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For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
GEORGIA.
BY JACQUES JOUBNOT.
Blessings on thee, Land of Beauty,
Sleeping in a sunny tlimo —
Blessings on thy hills and rallies, —
I invoke them in my rhyme !
Far an.l wide my steps may wander,
Fairer scenes may meet my eyes,
But my soul will chcri.-h ever,
Memories of thy glorious skies.
Nor: hw.ird, ’gainst the quiet heavens,
Thy blue mountain harriers 1 iso,
And above thy foaming torrents
Glow the iris’ radiant dies.
There Tallulah dashes madly
Through the suud red granite hills,
And a sense of awful beouty
All the gazer's being fills.
Anl Toccoa , haunt of fairies,
And Nacoochee's valley sweet,
Where the shining Chattahoochee ,
Stars and sun h.nc love to greet;
And Mount Yonah, soarii g proudly,
Where the wiads are pure and free,
Wafts a gr eti g on their pi. ions,
To his neighbor Currahce.
Thine the Maintain Rock of Granite,
Rising ’mid thy fertil plai s, —
Nature's everlasting wat. htower,
Looking o’er thy wide and * mains:
Lookii g northward to the mountains—
.cou‘hward o’er savannas wide,
Where, through dark lagoons and marshes,
Flows the Altamaha & tide.
Tlii e the lovely Forest City ,
II onaveut lire's wealth of shade—
Classic Athens— se it of Learning,
And Augusta's mat t of Trade !
Macon's t l.i ean l fair Columbus,
And Atlanta's r.usv s*rect,
And the pride of Rome the western,
Whore Coosa's tribute waters meet.
But thy proudest treasures, Georgia,
Are thy Sons, so brave and true,
And thy gentle, bright-eyed Daughters ,
Who with ’oveour souls imbue :
Thine thr* valiant and the lovely—
Manhood's strength and woman’s charms,
And thy Homes adorned by Beauty,
Guarded are by Valor's arms
Athens, Ga.
-J JJB
c? S ■'-
Y * y\. “’ i- ‘ **S *N c
“** ■ ■
~ 1 -* - ■- —*
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
MEMOR I E S.
BY BAYAHD.
Chapter Fir t .
The Past! the half forgotten past! that
hlurM and blotted scroll on which are writen
the happy scenes of childhood, the joyous
records of youth and the saddened delights
of more mature years. How one’s heart
loves to linger over the past! and while
memory strays hack and struggles to recall
its dreamy realities-the mind is filled with
transcient but exquisite happiness as its
hopes, joys, anticipations and delights once
thronging to the bar of the ever-passing
present.
I remember the spot where I was born.
And beneath the tall old elms which grew,
with a wild beauty, near m v father’s house,
and threw their graceful branches to the
f'kv I have often reclined at the close of the
day and given loose reins to my boyish
fancy.
Thither my imagination bears me now,
and I can recall many of the bright mo
ments I spent there. The sad realities of
life, can never entirely erase them from the
scroll—the heart —that strange tissue of
passions—will draw its purest joys from
those unfolgotten childhood-hours.
1 used to wonder—as I lay upon the
earth’s green carpet, beneath those noble
elms— and looked up into the blue sky—
and heard the birds singing so sweetly—
while the cool, refreshing breeze kissed my
cheek— who made the world and who
taught the birds such merry songsand how
it was that my heart kept beating in such
tegular measure. And remember too
at evening—when n pht's dark man-
tie was thrown upon tlie earth, I used to
kneel beside my mother’s knee, and from
tlie depths of llmt mother’s love draw those
holy lessons which a mother only can im
part. Then I knew nothing of the calami
ties of the world—l knew not how many
struggled with an “o’er-mastering destiny’’
—I thought not of poor houseless poverty
—of oppression—or of vice—all was
bright, beautiful and good. Then life’s
placid stream flowed on, its surface ruffled
only by the silvery ripples of content.
As my eye glances over the scroll. I can
see there half told tales of boyish love—
and boyish friendship. Some of them were
blotted out by the angel of Death. And I
might stroll about the old grave-yard of the
village church and read many a name, gra
ven on the marble tombs, that is linked with
the happiest scenes written on the scroll.
