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For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
THE BLIND GIRL.
BY LEII A CAMERON.
The breeze, which all day long had slept, now
rose,
And, with soft murmurings, filled the summer
air,*
While myriad blossoms, waking from repose,
Poured forth a thousand blended odors rare.
With spirit footsteps, noiselessly it crept,
Where twining vines their graceful shadows
flung,
Within a room, where a sad mother kept
Iler mournful vigils o’er the loved and young.
Purer than pariun stone was that young brow,
From which the breeze waved back the golden
hair,
That o’er the snowy’ pillow, clustering now,
Gleamed in the fading sunbeams, brightly lair.
One gtnall, thin hand, lay ’neath the wasted
cheek
That rivalled the pale flow’ret of the vale,
Save when it wore those fatal hues that speak
Os early doom, their own unerring tale
The fringed lids w ere drooping o'er her eyes,
Which ne’er had hailed the blessed light of day;
For she was blind ! To her the smiling skies
And genial sunshine brought no gladsome ray !
Now, from her parted lips a murmur came,
So soft, it seemed some spirit, hovering there,
Had gently breathed her mother’s cherished
name.
The.i sweetly clear, it rose upon the air:
“ Mother, I go !
Voices, you cannot hear, bid me away ;
My soul is thrilling with their music low;
I may not stay !
“I dreamed, last night,
That you were with me in bowers abovo ;
And I could see you in that blessed light,
Where all is love!
“ Angelic bands
Are gathering round me. I can see them, now;
One, far exceeding all, among them stands,
With radiant brow !
“ Oh! what a smile
Os love ineffable beams o’er that face!
Pity, compassion, blending all the while
With boundless grace!
“ Oh ! let me go !
My spirit thrills with glory undefined ;
And, mother, in that land, your child, you know,
Will not be blind !
“ One last caress!
And then good bye, sweet mother! Let me hear
Thy voice once more, my parting soul to bless,
As death draws near !”
Faintly she leaned upon that mother’s breast,
Who wildly kissed the death-damps from her
cheek.
And closely to her throbbing bosom press'd
That fair young child—so fragile and so meek.
One short, quick gasp—one faint and struggling
sigh—
And, like a broken lily, there she lay ,
While the last sunbeam, fading from the sky,
Poro her freed spirit to the realms of day !
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
MEMORY.
There are hours when McmOrJr, straying
Revels mid departed joy,
And sweet hopes, like buds decaying,
•Garlands weaves she fbr employ.
Ptanis she near some broken cistern,
Where of yore she cooled her tongue,
And tho’ years have roll’d, butyestern
Seems it since the maid was young.
By her side the goblets scattered,
Tell of Pleasure's tempting wine,
■ And those goblets now all shattered,
Glisten e'en in life’s decline;
With her feeble hand she vaiseth,
One more perfect than the rest,
Andbesido the cistern gbzeth,
With a sad and aching breast.
For the gush of living nectar,
In the cistern hath dried up,
Naught was there but Hope's grim spectre,
Gasping at an ashen cup.
BAYARD.
Roswell, Ga.
For Richards* Weekly Gazette.
OH! DO NOT TURN THOSE EYES
ON ME.
t)h 1 do not turn those eyes on me,
I cannot bear their light;
They glow with such intensity,
Hot tears bedim my sight.
Oh! do not turn those eyes on me,
I know their magic power;
For I have felt it fearfully,
Fir many a weary hour.
Oh! do not turn those eyes on mo,
Or soon my heart will break;
They glance so sweet —so lovingly,
They wildest thoughts awake.
Oh 1 do not turn those eyes on me,
They kindle fond desire;
And while I gaze all tearfully,
Love burns with quenchless fire.
Oh ! do not turn those eyes on me,
They thrill my aching breast,
And wring it—aye, with agony,
And ceaseless, deep unrest.
Oh ! do not turn those eyes on ine,
For, though they mean no guile,
They ever charm so witchingly,
They bind me fast the while.
Oh ! do not turn those eyes on me—
And yet when turned away—
Alas! a captive willingly,
’Tis mockery to pray.
