Richards' weekly gazette. (Athens, Ga.) 1849-1850, June 09, 1849, Image 1

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Richards' weekly gazette., June 09, 1849, Image 1

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Newspaper Page TextTERMS,S2 PEII ANNUM IN ADVANCE. SECOND YEAR, NO.U.WHOLE NO. 56, & sogyiHtßa fmm mm,—bmateb to mtimtsbs. tob mts iib msucss. lira to smmm. iimusiMi. For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. TALLULAH FALLS: A LEGEND OF GEORGIA: BV D. W. BELISLE The twilight fa*les! o’er Nature’s lofty spires Heaven’s star-lit banner spreads its vestal fires, And shadows lengthen. In the gorges deep Wood-nymphs and sprites their sylvan dances keep, Where sparkling rills sweep to the plain below, And murmur sweetly os they onward flow, The bright Tallulah wends its winding way, Lost in the shadows of retiring day. Blest stream! how oft, when evening's balmy brcczo Whisper’d soft echoes through the bending trees. 1 sought thy banks, to muse and ponder o er Thy tragic scenes of legendary lore ! While from the East, the moon, w ith lustre bright Bathed the green hills in floods of golden light— Tinging thy waters with tea thousand dyes, Like flashing gleams of sunlight in the skies. Sweet as the vespers heard at close of day, Which in low echoes softly die away, Came the rieh carol of the night-bird’s song— The voice of waters, as they swept along— The low of herds—the fragrant evening b-. ecze— The cow-boy’s whistle ringing through the trees; The faithful watch-dog from his russet lair, Warn’d with deep growls the rustic to beware, Till wearied Nature sank at last to re-fc, And drew Night’s starry curtain o’er her breast. Upon thy banks—within thy rural shade Tallulah wooed and won his forest maid, V\Jki’e twinkling stars smiled through the folds above, Blessing their vows of constancy and love. ’T was here Wacontam’s ear first caught the strain Os love’s soft lute —it ceased—it came again— Its breathings sweet entranced her soul, and made The anxious maiden seek again thy shade, Whilst sporting winds with her dark tresses play’d. By thy bright stream these youthful !ove r s sought |T he evening twilight. Every breeze wa* fraught AV it.li richest incense from the spicy heath ; From hills above, from fragrant vales beneath, And on the thorn and flowering maple trees Were heard the robin and the hum of bees. And here, Tallulah, where the twilight ft 11 In purple curtains o’er the woodland dell, Invoked Gechee-Monedo long to spare Inviolate the vows they plighted there. ’Tis here my tale begins. I’ve wandered long In quest of scenes to build a tragic song, And thy bright stream, Tallulah, didst inspire Mj’ muse, and trembling, bade her wake the lyre. ’ I was Autumn—flowers were dead —the yellow trees W ere waving in October’s playful breeze, AA hen fair AVacontam left her father’s cot, To meet Tallulah in that quiet spot. It was the hour—the long appointed hour— Their nuptial morn—when, in that silent bower, Wacontnui to her warrior did impart A boon °f faith—the choicest gift—her heart. The .frowning waved above the stream, And from their tops w£* hea v d the eagle’s scream ; j AVhen, softly winding rouna the bv?.?By vale, tHich strains of music echoed on tins gal® 5 And, in an instant, down the sparkling tiuC, The happy guests, array’d to greet the bride, lu light canoes, with war-plumes waving high, Gave three loud shouts, and glided swiftly by. Fit was the place for such a holy scene! The cypress stood the earth and sky between, And every leaf that quivered in the breeze, Hung like pale spectres on the bending trees. But, hark ! a sound!—it dies, and now again „ : "ous sound ! The hill and plain an oun~. , . , ‘ ;ive bk the echo. Startle,, ~'.' h SUrpn “* I allulah and \W*ontain turned their eyes, Anti Paw, advancing up the rocky shore, A war-like band. ‘Secorao went before— Tallulah s rival! lie had tried in vain I o win Wacontam, and, with proud disdain, Now sought to still the passion of his soul, By deeds of blood he might not well control; And, with one twang of his unerring dart, 1 ierced his twin-brother bleeding to the heart! AA acoatarn saw h?r plighted hero fall, And mark'd the treach’rous hand. Her com rades all f h indignation swore to be redressed ; And forth they went; each heart, each brow, each breast, • Bo ; e indications of revenge. And now, aeon tain knelt before her lord to vow I >CO Pi lasting, final vengeance on the head * 1 whose hands Tallulah’s blood had shed. s enc w&.? changed. A band of warriors strong, * f h stealthy tread slowly advanced along, And paused awhile to see the waters leap r, >uj rock lo r ‘ck, and licnr them onward sweep, ‘ll is tlu> distance, far nmong the hills, - hej- uiogtcj w j t (, t |, c sound of many rills ; ’ h ’ “ <"iliuly turning to a li.’ti® mound, ul** Circli “S i™ nod lofty .