As time swept along the record is defaced
by the ink-drops of sadness—l had two
friends, two earnest and devoted friends—
but they are dead. Both have gone down
to the grave, and ere Time’s defacing finger
shall wipe the record out, I will re-write
the history of each, oecause there is a moral
in it.
Henry Welwood was left an orphan at
the age of ten. He was not dependent on
the cold charities of the world and was not
therefore subjected to the withering glances
or contemptuous smiles of those among
whom his lot was cast. His education
was carefully attended to, and fortunately
the early’ impressions he had received from
a Faint-like mother were sufficient to give
his mind a proper bias. As he grew up,
the graces of his intellect were mirrored in
the beauties of his person. He had a full,
fair front with an eye of richest hazle,
while his Vermillion lips were as two bil ls
of health expanding to full ripeness. High
on his cheeks, the same mantling hue shed
a softer light. Ilis hair was very black,
and as some slragling curl fell upon his
forehead and his eye looked out from be
neath its black-singed curtains, in some
moment of anxious expectation or delight
—when his lips were parted and his whole
countenance lit with animation —he was as
perfect a study as ever madegla.l theheait
of sculptor or painter.
At College, Ilarry was a diligent student,
and strict observer of every rule, no matter
how stringent, and he bore away the hon
ors of his class far before all his competit
ors. He was urged to enter the legal pro
fession, but finally adopted that of medi
cine. Long hours of anxious thought
were spent by him before he came to a de
cision. An incident that occurred, while
we were wandering among the green hills
of our native village arrested his benevo
lent heart to form its purpose.
We had wandered a long way in that
delightful conversation we were wont to
engage in, when we suddenly came upon a
hovel whose open doortetnp’ed ustoenter.
Upon some straw in one corner of the mis
erable hut lav the wasted form of a man
of some forty years. The cold, damp up
on his brow—the sunken eyes —the color
less lips all told that he was fast passing
away. As we entered, a little girl was
giving him drink from a broken cup. Her
melancholy countenance, shaded by luxu
riant nut-brown hair, made her at the mo
ment look very pretty, hut as she turned
towards us, we saw that she was deform
ed and crippled Here was distress and
gloom. The wife and mother had been dead
but a short time. Wc found on enquiry
that the sick man, had been an honest
laborer, earning a scanty support for his
wife and child, by the sweat of his brow.
He had never known much of prosperity,
for his father had been a day-laborer, be
fore him. As he lay there a deep, hollow
cough that ever and anon shook his frame,
showed how hopeless was his case. It
sounded like his death knell. 0! how
warmly he grasped Wei wood’s hand as he
soothed his heart with the kind words the
poverty-stricken know so well how to ap
preciate.
After doing what we could at the time
to make him comfortable, we left with the
promise that he should not be neglected,
and that his daughter should be cared for.
As we turned om steps homeward we neith
er of us spoke for some time. Our hearts
were too full. At last Welwood drew my
arm in his and said, “I must begin my
studies and 1 am determined to read medi
cine. As 1 stood beside that sick man,
I thought how exquisite the delight of do
ing good, and doing it as the physician
only can do it. I will devote my life and
the talents committed to me, to the cause
of human suffering. I have of this world’s
goods enough and to spare and I feel that by
lieinga comforter—by allaying bodily pain,
and by stilling human sorrow, I may gain
access to the hearts of those who else
would he dead to sympathy—l am sure it
will be good for my soul and teach me to
look to God as the disposer of both good
and ill, and to heaven as the reward of
those who diligently seek Him. There is
so much misery in the world—so much
distress and so much suffering that to min
ister consolation appears to me the noblest
and most ennobling office of a human be
ing. It may be true in sentimenl, as some
would have us believe, that they who have
never known prosperity can hardly be un
happy—that it is from the remembrance of
the joys we have lost that the arrows of
affliction are pointed, but who, after wit
nessing such a scene as we have just left,
can believe it true in reality.”