Then do not turn those eyes from me,
For now’t were all in vain—
For though I love thee hopelessly,
1 cannot love again.
ALPIIOXSO.
Lowe//, Mass.
Tan a® 5a ass® bib.
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
THE COTTAGERS.
A TALE.
BY MISS C. W. BARBER
CHAPTER FIRST.
“ There are some moments iri our rate
That stamp the color of our days.”
[Miss Landon.
Not many miles from G , there was
a sweet little cottage, standing in the thick,
green wood. It was as pretty a place as
one will often see, with its bright, deep-set
windows—on the seats of which were ar
ranged boxes of moss, geraniums, wall
llowers, and morning-glories. Os a sum
mer morning, the air was redolent with the
fragrance of these, together with that of
the wild convolvolus, that lifted its closed
blossom from the fresh green turf, which
stretched even up to the door-step of this
pleasant dwelling place, and through the
branches of the trees the golden sunlight
streamed, and lay upon the green sward in
wavy lines.
There was little to disturb the quietness
of this retreat. The lazy hum of the bees,
revelling in the roses and wall-flowers, and
then flying awayto their hives by the gar
den gate —the clear notes of the birds,
building among the trees their nests, and
rearing their young undisturbed by the
sportsman’s visits, and the pleasant music
of Aunt Margaret Sherwood's flax-wheel—
were almost the only sounds that disturbed
the monotony of the scene. Now and
then, the carriage of some traveler, or the
clatter of some horseman oil his way to
the nearest village, was heard in the road,
which ran just east of the house; but
such occurrences were rare, and always
excited the immediate attention of the dwel
lers there. These were two females —
Aunt Margaret Sherwood, before men
tioned, and her niece. Eva.
The former was weak and tremulous
with age, and her hair, which she always
wore closely tucked under her cambric
cap, was so closely threaded with silver,
that its original hue had entirely disap
peared. Her frame was tall and bony, and
her face almost masculine in its expres
sion. There was, moreover, an air of re
serve and deep thoughtfulness hanging
over her, which had often excited the cu
riosity of those gossiping villagers, with
whom she chanced to come in contact, but
none dared to question her concerning the
cause. Indeed, she was seldom approached,
save by a few thrifty matrons, who wished
to avail themselves of the products of her
flax-wheel, or by some passer-by, who
paused for a moment to admire the beauti
ful child, that had grown up like some
sweet wild-flower beneath her humble roof.
Even Eva, the glad young thing, who
mocked the wild birds in their songs, and
frolicked all day long with mother Nature
I in her secret haunts, dared not disturb the
quiet dignity of her Aunt by meddlesome
inquiries, but sat upright and demure in
her presence, simply answering, “Yes,
ma’am” and “No, ma’am” to all ques
tions asked her, while busy at her tasks.
In stature, she was a mere child—a tiny,
fragile creature, with a pale, sweet face,
lit up by eyes of liquid blackness, and
shadowed by curls which mocked In hue
the raven’s wing. In the midst of a crowd,
she might, perhaps, have been passed and
re-passed, without exciting a remark; but
those who saw her at the cottage, and con
trasted her sweet childish face with the
wrinkled brow of her protectress —those
who heard her warbling while watering
her flowers, or were startled by the echo
of her merry laughter in the deep, old
woods—never forgot her. She knew none
of the incidents of her early life, only that
she had been left an orphan. Os her fath
er and mother, she remembered nothing;
they had passed away in her infancy, and
nothing remained of them but the face of
her mother, which looked out from a piece
of canvass hanging up in the sitting-room
of the cottage. Sometimes she had paused
before this sole relic of her departed pa
rent, and fancied that the eyes rested
mournfully upon her face. Then she
wondered over her own history, and fan
cied that, perhaps, her life would have
been less lonely, had the original of the |
picture lived. Sometimes she wore gar
lands of wild flowers, and hung around the
brow of her mother, and talked to her, fan
cying that the full red lips before her
would part with words of love. But it
was merely fancy. They remained immo
vable; and the eyes never kindled with
love or passion, but had in them the same
mournful tenderness.