* reei •utTOnnd, .... ” a 'd 1 Wiatire murmur met their ears ; ooy there beheld Wnooniam, whUe the tears lb ‘ rL ‘6"et in biiay torrents fell !^c dust of him she loved so well. Vt k n t tt e tawny child, ■} hi r* !n '’ “"tutor’d, through the forest wild, 1 ove, deep Jove, ha th never been a part Os the existence of her simple heart; For bravely doth the Indian maiden bear The boon of faith, of virtue ever fair, And when that faith and virtue are betray'd, Her hopes decay like lilies in the glade. She leaves her home, the cherish’d scenes of 0 youth— The dear companions of her faith and truth— And wanders forth, like some young, wounded fawn, From hill to hill, from tangled lawn to lawn. The wither’d leaves that pave the forest walks, She deems as emblems of her fate, and talks To them as friend to friend, conversing sweet. And if, perchance, in that forlorn retreat, Where erst in youth's bright, suuny hours, she stray’d, She wanders back—the friends with whom she play’d All gone or dead! how dark the scene appears ! She weeps long, deeply, weeps a flood of tears! Pause here, ye thoughtless, by this ancient grave ! Here sleeps the true, the faithful, and the brave; Here rests Tallulah ! a warrior slumbers here ! Now pause awhile, and shed one friendly tear. Not that because the red man’s ashes lie Hid from the gaze of hcedkss pussers-by; But for the race off-swept by deeds of shame, Whilst every vestige of his noble name, Long bidden in the archives of the past, lias disappear’d. That little ban 1 was cast Far from the place that gave their nation birth, Till, widely scatter’d up and down the earth, A remnant came of noble-hearted men To rest their ashes in this quiet glen. Brief is the story of that hapless race, And far more brief their joys. The chosen place, The mountain-stream,the hill-side, and theg’ade, The deep, dark forest, with its dismal shade, The craggy turrets, battlements that rise In awful grandeur to the clear, blue skies — Those pleasure haunts, whose rural, wild retreat The tale of their captivity repeat, As scenes still bright; long may their beauties last — But they who loved them slumber with the past. And thou, bright stream, upon whose crystal breast The twilight shadows calmly sink to rest, Thy rolling waves no more with blood shall flow, Like crimson currents through a plain of snow ! No more the war-whoop from thy hills shall sound, No deeds of murder desecrate the ground ! Thy peaceful stream shall gently flow along, Smooth as the numbers of a perfect song. No more above thy sparkling bosom wave The battle-axe, or falchion of the brave ; These have been buried in thy fertile sod, AVhich now seems basking in the smiles of God. Sweet the remembrance ol thy early dreams. Which now burst forth like ever varying gleams Os sun light in a thick and cloudy sky, And for a moment on the mountains lie— Then disappear amid the gloom profound, And nought is seen, till suddenly, a ound, Above,beneath, from east, south, west, and north, Bright Phoebus bursts in all his glory forth. ******* Return, my Muse, too wildly hast thou stray’d, Tun back awhile, and touch thy harp again— Take up the theme thou hast so long delay’d, And sound the pscan in thy sweetest strain. The trembling moonbeams and the evening breeze Disported on thy soft and tranquil breast, Revealing faintly, through the forest trees, A flick’ring watch-fire on the mountain’s crest. A deep, faint voice, in echoes soft and low, Rose on the stillness of the incensed air In tones so chasten'd liy despair and woe, It seem’d uplifted on the breath of prayer: “ Great Spirit! years ago, when I Thy prophet sought these hills, Above which bends the clear, blue sky, Adown which leap the rills : These awful manes and silent bowers First echoed back the strain Tallulah gave—those sunny hours V/ill never come again! “ flis bones are gathered to the tomb— Long bo their soft repose, And long may his brave spirit rule Triumphant o’er his foes, lie bravely fought, ho bravely fell, lie, as a hero, died; I mark’d the spot —I know it well— ’Tis by yon river’s side.” Thu.’ nra J’ d Eaguna. Ere be closed his prayer, \ i ■ i* ’ “Ht broke on the darken'd air, v liiikou.’ Btio. , shapes ~rotcsT l dy dad > PP‘ ar J And hulcou- ° ‘ *'.ccs ail besmear’d ! With cypress wreath-, anu - ~ tread, Each in his arms, with slow ftml Bore ofT the lifeless bodies of the deal' - Their ghastly forms embalm’d, and all an a y For that nocturnal, deathly masquerade. They form’d a circle round the blazing fire— A motley throng, of husband, mother, sire, And lovers too—to celebrate that night The “ Feast of Death,” a mortuary rite, Observant long by every Indian race. At length, prepared, each warrior took his place Beside an undressed skeleton, that stood In a fantastic, sightless attitude, With eye-balls glands on the gathered host, Like some rude spectre, or unsightly ghost. Their “ Death Song” sounded on the midnight air— Their watch-fires shed a wider, bl ighter glare ; And the deep woods, save where that ghastly crowd Hold their wild orgies, seem'd like a dark cloud, Which shuts from view the silvery orb of light That reigns and rules supremely—queen of night. Th re stood Wncontam by Tallulah’s side, As erst she stood, a joyless, weeping bride! With tearful oyei and a distrustful heart, As if reluctant to perform her part- Affection is the strongest tie of earth: It gives our nature an immortal birth, It tills the heart with hopes of future blitfa, Restrains out passions and our lusts in this, Exalts our rcasbh, and refines the soul, ! Turns ill to good, and sanctifies the whole ; It sets temptation’s deadly waves aside, On which Despair and Death forever ride Like Centaurs vested with Lapithaean skill, And hold ten thousand subject to their will. Wacontam wept, long, sadly wept, and when I he aged Chief approached her side again To bind once more upon her brow the wreath— The faded wreath—type of Tallulah’s death— Her eyes suffused with tears —her pallid cheek Revealed the anguish that she could not speak ; And like a pale and withered autumn leaf She sunk, overwhelmed with agony and grief. The Chieftain, like a sage in former years, Bent o’er his daughter to assuage her fears AVTth gentle words, when, from an unseen bow, A quivering arrow laid the'Chieftain low ! He shrinking fell; and quickly from the wood Secomo's warriors in a phalanx stood Confronting face to face that feeble band, Who sued for mercy at their captors’ hand. Proud of success, and smitten with her charms, Secomo clasped Wacontam in his arms, And through the gloomy forest bent his way, Like some wild beast, elated with his prey. Unmoved to pity, on bis warriors pressed, With murder raging in each heart and breast, Until their victims one by one were s’ain. And silence brooded o’er the woods again. From hill to hill Night’s dismal curtains spread, And the thick clouds grew blacker overhead ; The gloomy alcoves darken’d to the sight, Where giant fir trees form eternal night— Or, where the sprites of Ossian fill the plain, And moonbeams glitter with a sylphid train— A silvery mist spread o’er the vale below In soft, white curtains, like a cloud of snow, Until dispersed, by adverse tempests driven, It melted in the scowling gloom of heaven. The forest groan’d— the fiery l ghtnings play’d Tn zig zag lines above the tangled glade— The angry winds swept by with madden'd force As Phaeton's chariot driven from its course, And whirling eddies of descending rain In mighty torrents hurried down amain, Till from the hill-side and the mountain high, Which rears its summit mid-way to the ?ky, The swollen streams o’ereharged their banks, and took Their angry courses through each owlet nook. And onward swept, diverging to the stream Which dances onward in the moon’s pale beam. Still, on Sccomo bore his long-sought prize— Still howled the storm —still blacker grew the skies— Still, down the rocks, where a portentous gloom, Hung like the pall which circumscribes the tomb The madden’d waters in their furious might, Lash’d the dark curtains of that dismal night. Now. on that swollen river’s sedgy side Secomo paused in all his fiendish pride, And, as the waters dash'd around his feet, And back in angry surges did retreat, The floating drift-wood swept him from the shore; lie gave one shriek, and sunk to rise no more! Released again, Wacontam trembling stood Alone beside that wild and rolling flood, Which bore away the wretch, whose cruel art Had brought her there with unrelenting heart; And while the stream swept on, tbo’ dark its roll, It seem'd like angel whispers to her soul! The morning broke—the tempest died away — The midnight shadows melted into day. And on the sky the scattered clouds were left, Like trusting hearts of every hope bereft! The seasons changed, the woodlands bloomed and smiled, And all was joyous save tha t forest child ! The gol lon autumn crown’d the fruitful year— Tall trees grew leafless—hill-sides lone and drear! Sa l winds went sighing in th* ir onward flight, And faintly sang the lonely bird of night; Perch'd on the fir-tree’s j igg'd and leafy spray, The raven moaned the evening shades away, And Phuebus, rising from the Eastern sky. Reined his bright chariot to ascend on high, While from his course the starry gems of night Fled, like retreating warriors in tbeir flight. But, still Wacontain noted not the year, Whose changes made the hill-tops green or sear, For her own heart was like the autumn leaf, Which bloom'd awhile—it died to all but grief! She stood alone, the last of that small band, Rest of her home—her friends—her native land! * * * * * * Behold! once more, beside Tallulah's tomb Wacontam knelt: the evening shed a gloom Around; but still, in to.irs, she linger'd there, To weep away her life in deep despair ! And, os vhc knelt, lo! to her great surprise, Tallulah stood again before her eyes! She sought to greet him, as she had of yore— The vision vanish'd! and the dream was o'er! Down to the stream she bent her devious way, Where cataracts throw up their foaming spray, Until the vapors catch the pussing breeze, And lodge in sparkling dew-drops on the trees ; She gave one bound, and from the rocky bank Jnto the wild anu angry waters sa“!'