I was more than pleased at his words,
for 1 had already determined to enter the
medical profession, and I knew that we
should once again be “College chums.”
Chapter Second.
Summer had faded. The crisp, amber
leaves of Autumn lay like sackcloth on
the ground—sad memorials of departed
beauty. Around our fireside were gather
ed kind and loving hearts, and as I looked
upon the calm, still brow of my mother,
and watched my sisters, as the merry laugh
rang out in the fulness of happy thoughts,
and saw my father smiling on them, I felt
a sad weight upon my heart at the thoughts
of leaving a home so dear. But the day
of departure was at hand. Welwood was
to be with me on the morrow, and we were
to start together to a University in a neigh
boring city, on the day following.
Soon after his arrival Harry handed me
a letter he had received from our mutual
friend John Wilson, who, with his father,
had been travelling through the eastern
States. Welwood, Wilson and myself had
graduated in the same class, and as we
kept up a correspondence with him, during
his absence, he had been informed of Har
ry’s determination. This letter was in re
ply to the one Harry had written him on
the subject. It was as follows:
My dearest IJal ,
And so you have determined to study
Physic ! Physicians are an evil that can
not well he dispensed with, as society is at
present constituted, but 1 do not believe
they were of much use, before the human
race learned effeminacy Read the genealo
gy, age and deaths of the patriarchs from
Adam to Noah, and I think you will agree
with me. My hair stands on end as I im
agine the appearance of a well appointed
dissecting room —ghastly bodies—skulls
—human hones of ail soits and sizes, dried
preparations black aprons, and scalpels
are ail mingled in a confused mass as I
contemplate the beauties of physic. What
pleasure can there be in tracing out the
arteries, veins, muscles and the thread-like
nerves, to compensate for the disagreeable
part of the study. You think, “it hard
for a man to be an infidel who had ever
seen a single demonstration of the exquisite
mechanism of the human ho ly.” It may
be so. but you are in no danger of infidelity.
It is I. Do you remember how I shocked
yourself and Frank by what I once said in
jest of some of the scripture worthies'!
You always, with your pliant faith, be
lieved the Bible, word for word, from the
first chapter of Genesis to the last of Rev
elation. Call back to your remembrance
some of tile subjects we used to discuss so
warmly, and yet so kindly. You know 1
could never admit, for I never cou'd un
derstand, bow all the races of men could
; ever have sprung from one pair, since they
\ differ not only in color, but in other and
more important particulars—and I can
laugh now at the recollection of your dole
ful countenance, as I hinted to you that
■ the Apocrypha might have been retained,
seeing it was set aside by so small a ma
jority in the Council. I have been wan
| dering among some beautiful scenery of
late, and perhaps if f had your analytical
mind 1 might trace the finger of a present
Deity in the heavens above and in the earth
j beneath—when 1 have leisure 1 am determ*
1 ined to examine the subject more soberly
i than I have ever yet been able to. As
1 yourself and Frank have concluded to read
medicine—shining lights will you both he
| —I will do so too, though 1 be nothing
more than a tallow candle in comparison.
Yes! I’ll read physic just for fun, and to
quiet the old gentleman who came down
i on me a few days since, and insisted that I
should select some profession, and begin
my studies, before himself and the old lady
! leave for Europe. I will meet you in
New Y ork at the date you mention, for it
will be just one week from the departure
of the old folk in the Boston Steamer.—
Y r ou must get a large room in the upper
part of town, so that I can be with your
self and Frank.
Y'ours, Deo Gratia,
JOHN.
“Just like John,” I exclaimed as I hand
ed the letter back to Ihrry. .“A creature
of impulse and l think him altogether too
precipitate in his determination ever to be
satisfied. “Yes,” replied Welwood with
a serious look “he should have made up
his mind in a very different manner. A
sense of duty, and a desire to please God
‘in all his works, begun, continued and
ended,’ should have been the basis of so
important a resolution. Without it, I fear
his life will he a blank.”
John Wilson had been nurtured in the
lap of luxury—with an indulgent father and
a partial mother—“he did as he pleased.”