It is a sad, sad thing, to go through life
pursuing coveted sympathies, aud grasping
shadows—to feel alone in this wide world,
with no bosom friend near to rejoice in our
weal, or weep over our woes. The human
heart cannot long bear it; and those who
are deprived, by circumstances, of kindred
for companions, will find solace by unfold
ing to strangers the secrecies of its hidden
depths. Such was the case with Eva.
She dared not approach her frigid Aunt
with her heart-breathings, and so she went
out, and made friends of the brooks and
flowers, and talked to the birds and squir
rels, as if they understood her words, and
participated in the wild exuberance of her
delight—the delight of a heart which knew
nothing of sorrow, only that it was com
panionless. But fortune at length threw
in the way of this wild woodland child a
living heart, with which she could hold
communion, and find mirrored in its depths
the sentiments of her soul—a heart as un
schooled in the deceptions and intrigues of
the world as her own ; and the friendship
which sprung up between them was of a
purity and depth, seldom, perhaps never,
found in the walks of refined and fashion
able life.
Richard Mi rick was “a bound boy,”
who lived with a farmer, just three miles
from the cottage of the Sherwoods. He
had a handsome face, and a manly figure—
one as yet unbowed by toil; but. on the
contrary, tile fatigues which he had daily
endured seemed to have finely developed
every limb, and strengthened every nerve
and muscle. His hair was of a fine chest
nut Hue, his eye was full and blue as the
depths of the summer sky, and his cheek
wore on it the hue of health, mingled with
the sun-burn. The first time they met, it
was at old Margaret's cottage. Richard
had been sent thither by the farmer's wife
after some flax-thread, which } la j been
promised her; and, sm.Ateu by the fairy
like beauty of the old woman’s niece, he
had. renewed again and again his visits,
until an intimacy sprung up between the
two, which promised to give a coloring to
the lives of both At first, he was timid in
his attentions to her. He brought garlands
of wild-flowers, an 1 offered for her accep
tance, with a bashful manner. He lingered
about the cottage, and helped her at her
work—often weeding for her the garden
plat, and training the morning-glories and
convolvoluses. But this reserve gradually
wore away, and they planned rambles to
gether, and talked with all the confidence
which is found in the intercourse of an af
fectionate brother and sister. At last, they
both discovered that they were never hap
py unless they were together; and so, in
their artless way, they “plighted their
troth,” joined hands, and mutually entered
into an agreement, that at some future pe
riod, when Richard had served his time,
and Eva was eighteen, they would meet,
intertwine their fortunes, and tread the ma
zes of this crooked world, bearing to each
other the endearing relation of husband and
wife. Old Margaret had never been ap
prised of this decision ; indeed, it was not
strange that the young people sought to
hide their engagement from one who, in
her turn, never confided.
It was a long golden day in mid-summer.
The flowers on the shelves, beneath the
eaves, and in the thick wood, had scarcely
been lifted by the breeze ; and the bfook,
which rannear tbecottage, flowed on slug
gishly over its bed of pebbles, as if half re
luctant to lose itself in the broader stream
beneath the hill. Aunt Margaret's flax
wheel, as usual, maintained its quiet music
; by ‘he door, and Eva sat with a book lying
idly in her lap, while, with her fingers, she
went the rounds of a woollen-sock, drop
i ping, now and then, her eyes, as she went
; through with the mysteries of the seam
stitch. Old Bose, the house-dog, lay on
the door-step, with half-closed eyes, appa
rently dreaming, only when annoyed by
two huge house-flies, which buzzed around
his resting-place, and settled, occasionally,
upon his nose. Things Sad been proceed
ing in this quiet way for some time, when,
all of a sudden, old Margaret stopped her
wheel, and looked up into Eva's face, as if
she had come to some important conclu
sion.
“Have you been out os the lake, late
ly 1” she said, while she lifted her foot
from the treading-board, and arranged a
handful of flax, which she had previously
torn oft from the distaff.