. The w^ vcs and closed upon the scene, And whirling eddies wildly play between, Which, in their anger and increasing might, Reveal her form, and quick again from sight Enshroud her in their white and foaming spray, And onward bear her sinking corse away : And well her fate deserves a notice here, Then, for her, reader, drop one kindly tear. TO BY WILLIAM CLMMINU WILDE. And we will meet again ! yes, we will meet, But 1 must gaze as if I knew thee not; Or as the world of many passing fleet, Whom, if I aught remembered, had forgot! Aye ‘■ we will meet again, and grove, and grot, Will seem the unreturniug past to greet, As thy loved voice in each familiar spot, The music of that dream, floats soft and sweat. Yet I must hear as one who listless hears, Where sound and scene as strange and new must be, When the proud heart is beating ci Id and free, Ne'er to forget what it has felt for years, Whileo’er itswept the blighting siroc—theo— Though all, save love, one look would d.own in tears ’ For Richards* Weekly Gazette. THE COTTAGERS. A TALE. BY MISS C. W. BARBER CHAPTER SECOND. But at length, reason resumed its empire and 1 became calm. A legal gentleman of distinguished abil ties was sent on by our family -to investi gate the particulars of this horrid tragedy, and communicate to us all the information he could gather. After having been absent a few weeks, be wrote, that without doubt, the murdered man was none other thanour brother, Dr. Edward Sherwood, and like wise, there was no doubt to he entertained about his murderer. The evidence was as clear as circumstantial evidence could be. Mirick probably was a guilty man. In a few weeks afterwards, we heard of the trial of the accused, and the verdict pronounced was—“guilty.” He was sen tenced, after the expiration of a few weeks, to endure a public execution. It was fur thermore stated, that the jail being in a somewhat dilapidated condition, it was deemed insecure, and it was recommended that the prionr should be removed to the city, and placed in strong hold there, until the specified day of his death. This re commendation was adopted, and Charles Mirick was brought, a condemned murder er, to the city—the place of his early love and happiness. No sooner did I ascertain that he was in the custody of our city prison keeper, than 1 became possessed with a burning desire to see him—to be alone with him—lohear from his own lips an account of the mat ter, for it was stated that he continually asserted his innocence, but could give n<j account of the mysterious disappearance of his companion. I thought of Charles Mi rick as he was in the days of our early in timacy, and determined, at all hazards, to gain access to his room, unaccompanied by his keepers. It was a daring feat, but des peration made me strong and wily. There was in the city an ingenious mechanic, j whose friendship I had accidentally gain ed, and as he was as mercenary as he was wise, I went to him secretly, and bribed him to make me a set of false keys, which would admit me to the room of the prison- [ er. Not a soul in our house knew of my intentions: I would not have had them discover my designs for worlds. The night chosen for my visit to the prisdn, was dark and tempestuous. Not a star was to be seen—not a struggling moonbeam came through the murky heavens. Throwing around me the cloak of my late brother, and tucking my hair high on the crown of my head, I drew on his hat and gloves.— At that late hour, I dared not walk the streets, save under the disguise I assumed. Under my cloak I took a dark lantern, and sallied out alone upon my errand. The street lamps gave forth, through the mist and rain, a sickly glare, as J glided along in the shadow of the houses, towards my place of destination. Unmolested, I reach ed ihe prison, unlocked the door, and glided noiselessly up the dark stair-cases, and through the passages, till at last I reached whai I h." 0 "’ t 0 b e the ce ll appropriated to the felon, I turned the key within the lock, opened the door, an d entered. On a coarse pallet in one corner of the room, lay, apparently in a soft slumber, the ob ject of my search. I approached him and held my lantern so that the beams