They never checked his “genius.” His
parents paid outward respect to religion, at
tended church regularly, and were “very
charitable.” But they belonged to that
class who think religion “good enough for
the poor.” In their splendid mansion no
altar was reared to shed its hallowed in
fluence on their lives, and so they floated
down the stream of time in the frail barn
of prosperity, with no life-boat to bear
them over the dark tide of death. At col
lege John was literally “the clever fellow.”
He never had an enemy. He excelled in
no study except Mathematics. He had a
passion for the game of chess, and much of
his time was spent in smoking, and in the
fascinating excitement of his games.
He had a warm, generous heart and he
would lavish his money wherever he found
the semhlnn e of want, just because the
sjght of poverty was painful to him. Asa
consequence, his generosity was not well
directed—but his faults were all hid beneath
so glittering a garb, that they were seldom
discovered. He was devotedly attached to
Welwood and myself and as his regard was
fully reciprocated, we anticipated great
pleasure in his companionship, during the
term of our medical studies.
My baggage had all been carefully pack
ed by my mother and sisters, and all my
preparations completed by the eve of de
parture. The evening had been passed in
lively conversation: we had spoken of the
pleasuies of a city life—of the sights to he
seen and the p imp and circumstance, to be
witnessed in the great metropolis of wealth
and fashion. The hours glided by without
our counting them—but as the old clock
in the hall rang the hour for prayer my
father drew his chair to the table on which
lay the large antiquated Bible and a “Book
of Common Prayer.” After reading a chap
ter,as usual—we all kneeled down and ac
companied him “with pure hearts and
humble voices to the throne of heavenly
grace.” Tears were in my mother’s eyes
as we all kissed her “good night,” and my
father’s voice faltered as he bid Harry and
myself “be up with the lark.” Such was
iny last evening at home.
Chapter Third.
A medical college in a large city, resort
ed to as it is by young men from every
State and Territory in the Union, presents
a striking scene. Here are gathered the
descendants of the pilgrim fathers —the
frank and open hearted southrons. Here
are young men from the “Far West,” and
from that still undiscovered abiding place
“Down East.” Mingling together, they
crowd the halls of the University, and
when the “gong” sounds the lecture hour
they rush into the presence of the profes
sor with as few outward tokens of respect
to him, as care for their own bodily com
fort. Here the race is literally to the swift
and the battle to the strong.
In the room, politeness is at a discount,
the students not even troubling themselves
to remove their hats. And I remember a
quarrel between two room-mates, which
originated in ‘.lie “ anatomical theatre” be
cause tile one who sat on the lower bench
would not allow his friend on the upper
seat to put his feet on his broad-cloth, in
order that he might with greater facility
“take notes.”
As Wilson had promised, he met Wel
wood and myself in New Y ork, and we
three entered the college together. The
lectures had been in progress about a week
when we arrived in the city, and the day
after wc went to the college to attend the
lecture on Chemistry. As we took our
seats, we caught the close of a sentence,
and I shad never forget it—“ Remember,’’
said the professor, “the tears which you
shed to-day in the bitterness of your souls,
crc long will appear m the heavens, in the
bow of hope.” 1 thought of it often when
hours of darkness came upon me.
We had determined to begin the study
of anatomy at once, it being a foundation
without which a theoretical knowledge of
medicine is of little avail, so without at
tending the other lecture of the morning,
we made our way to the “Dissecting
Room.” We halted at the door, neither of
us liking to enter, but Wilson, with a
“ who’s afraid,” pushed it open and passed
the threshold. The scene that met our
gaze was indeed horrible to us who had
never seriously considered what we should
meet. On the floor lay four or five sub
jects, their nakedness partially hid by some
old sacks. In one corner of the room was
suspended a skeleton, on this table was a
mutilated arm, on that a half dissected foot.
Hitman bones were scattered about, while
the walls of the room were decorated with
large anatomical plates. For a while a
sickening sensation prevented our giving
anything a very minute examination, but
as it wore off, we approached one of the
tables at which was seated a student, dili
gently pursuing his studies, with forceps
and scalpel in hand, and only looking up
now and then to puff volumes of smoke
from an old, oily pipe. As soon as we
had made arrangements with the “Demon
strator” to begin our dissections in the af
ternoon —we left the room, glad to get once
more into the pure atmosphere of heaven.