“ I was there, yesterday,” said Eva, in
a surprised voice; “ 1 was out on the YVal
lenbough, yesterday, for Richard told me,
the other day, the water-lilies were in full
blossom.”
“ Did you see him, while you were
gone 1” said the old woman.
“ Yes, he was out on the lake, with his
angling line,” said the girl, while a soft
blush stole over her cheek, and heightened
the charms of her artlessness. “He ob
tained my lilies for me.”
11 Did you ever hear that hoy speak of
his relations 1” said the old woman, in the
same calm, mysterious voice, with which
she had begun the conversation. “Do you
know any thing of his family ?”
“No, Aunt, nothing. 1 never heardhim
speak of them, nor do I remember making
any inquiries respecting his people. Do
i/ou know any thing about them 1” con
tinued the girl, her curiosity now, for the
first time, aroused upon the subject. Pray,
did you ever know the Mirick family l”
“Yes, yes !” said the old lady, in an ex
cited tone, while a flush went over her
withered face, reaching even to the roots
of her gray hair. “ Would to God I had
not known them, Eva! would to God I
had not! Had it been otherwise, there
might not have been quite so many fur
rows upon my forehead as there are now ;
there might have been fewer grey locks
upon my head, and not quite so heavy a
load here,” said she, as she pressed her
shrivelled hand upon her heart, which
throbbed so as to stir the checked apron
over it. “I would not lave been lonely
in this wide world ; you might not have
been parentless.”
In a moment, the timidity with which
Eva had always regarded her Aunt had en
tirely disappeared. She forgot the myste
rious silence which the old woman had al
ways maintained upon the subject of her
parentage, and the chilling reserve which
had marked her conduct. Curiosity mas
tered every thing else; but, alas! the
words of her Aunt rung in her ears, until
her senses reeled. “Had it not been for
the Mirick family, you might not have
been parentless!” What had the ancestors
of the only friend she ever knew done to
deprive her of a father's protection—of a
mother’s kiss? The thought bewildered
her, and she dreamed she had not heard
aright.
“I have been thinking,” continued the
old woman, “ever since that boy crossed
my path, that I must, in former times, have
known his people. He has the same open
brow, the same blue eye, the same rich,
red lips, which stirred up the fountains of
my heart in other days, and won my girl
ish love. I have not always been the cold,
callous creature, which I have, of late
years, seemed to be, Eva. There was a
time when I was full of happiness—full
of all the kindly affections of our nature ;
but the whirlwind of passion, and the chill
breath of falsehood, have passed over my
heart, stirring up from its depths bitter
things, and freezing its purest currents.
Yesterday, I took pains to make inquiries
of the farmer's wife, with whom Richard
lives, respecting his parentage, and I find I
am not mistaken. That boy’s uncle tras
the murderer of your father!”
“The murderer of my father!” mur
mured the girl; and her brow became white
like a snow-drift. “ Was my father killed,
Aunt ? Why have you never told me of
this, before I”
“For many reasons, my child! I conld
not bear to pain your glad, young heart,
by a recital of woes which have embittered
my hours, and at times made life a burden.
But, draw your chair close to mine, Eva.
and listen to the tale I have to tell you.
It may influence you in your treatment of
Richard Mirick—for, guiltless as I know
him to be, still I cannot bear to see him
linked to you. I have been watching you
narrowly, when I have seemed, perhaps,
| a disinterested spectator. If I mistake not,
there is an affection springing up between
you, which should be crushed now, in its
j first development. Your father was my
brother—my only one. There were but
ihree children of us—Edward, Agnes, and
I. Edward was the eldest, I was next,
and Agnes was many years our junior.
She was one of the loveliest girls that I
ever saw. I can give you no idea of her.