fell full upon his face. He was dressed in a citi zen’s garb, such as I had always been ac customed to seeing him wear; but, O God! how wasted—how wan and ghastly was his face! Could this be Charles Mirick— the loved—the idolized of my soul! One of his pale, thin hands, was thrown over his heart, and as I looked upon it, the thought occurred to n-.c, that it had been wet with my brother’s blood. In the ago ny and horror of the moment, I groaned aloud. The sound aroused him, and see ing me, he sprang hastily to his feet. As he did so, his arm accidentally struck my j hat, and knocked it from my head. My ! hair flowed down my neck, and he instant i ly recognized me I know not whether it was guilt, or grief, or surprise, that thus overcame him. He sunk down upon the edge of his bed, and wept like a child. I have seen many sad hours in life, Eva —bitter hours —but none like that! I too sank down upon the stone floor of that miserable cell, and wept as if my heart would break. At length Charles Mirick became somewhat calmed. He looked into my face, and said : “ Margaret Sherwood, why are you here 1 What has tempted you to seek me at this hour r Have you come to upbraid me 1” “ I have come to look upon the murder er of my brother,” I said, somewhat bitter ly. “I would hear from his nwn lips why he, panther-like, drank the blood of the innocent.” Never shall I forget the expression that came over the face of that miserable man. He folded his hands over his breast, and raised his eyes towards Heaven. “Margaret,” he said, in a voice render ed husky by emotion, “God and his saints are looking down upon us—that holy God, into whose presence I shall soon go: they hear me, and they know I speak the truth, when I say T am not your brother's mur derer.. I am as ignorant as you are, of his death. He was my best friend in earlier years. That friendship, a few hours be fore his dark and mysterious disappear ance, had been renewed, ou my part, most sincerely.” There was an air of candor about him, which touched my soul. I would have given life almost, to have known him in nocent; but no ! I knew it could not be. “Charles,” 1 answered, “once I would have believed your words'; now I cannot: circumstances condemn you. Where is Edward ? He was last in your company ; you must know something of his death.” “I aver solemnly, I do not,'’ said he.— •‘God knows Ido not. Let me tell you the truth. When your brother first enter ed my office on that accursed day, 1 receiv ed him coldly, and said harsh words to him. I remembered how he had insulted me in days gone by, and my pride had been stung deeply. But a full and frank expla nation followed on his part. I forgave him—we shook hands, ai.J swore eternal friendship over the wine cup. All that you have heard about our going to the ho tel, calling for supper, &c., is correct. We j agreed to lodge together, and accordingly ; proceeded to our chamber. In the morn ing I was to accompany him to the city, to renew my engagement with the only wo man I ever loved—Agnes. As we were talking and chatting of other days, and other scenes, I espied upon his finger a small diamond ring, which I had seen Ag nes wear, long before. The sight affected me so that I could not help uttering an ex clamation over it. Edward drew it from his finger, and giving it to me, said, * Wear I it. If my sister lives and you are united, : as I fondly trust you will be, restore it to me again, for it was a present from her, 1 and I would not part from it; if she does not live, keep it as a memento—l will not again claim it. Let it be, moreover,’ he exclaimed, ‘a sign and seal of our renew ed friendship.’ We talked until a late ( hour, and then, overcome by fatigue and excitement, I fell into a sound sleep; nor did I awake until the faint light of early j dawn had stolen into our room. 1 turned ! over to arouse Edward, but he was not in bed, and the idea occurred to me, that as we were to start at an early hour for the city, he probably had arisen and gone down. I sprang from the bed, and as I was drawing on my clothes, my attention was attracted by the ticking of his watch, which he had left hanging by the head of the bed. ‘He has forgotten his watch in his hurry,’ thought I; 1 1 will take it down to him : if it is left here, ten to one if the servants will not steal it.’ I took it down, and put it into my pocket. As I was pass ing out of the room, I hit something with mv foot, and stooped down and picked it ,;p. It proved to be your brother's knife. The room was so dark I saw no traces of blood. As I was descending the stairs, I heard someone call my name, ?ml enter ing the hall, found a boy, wi)o desired me to go immediately to the bed-side of his father, whom he believed to be dying. 