That evening as we were sitting in our
room conversing about various matters.
Wilson remarked “ I felt as though I were
committing murder when I made my first
cut, nor has the feeling entirely worn off.
I tell you boys it is awful. I must have
wine to banish the thing from my mind.”
“John,” said Harry, “1 fear you had not
counted the cost, when you wrote me that
you would study medicine for fun.” “No,
I had not,” he replied, “ I thought if your
gentility could stand it, mine would be
able to ; but come, as you don’t drink, I’ll
just imbibe, and then for a walk in the
fresh air, if such a commodity is to be
found in this ‘pent up Utica’.”
We wandered down Broadway to the
Park, and watched the fountain as it threw
its chrystal jets high up among the trees,
into the clear moonlight. We gazed at
the fine specimens of architecture which in
New York everywhere stand side by side
with some dingy “two story” —as if to
show how near poverty and xvealth can
get. We passed by old Trinity, and stray
ed beneath the trees along the winding
paths on the Battery. What a beautiful
and glorious scene the bay of New ork
presented that night. Its waters were
dotted by all sorts of craft, from the grace
ful pleasure boat to the “Man o’War.”
A flood of silvery light fell upon the tall
cliffs of Staten Island and lit up the battle
ments of Fort Williams on Governor’s Is
land. As we gazed far down the bay on
the silent scene—l anon looked up to
where
“ The sta s were oat in tlio silent sky
Mute sentinels of Eternity.”
We thought of home, and of our friends
and wondered if they were talking of us.
As we turned away poor Wei wood seized
my arm and said, “My father and my
mother are in heaven, hut I know they are
looking down upon me now.”
We walked home in silence, each occu
pied with his own thoughts. We sat lip
awhile after we reached the house, and
chatted cheerfully for an hour. The wit
of Wilson played over the surface of every
thing we had witnessed through the day,
and we retired to bed almost as happy as
we could have been in our far away homes.
Wei wood and myself were stowed away
before Wilson had finished his cigar, and I
heard him murmur as he extinguished the
light, “I should not wonder if that subject
should pay me a visit to-night.” My lids
were soon lockeJ in sleep—sweet, refresh
ing sleep —so refreshing that it seemed to
retain a consciousness of its invigorating
influence. Once I was partially roused by
heaving, as I thought, some person speak
ing in the room, 1 listened a moment, hut
hearing nothing, was soon lost again to all
sounds. 1 have no idea how long a nap
I enjoyed, when I was effectually aroused
by some peison grasping-me by the hair,
and groaning in a deep sepulchral voice a
few inarticulate words. Suddenly the
hand relinquished its hold and a body fell
heavily at my bedside. I called loudly for
Wei wood, and obtaining a light with all
possible speed, was amazed to find the in
animate form of John Wilson, extended on
the floor, with a deathly pallor on his
countenance. He had fainted, hut by the
application of proper restoratives he was
soon recovered. When 1 asked him what
had affected him thus, he quivered like an
aspen-leaf—and begged me to bring him
wine. As he became calm he gazed
anxiously round, and exclaimed, “0! my
God, what a vision f have had ! I saw
that ghastly corpse we began dissecting,
as plainly as ever I did any object in the
broad light of day. It seemed to hover
over me, and gazed at me with its fiery eyes.
Its grave-clothes were hung loosely about
it, and it waved its arms to and fro and
groaned, while my very heart's blood ceas
ed to flow. Its flesh gradually sunk away.
and slimey worms crawled across its
cheeks and fed upon its lips. Here and
there upon its mouldy form, were livid
spots, which seemed ready to drop from
the bones. I could not move, but gazed at
the spectre till suddenly its now bleached,
and rattling hones fell forward upon me,
and as they fell, I sprung upon the floor.
Not lor worlds would I see that sight again.
I should die.
Chapter Fourth.