Her hairwas like a flood of burnished gold,
and her hands and forehead were so deli
cate, that the faint lines of blue could be
seen stealing under the skin, like the veins
which mark the work of the painter or
sculptor. But, poor child! the grave has,
for many years, hid the form which used
to glide so gracefully through the mazes
of the dance, and win admiration from eve
ry eye that rested upon it. Our father was
a merchant in Charleston, S. C. He was
considered a man of opulence, and we
were reared in the first circles of fashiona
ble society. This may seem strange to
you, because I have, of late years, lived
secluded, and pursued, unremittingly,
homely tasks. But listen, and you shall
know all. My brother Edward entered j
College at an early age, forit wasmy fath
er’s desigrf to fit him for the medical pro
fession, for which he had early exhibited a
decided taste. During one of his vaca- i
tions, he came home, accompanied by a,
friend, Charles Mirick. I can see him
even now, as he appeared to me at that
time, Eva, the perfection of manliness and
strength. A great intimacy existed be
tween him and Edward, and in our family
he soon became domesticated. His vaca
tions were passed there, and it-soon became
apparent to the most careless observer that
Agnes had woven, by her beauty and her
grace, a spell around his heart. Ye*. *•
loved Agnes, and—shall I confess it ?—1
loved him. It is a humiliating confession
for me to make, but it is nevertheless true.
I worshipped the image of Charles Mirick,
wildly and devotedly. I envied my sister
the beauty and fascinations which enabled
her to lead captive the man I idolized.
But I crushed back the affections of my
heart, and none, for a moment, mistrusted
the sentiments which I entertained secretly
in the recesses of my soul. At length,
Edward and Charles both graduated, and
both turned their attention towards the
medical profession. They pursued their
studies with a zeal, which would have
won success to persons of duller comprc-!
hensions, and less thoroughly disciplined j
intellects than they possessed. Asa mat
ter of course, they carried off’ the highest
honors of the institutions they entered, and J
won to themselves much fame. It would
seem that a friendship, which had been ce
mented by six years of unreserved inter
course, could not have been easily broken,
but I snapped the chain which bound them
together, and, through my instrumentality,
they parted, two weeks after the reception
of their diplomas, sworn enemies. I will
not tell you the arts which I made use of
to effect what I designed ; an artful woman
never lacks expedients in the hour of need.
I will only tell you the motive which in
fluenced me. I knew that Edward pos
sessed over Agnes an unbounded influence.
I knew that his word and opinion were her
law, and that, if he became Charles Mi
rick’s enemy, nothing on earth could bring
about the consummation of the union I so
much dreaded. This was the reason I act
ed the base part I did. But, O, God ! could
I have seen the end from the beginning,
how differently I should have acted!
Charles wrote to Agnes, after having part
ed fiorr. Edward in anger, begging her not
to forget him, although he considered him
self wronged by her brother. 1 intercepted
the letter, and wrote back a spirited and
heartless reply. My heart misgave me as
I penned the words, but I knew it would
prevent their marriage, and any thing else
could be endured by me better than that.
Charles went out into the world, and the
veil of oblivion seemed to have settled over
his name and actions. But his image was
registered by guilt and love within my
heart; and the cheek of Agnes, though she
never mentioned his name, grew pale and
thin, as if care might be art her heart.
Edward married your mother, a sweet
tempered and afTectionate woman, and in
the quietude of his domestic life, and
ceaseless routine of his professional prac-;
tice', he seemed to have torgotten alike the
love and hate which he had borne his
chum and school-fellow. But in my bo
som there was the throbbing of a guilty
conscience—the gnawing of “'the never
dying worm.” I could not rest. The pale,
sweet face of Agnes, as she faded away
day by day, seemed to look reproachfully
upon me, even in my night-dreams and sol
itary rambles. I knew it was the most
sickeninar of all disea'es—disappointed
love—which was thus robbing her of her
j strength, and fashioning her for the grave.
: Hardened as I was in heart—stung by jeal
-1 ousy and disappointment, still I could not
| endure this. I could not see my only, my
beautiful sister, dying before my eyes, and
know’ all the time that I could avert her
death. My better feelings predominated :
1 sat down beside her one night at twilight,
and told her how basely I had acted. I
j expected she would spurn me from her
presence; that she would reproach me ve
hemently, and call me her murderer. But
she did not; at frrst, she sat quietly, as if
i overcome by surprise, and then, without
i saying a word, she buried her face in the
sofa pillows, and wept like a grieved child.