1 felt a strong interest in this man, for he had been for some weeks under my medi cal treatment, and I had bestowed a great deal of attention upon his case. I there fore followed the boy, thinking the walk and visit would only occupy a few mo ments, and that I should soon meet your brother at the breakfast table. I found my ’ patient in a precarious state, and concluded I it would be best to change his medicine, i and recommended him to a neighboring phy ] sician, until my return from the City. This i occupied more time than I anticipated, and I when I came into the street, the siln had arisen, and was shining brightly upon the windows of the houses. Fearful I should be detained, by some medical call, or by meeting some friend, if I pursued the main street leading to the hotel, 1 determined to escape observation, and take a back street. As I was walking huniedly to join your brother, 1 was arrested, and accused of his murder. My consternation you may sur mise—my agony you can never know.— The rest of my sad fate you have heard. 1 am here awaiting my execution, but God knows lam innocent. I did not —I could not—murder my best friend!” There was an expression of truthfulness upon the face of Mirick, which made me hesitate. His tale was possibly true, but not probably so. “ But then,” reasoned I, “why did he commit this horrid murder'! Was it not a deed without a motive ?” In ‘ a few moments, I had wrought myself up to believe his story, and I determined to aid him in escaping. “ Charles Mirick,” I said, rising from my humble posture ami dra-wing my cloak inuie closely around me, “I believe your words., I came here to upbraid you ; I now offer to aid you in escaping. Edward Sherwood was my only brother; I loved him; but I do not believe you have a heart black j enough to slay him, or false enough to conceal it. Time is passing swiftly—fol low me, and I will give you freedom.” “Margaret,” he replied, “you are gene rous, and I thank you for your kindness; but iny honor forbids my accepting it. I have been tried by a jury of my country, and they have pronounced me guilty. By their verdict I would abide, and although innocent, let me suffer.” “It cannot, must not be!” I replied, growing more eager in my remonstrance. “I offer you freedom now, or death; which do you choose V’ “ Death, rather than dishonor!” he said, as he calmly folded his arms across his bosom, and straightened himself upright on his couch. “ Death rather than dishon or!” If I had doubted his innocence before, I could not have done it longer, and in that moment my determination grew stronger than ever to save him. “ Charles Mirick,” I said, as I bent a keen eye upon his face, did you ever love my sister, Agnes Sherwood 1” Those words acted like magic. He shook like an aspen leaf, but did not reply. “If you loved her,” I continued, “fol low me, and I will show her to you. Even now she is dying. If you go not with me to-night, you can never more look upon her face.” I saw by one glance upon his face, that, my words had subdued the strong spirit j within him. He arose mechanically and followed me down the narrow stair-cases, j and through the now deserted streets. I did not pause until we reached the room of ! my sick sister. Agnes had been for many \ days gradually sinking. The news of Ed- ! ward’s death and Charles’ arrest, had af fected her powerfully, and at limes it had i seemed that in spite of all the skill of her | physicians, the lamp of life would go out ! in its socket. As l approached her bed, 1 ! found that she was in a soft and gentle slumber. Her breathing was quiet as an infant’s. Her rich hair had not been con- j fined by a cap, but floated in one glittering j mass of curls over her snowy pillow, and j her soft white hands were folded over her breast, as if she lay there calmly awaiting the approach of that dread king, who changes the rose to the lily upon the cheek ! of beauty. I turned and beckoned for my guest to approach, and as I did so, I placed my fin ger upon my lip, in token of silence, for 1! knew that an exclamation would awaken , her, and lead to a discovery of his pres-! cnce. He glided noiselessly to the bed-’ side, and gazed mournfully upon the wreck before him. Oh! how unlike was she, then, the young and artless creature who j had won his love in brighter days! How unlike the Agnes of other years! I could see that bitter memories were stirring in his mind, as he stood there and gazed.