The life of a medical student is of all
others one of temptation. He is for a time
cut off from his usual intercourse with the
world in which he has been accustomed to
move. Ilis aims are all his own —his ob
jects and his pleasures. His whole time is
engrossed by the studies necessary for him
to go through in order that he may pass
the ordeal of the “green room.” His mind
is hurried and confused by the variety of
subjects presented; and his body is ex
hausted by being confined to hard and un
comfortable benches, and when evening
arrives, having no happy home to which
he may resort —he naturally seeks pleasure
from artificial excitement. No one, who
is acquainted with the human heart, should
think it strange, therefore, that young men
whose principles are not firmly fixed, should
foliow the bent of fancy, passion or cir
cumstance. Vice is tricked off for them in
the gaudy colors of pleasure, and the sting
of intemperance is hid from their sight.—
Too often, alas! the gaming table claims
its votaries from among them. The victim
seizes the poisoned goblet in a moment of
delirious delight, and not till it has been
drained to the dregs does he feel how hope
lessly, how irretrievably lost he is—lost to
himself, to his friends, and to the world.
The session had advanced to within a
month of its close. Welwood had been
busy storing his mind with knowledge,
and endeavoring to enrich his intellect with
the lessons of wisdom, he knew so well
how to trace to their proper source. He
labored assiduously to become a good
anatomist, and by his constant application,
had advanced rapidly to the.consummation
of his dasire. Wilson, on the other hand
could never overcome his aversion to the
dissecting, and its disagreeable details, and
although his vivacity was almost constant,
it was always hushed, while with Harry
and myself in the study of this essentially
practical branch of medicine. ‘ To banish
sad thoughts, and keep off the blues,” as
he said, “he always adjourned to a glass
of half and half, or hot whiskey punch.”
He was earnestly expostulated with, and
tears often stood in Harry’s eyes as he
plead with him to stop ere the serppnt
coils were twined around his soul. But
alas! pleading was in vain and we were
obliged to see onr friend hurrying along
the broad road to ruin. I'or a long time
his evenings were spent at home, and we
were always glad to listen to the rich tones
of his mellow voice as he read some of his
favorite authors. But ns time wore on
these happy hours were seldom allowed ns,
and now and then we would hear of some
of his mirth and fun, which was like the
wild pranks of a madman. As he descend
ed step by step, the awful conviction forced
itself upon our minds, that John Wilson
would soon be a drunkard. He withdrew
more and more from Welwood and myself,
and finally took other lodgings, and desert
ed us altogether. He had hosts of parasiti
cal friends, and now, all checks being re
moved, his downward course became fear
fully rapid. In his sober moments the still
small voice of conscience would appeal to
him so beseechingly, that he was fain to
drown it in the wine cup. Wilson was
lost, and lost as hundreds are lost.
Welwood informed me one evening, that
he did not feel well. He had scratched his
finger in the morning with his scalpel, and
though he had applied caustic it was still
quite painful. 1 felt his pulse and found
it but slightly accelerated, lie would not
allow me to send for Dr. M. with whom
he was an especial favorite, but told me
that if he felt worse during the night he
would call me. Towards morning 1 was
roused by hearing him groan. He com
plained of severe pain extending up the
arm—had considerable fever, and hiscoun
tcnance wore an expression of anxiety—l
at once addressed a note to Dr. M., desiring
him to come as soon as possible. When
he arrived he endeavored to cheer us by
kindly words, but I could see by bis man
ner while giving me directions, that it was
likely to prove a bad case. At twelve he
called again. Harry was much worse,
greatly depressed, and sttflering acutely.—
But why should I linger overthe sad scene!