I dared not approach her at that moment
with excuses for my conduct. It was her
first lesson in human deceit; she was shock
ed to think that in me, she had taken an
adder to her bosom, instead of a sister and
friend. But gradually she became calm.
She assured me of her forgiveness—tender
ly kissed my cheek, and then desired me
to assist her to her room, and send for Ed
ward. I did as site desired : 1 saw her safe
ly deposited in bed, (alas! she never rose
; from it more in this world,) and then des
patched a messenger to my brother. My
| humiliation and agony during those hours,
| you can probably imagine, better than I
I can describe, but still I felt that there was
a load taken from my heart. I was no
longer afraid to look upon the face of my
only sister.
Edward, upon his arrival, was informed
of the cruel arts which had been practised
in order to estrange him from the friend of
his collegiate life My conduct was pal
liated by my sister's kindness, but I could
see. nevertheless, that he was grieved and
WiertardOTjy n. He assured my sister that
full and free pardon should be granted his
friend, whom he would seek immediately.
“Be of good cheer, Agnes,"’ he said, at
the close of their conversation, “be of
good heart. I will seek Charles Mirick,
and if he is found on earth, I will obtain
his forgiveness for the wrongs I have in
flicted upon him. The bond of union
which once existed between us, shall be
renewed, never again to be broken, and all j
will yet be happy.” *
The hectic flush which dwelt upon the
cheek of Agnes, deepened, and her voice
became tremulous with suppressed feeling,
as she took Edward’s hand in her thin. |
shadowy fingers, and pressed it to her lips, j
“ Tell him,’’ said she, “that Agnes is on :
the borders of the spirit-land. Before she j
passes hence, to be seen here no more for- j
ever, she has a request to make of him
viz. that he would forget all that has pass-!
ed to estrange him from our family, and 1
only remember the happy hours that we j
have passed together. Tell him,” contin-,
ed she, “ that I would love once more to
look upon his sac hear from his own !
lips those blessed words, ‘I forgive'.’ If]
you can find him, Edward, bring him to
witness my death; let me be assured of his
presence, while I am passing through the
dark valley of shadows, which even now
is stretching away before my feet.”
It pained me to the heart to hear her dis- ]
coursing thus ; I could not endure the idea i
of her death. I stole to her side, and bu- ]
ried my face upon her pillow. I entreated ]
her wildly, for my sake, to cease, and turn ]
her thoughts to brighter hours in the future.
Oh ! what would I not have given, could I
have recalled the past, and blotted out from
its pages the fearful record of my guilt!
“Do not weep, Margaret,” she said, as
she laid her hand upon my head, “do not!
weep! I am only going to rest. This
world is full of trials, and I shall leave
them all behind me. There will be a seal
upon my virtues—my vices will, I trust, ]
be washed out from Heaven's records, by
the atoning blood of the Lamb.”
As she said this, she folded her hands
meekly upon her breast, and lifted her eyes
towards Heaven. It was the first—'almost ■
the only allusion, that I ever heard her ]
make to pardon and acceptance with God. J
Edward for the next few days made dil- j
igent enquiries for the residence of Charles
Mirick. At length, he ascertained that he j
was stationed oh the sea-coast, in a small
village, about a hundred miles from the i
city. He immediately determined to visit j
him, and if a reconciliation could be effect- I
ed, to bring him again beneath our roof.—
Alas! alas ! it is well for us that God has
hidden from our view the future. Could
we have lifted the veil which shrouded it
from our vision, how T bitter would have
been our brother’s parting at that time,
from his meek young wife, and you, his
then infant child. As it was, he went
forth from both hopefully.
Days and even weeks went by, but we
heard nothing from him. Hourly we ex
j pected his return, but were as often disap
pointed. At first, we did not apprehend
that any evil had befallen him, but as we
failed to obtain any note or tidings from
him, fear became mingled with anxiety.—
At length, we fotmd in the calnmns of a
newspaper, which chance threw in my
way, an account of a horrid murder which
had been committed in the village whithef
he had gone. As I read, my brain grew
dizzy—my hand shook —I feeled, and fell
from my chair, in a swoon.
