, and 1 know Miss Ada will
he happy when tho lover of her mother’s
choice leads her to the altar.”
No acknowledging smile illumined that
lovely face, hut a deep blush rested upon her
cheeks, while her eyes, pensive and sad in
their expression, wore bent steadfastly up
on the volume which she held in her hand.
“ Come, Ada,” said the mother, “ you
that were always so joyous and gay to be so
sad. Do cheer up, my child, for my sake.
Give over this gloom. It is sinful to put
such faith in dreams. See, the clouds are
broken up and the rain Iras ceased—goout,
dear, ami take the air—go, you and your
brother William, and gather some chestnuts
j NUMBER 33.
———
W. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR.
—the storm has blown them out, and the
; exercise and fresh air will do you good.”
“Yes, sister,” said the boy, “I know
where the ground is covered—let us go and
| gat her some.”
Ada rose from her seat, and throwing
on a cottage bonnet, and taking in her hand
a small basket, acocptcd Bor
uuloti. After Urey timt passed out, I picked
up the volume she had just relinquished,
which proved to be a small bible, upon the
fly leaf of which was written, in a manly
hand, “ To Ada Burgess, from Henry Wil
herton.”
Alter a few words with the lady upon
, the strange melancholy of her daughter, I
i took my lint and stepped out with a view of
; visiting my horse, as well as to inhale the
j fresh air. After visiting the stable, which
stood near the mill, where 1 found my horse
| in fine condition and well provided for, I
sauntered about in the vicinity for some
lime, observing tho little improvements
which had before escaped my attention, tho
picturesque scenery of the place, and the
tur bid stream, which, swollen to excess, now
dashed impetuously against its rugged banks,
as if it scorned its narrow’confines. Turning
fmm the mill, I sauntered slowly up the
hank, my hands lazily thrust into my pock
ets, and my head drooped in contemplation,
or occasionally thrown up to observe the
prospect. Once 1 raised my eyes and beheld
Adaand her brother standing near the hank,
some distance above—it was but a glance.and
again my eyes were lowered to the ground,
as I thought of the cruel superstition thst
had haunted her young mind during the past
night and day. I had just resolved to ap
proach her and endeavor once more to win
her thoughts from the gloomy forebodings
which oppressed her, and was arrong
i ing in my mind an interpretation of her
dream to suit my purpose, ivheu a loud
scream broke upon my ear.
“Oh, mother! oh, my sister 1 my sistei!”
Quick as thought I cast my eye in the
: direction, where hut a moment before 1 had
seen Ada and her brother. She was gone,
andthe hoy was running,screaming,towards
me.
With desperate speed I hastened to the
spot.
“Oh, save rny sister! save my sistei!”
! groaned the poor hoy, in a voice faint with
terror.
1 was enabled to gain hut a single glimpse
of her dress, as she was whirled a way in the
circling eddies of theangry stream, and ere I
had divested myself of my heavy clothing
i all traces of her were gone. Terrified be
yond the exercise of reason, I plunged iu,
and was tarne rapidly down the furious
current. In vain I endeavored to discover
the body of the drowning girl. Taking re
fuge upon some driftwood, I eagerly cast
my eyes in every direction in the hope that
: she might yet rise to the surface. But it
; was not until alter the lapse of several min
utes, and until a portion of the bank giving
way, dislodged and loosened the whole float
ing mass upon which I was resting, that I
discovered her, entangled in some brush
wood, which composed a portion of the raft.
With great exertion I succeeded in recover
j ing her lifeless form and bearing it to the
j shore.
The cries of the youth had brought the
; wretched mother to the spot. She arrived
just as I emerged from the water with her
lifeless daughter. Running to meet me she
grasped her child in her arms—such a look
, as that with which she regarded her, I never
i before saw depicted in any human features
| —with the rapidity of thought her hand gli
ded from the heart to the mouth, then to the
wrist until she discovered all signs of life
were extinct, when she sank upon the ground
with her lovely corpse iu ber arms exclaim
ing.
“ Dead !—dead !—oh, my dear child is
dead 1”
I was but little acquainted with the pro
cess usually adopted to resuscitate drowned
persons, but with a word of encouragement
to the mother and brother to hope for her
recovery, w ith the assistance of the old ne
gro woman I put in lequisiliun such means
as our opportunities would allow—but all in
vain ; all the friction, rolling and jolting, and
other means we could employ, brought no
pulse, no signs of returning life—and we
■ bore her to the house a corpse, in the bloom
| ami flush of youthful beauty.
; No words can describe tho grief of that
i little family, and never in my life do I re
member to have witnessed .a scene so pain
! fully touching—that heart must have been
calotts indeed, that could have.regarded such
a scene of domestic affliction without parti
cipating in the deep, heart-rending sorrow
i which it had occasioned, and I wept as ona
! who had lost the object of his loug cherish
ed affection. But that poor widowed moth
er—the pride and joy of her house bad been
snatched from ber in the hour of her bright
est hope; the dear object of her love-—her
heart’s idol had been suddenly torn from ber
by the ruthless hand of death. Sudden as
the lightning's gleam had come the dread
summons, and yet iuthatdarkest bnur ofher
woe, the Christian spirit of meek submission
shone beautifully forth. In all the wild par
oxysms of her despair — in all he grief in
spired eloquence of the mother’s heart, not
one murmur escaped her lips—but even as
she bent weeping over the loved form ofher
still beautiful Ada, she could say—” Thy
will be done.”
It was approaching toward# cvcaiug, gjvd