On the fifth day it was evident poor Wel
wood’s end was fast approaching. He
called me to his bedside and beggel me to
read for him the last two chapters of Ec-
clesiastes. As I closed the hook he mur
mured, “O', how sweet.” In the evening
my father and mother arrived, for they
loved him as a son, and while we were all
watching soriowfutly around his bed, the
door opened, and John Wilson—whom we
had not seen for weeks, came in with ail
unsteady step. My parents gazed on him
with amazement, for the marks of dissipa
tion and debauchery were legibly written
on his face. No one disturbed the.silence,
for Harry had fallen into an unquiet slum
ber. As John drew near the bed, he fixed
his eyes upon the countenance of his dying
friend, and groaned in bitterness, “O! God”
—Welwood opened his eyes nnd not re
cognising Wilson, asked for drink. As
my mother raised his head, Wilson stepped
forward and took his hand, “Dear, dear
John,” exclaimed Harry, “why have you
not come to me before 1 1 have but little
lime to live. I feel the death damp on my
brow, and yet all is peace within. My
strength is going fast, my eyes grow dim,
hut before they are closed forever, let me
look on you, and beg you to remember that
you have a soul, which before long must
follow mine, to the spirit land. The worm
will soon feed upon this wasted body, but
the spirit will return to the God who gave
it, Oh! prepare to meet me in heaven. By
all the holy memories of the past! by the
love you bear your mother! by your fath
er’s hopes, I adjure you meet me in heaven.”
Harry had spoken with an energy 1 thought
him incapable of, feeble as he was, and he
now fell back perfectly exhausted in the
arms of my mother. Boor Wilson ! his
tears gu-hed forth in torrents, and streamed
down his pallid cheeks. He threw himself
on his knees and endeavored to hide his
convulsive sobbing by hurrying his face
in the bed-clothes. When Harry revived,
be placed his hand in mine, smiled on us
all and feebly said, “and go to my faiherand
my mother and my God.” There was no
struggle, his soul was borne upward by the
waiting spirits, and we mourned, nut for
him, but for ourselves and our loss.
Wilson threw himself upon the lifeless
body, and in the agony of his upbraiding
conscience almost cursed the God that made
him. He followed Welwood to the grave
—he spoke no word—shed no tear and to
lire earnest entreaty of my parents that he
would return home with them he gave a
positive “No.” For awhile he kept his
room—became gloomy and morose and one
day when I called upon him, lie said to me
“Frank, 1 shall die soon. Will you fol
low me to my graved 1 will not ask you
to shed tears of tender compassion overlhe
sod that shall cover this broken form, hut
for the days that are gone—for the holies
we once cherished—l would have you see
me laid away in the col I, cold grave. —
Gud ! shall 1 ever rise again ? 1 begged
him to look around or. the world, and see
how bright it was. I told him of his fond
father and his mother's love. Os the case
with which he might regain his position —
but he checked me and passionately ex
claimed, “The world is bright, but it is a
vain illusion. My father and my mother!
They never told me that I must die, but
fed me with hopes of happ ness in this
world, and now they must reap as they
have sown. Place! Position! Life! Ha,
ha—l am dead already,” and he laughel
wildly, aye! fearfully. 1 besought him to
be calm, and hale him adieu, with the
promise of seeing him again in the even
ing. Much to my regret, 1 was the next
day called from the city, to which I did not
return for some time. As soon as 1 reach
ed town again, I hastened to Wilson’s
lodgings. My soul recoils at the sight I
witnessed there! Poor John was raving be
seeching the physician to keep hack those
who were tormenting him—l soon discov
ered that he was a victim to delerium tre
mens. As I drew near him he spuing to
the farthest side of the bed and a-ked me
why I had come to witness his torments.
“ I only requested you to follow my body
to the grave,” he continued, “ why have
you pursued my soul to its doomed abode.”
Then striking his forehead violently, he
murmured as if to himself “’Tis the tramp
of lost spirits heating the dead march of
my soul.” Thus he raved for a long while
—tiil finally he sank exhausted, and ap
peared to sleep. \\ orn out by anxiety and
the fatigue of travel 1 left him about mid
night to seek repose.
To my unspeakable horror, 1 was in
formed early in the morning, by a note from
the attendant physician, that during the
night, while the vigilence of Iris attendants
was relaxed, John had suspended himself
by a silk handkerchief, to a bed post, and
that when the attendants woke, life had
forever (led. Thus perished the accom
plished—the generous-hearted John Wit
son