In the paragraph, the name of Dr. Mi
rick was mentioned, and from all that I
could gather, it was surpised that he had
murdered a stranger —an individual, who,
the night previous to the perpetration of
the deed, had sought his society, for the
purpose of making up some old feud of
quarrel, which hail occurred long before,
between the parties. It seems that the
stranger had found Dr. Mirick in his of
fice ; that the physician received his guest
coldly, and harsh words followed the in
terview.
A by-stander affirmed, that he heard the
l Doctor say, “It is in vain, Sherwood, to
seek a reconciliation with me; your inmrlta
have sunk too deeply into my soul, ever to
be forgotten or forgiven.” Afterwards,
something like a reconciliation seemed tor
have been effected ; the two left the office,
and proceeded to the hotel, where they
called for a supper and bed, saying they
would lodge together. They retired for
the night, and nothing was heard from
them, until about two o’clock in the morn
ing, when a boarder, occupying an adjoin
ing room, affirmed that he was awakened
by the opening of Mirick’s door, and im
: mediately afterwards heard ihe sound of
l footsteps upon the stairs. The idea bccur
| rad to him, that the individual passing down
war desirous of gliding out unobserved, for
j his feet seemed to be muffled. The next
morning, the hotel keeper and servants
were alarmed by finding in the hail at the
foot of the stair-case, several large drops
of blood. They ascended the stairs, and
found fresh drops at every step. They
traced them to the room occupied by Dr.
Mirick and the stranger. This was de
serted, but the Bed was saturated with’
blood, and the appearance of everything
indicated, that during the night, a foul and
sanguinary murder had been committed
there. The alarm spread through the house’
and village. Diligent search “Was made for
the parties who, the night previous, had
occupied the room. At length Dr. Mirick
was found walking hastily through one of
the back streets, evidently desirous of es
caping observation. He Was apprehended,
and asked for his companion of the night
before. He gave confused'and unsatisfac
tory answers. A search was instituted,
and on his person was found a small dia
mond ring, observed the day before upon
the finger of the stranger, together with a
pocket knife, marked with the name of
Sherwood, and his watch and chain. This
was deemed satisfactory evidence, that the
Doctor knew more than he chose to reveal,
about the disappearance of the stranger.—
Moreover, upon the shirt-sleeve of his right
arm, was found a large stain of fresh blood.
He was asked how it came there, but was
unable to tell. He was taken into custo-’
dy, to await his trial.
Such, in a few brief words, was the sub
stance of the paragraph which froze the
life-blood at my heart. Oh! the suspense,’
the agony, the dread, which marked those
horrid hours! I cannot think of them now
without shuddering. For weeks, I raved
in all the delirium of madness. I accused
myself of being the murderer of my broth
er, for had f not, by my base arts, brought
this fearful fate upon him ? In vain, my
friends tried to comfort me. I would not
listen to their Words. Even Agnes spoke
with a gentle Voice, and tried to comfort
me — me, the wretched author of her woes.
1 would not heed her entreaties, but tore
my hair, and raved like a maniac, as I was.
[Concluded next week .]
For Richardg* Weekly Gazette.
TIIE LAND OF BLISS.
The Land of Bliss, oh! does it lie
In the azure depths of a sunlit sfcy,’
‘Wlere the gentle zephyr sweetly sings,
’Mid the rustling flight of Angel wings T
The Land of Bliss, oh ! does it lie
In the spring-tide cloud that floateth byy
Shedding the tear of heavenly birth,
Like a spirit pure o’er this fallen earth 1
The Land of Bliss, oh! does it lie
In the star that faintly gleams on high
The brightest, purest, loveliest gem
Os Night’s unfading diadem.
The Land of Bliss, where’er it lies,
In the twinkling star, or the sun-lit skies,
I know, dear Jove! thy spirit bright,
Hath wandered here, from its shores of light
r h. h.