— Perhaps he cursed me in his heart, for I had wrought the ruin. Ido not know how it was. He did not utter one word of re- j proach, but bending over, he lifted from the pillow one long golden ringlet, and sev ered it from among its fellows; then with out a word of adieu, he turned and left the house. I did not follow him ; I did not even call after him. I hoped he would go out, and escape the strong arm of the law, which was then suspended over him.. My sister did not wake until near morn ing. I stood by her bed-side like one pet rified, and watched her breathing. Once or twice I groaned aloud in agony of spirit, j As the faint beams of light were stealing through the lattice, announcing the ap proach of day, she opened her eyes, and seeing me beside her, she stretched her arms upward, as if she'-would have clasp ed my neck, and smiled. “ I have had a sweet dream,” she said; “I thought Charles stood and looked mourn fully upon my face; and I e+en felt his hand playing amid my hair. It was a sweet dream, but it darkened towards its close, for he went away, and I felt upon me the consciousness that he never was to return.” I did not reply. I could not, lor fear I should betray the secret of his presence.— I’oor girl! before the setting of another sun, she slept tli<* sleep that knows no dreaming. “After my sister’s death and burial, I was, if possible, more wretched than be fore. Your mother was fast sinking away in a hopeless consumption, and grief ag gravated her disease, and hastened her de mise. She, too. died, and left you to my care. “I was racked with anxiety to know something of the fate of Mirick, after he left me. The consternation of his prison keepers was great, as you may well sup pose, at finding he had fled on the morning after my visit to his dreary cell; but net one suspected me of having aided in his elopement. Carefully every nook and hiding-place was searched for the fugitive,- but he was nowhere to be found. Four or five months after his escape, when the search had been given up as useless, the sexton one morning entered the church yard, with his spade, for the purpose of digging a grave. He was attracted to my sister's mound, by what seemed to be a man stretched upon it. He approached, and lifted the lifeless body of the escaped prisoner from its damp bed. When his body was examined by the coroner, one golden curl was fouiul lying next his heart. I knew whose it was, and how it came there ; others did not. “ Soon after this incident, my father died, and I found that I was left nearly penniless. It seemed as if there was to be no end to my woes: an avenging Heaven frowned upon me. My brother was mur dered—my only sister had died with a bro ken heart—my lover had expired upon her grave—and now, to add the finishing stroke to my miseries, I was left fortune-f less, with an orphan upon my hands for support. I sat down in the rich and ele gant home, now to me so desolate, and tried to plan for the future. I could not do it; and, burying my face in my hands, I wept like a child. I felt that I was alone in this wide world, and must, henceforth, be the plaything of events, over which I could exerciselittle ornocontrol. But, at length, I aroused myself. I determined to go to a Northern State, where labor was in greater demand than in my native city, and where, pride whispered, no one would know me I sold my jewelry, and, with the money it procured me, I came to New England, and purchased this cottage. By untiring indus-’ try, l have sustained myself and you in comfortable circumstances. The villagers have been kind to me, but l could not ask their sympathy, and unburden to them my heart. Grey hairs have stolen in among my locks, and my form has become premar turely bowed towards the grave. Before I die, I should like to see you settled in life,- but I cannot bear to see you wedded to Richard Mirick. lie has all the beauty of his uncle—l fear his fate may be as unr happy. I knew that Charles Mirick had a brother in this vicinity, but I did not sup pose that I should ever meet with any of his family. I learned by the farmer’s wife, whom I questioned yesterday, that the fath-< er of this boy died in indigent circumstan ces, and that she received the child into her family. My story is told. Can you unite your fate with even a distant relative of one, upon whose hands may, and proba bly did, rest the blood of your father 1” The old woman ceased speaking, and Eva sat silent, like one who had been lis tening to the recital of a strange dream. Her book and work both lay upon the floor at her feet, but her face was turned/ with its large melting eyes, upon her aunt, as if she was bewildered with thought. Could she give up Richard Mirick, the on ly friend she had ever known ? * * * * * * * * It was towards the close of Autumn, when, one day, a chaise was seen to pause before aunt Margaret Sherwood’s gate, and from it alighted an aged man. upon whose face might be traced marks of a residence in a foreign land. He went up to the hum ble door, close beside which sat the dame, with her spinning-wheel, and, with the end of his riding-stick, gave three heavy knocks, asking for admission. The old woman, aroused by the unusual summons, came ( forward to receive her guest; but she start.