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mSCEI/DAI¥EOUs7~
jFroai the. Saturday Courier.
THE LOST HUSBAND.
A TALE OF TRUTH.
A sultry day in August had at length
closed, and the exhausted citizens of New
York were thronging the battery and pub
lic Gardens in search of relief from the
heated air at home. A stranger landing
at the Battery that evening would have star
tled and fancied himself on a field of battle,
for the benches and grass plats were strew
ed with outstretched and apparently lifeless
beings—poor sufferers who bad all day
long been struggling against their fierce en
emy, the heat— some, who might seem
wounded survivors of the battle, were
sauntering about with heavy steps and slow ;
or supporting their weary weight ou the
balustrade, at the water’s edge, were inhal
ing the blessed sea breeze, which, like a
healing cordial, was fast restoring vigour
to their listless frames. The gentle waves
seemed like things of life, to rejoice in the
coming of this cooling air, and danced and
tumbled as if in gladness at the departure
of their fiery tormentor, the sun. By de
grees the imaginary dying and wounded
seemed to feel its influence, voices began to
be beard in all directions, expressing their
joy in every tongue, French, German, Span
ish, all save English, which of every lan
guage spoken m this city, is the least heard
in aur public promenades, which is of itself
a standing proof of what is so often ad
vanced, that what we are conscious we can
enjoy al any time, we are very often apt to
neglect. The fire worksand music from the
castle shed brilliancy and animation o’er
this lovely spot. The inland side of the bat
tery presented a complete contrast to nil this
gaity. Here, no sound disturbed the sooth
ing quiet, save the distant notes of music,
and the rustling of the trees as they threw
their dark shodows over the moonlit paths,
lu one of these walks, whose deep shade
was seldom crossed by streaks of moonlight,
a lady am* a gentlemen were slowly prom
enading in earnest conversation.
“Oh Robert! I never, never, can make
up my mind to consent to. this,” she ex
claimed, and withdrawing from the gentle
man s arm. she threw herself on a seat, and
covered her face with her hands. Her com
panion followed, and in great agitation seat
ed himself in silence by her side.
“Ah, Sedley,” the lady sorrowfully said,
“you are angry with me!—you think me
weak but how can I give inv consent to
marry you when the fate of my husband is
co uncertain? He may be alive—and think,
oh think! of my dreadful situation, should
he return home after our marriage?”
“I am not angry with you, Adelaide, but
indeed! indeed! you tax my heart sorely—
how often must I tellyou that your husband
having been absent seven years, during
which time, no one has heard from, or of
him, you are free by our laws. He cannot
be alive, or he would have written to you,
you are still young, and would you doom
yourself to a long and dreary widowed life
for a mere scruple of conscience! You love
.me,” he said, taking her baud, “we have
loved each other from childhood with a sin
cere and pure affection—is this not so?”
“Tic true.’” sighed Adelaide, and she
pressed her handkerchief to Iter eyes, to
force back the rushing tears.
**Our love was unhappy,” he continued,
**and from a sentiment of duty to your dy
ing father, and of gratitude to Charles
Audley, you married him, although your
heart was mine. He sailed, you know, a
few months afterwards, in a ship which was
pever beard from since, and which was re
ported to have fouu iered at sen. The wid
owsol those who sailed itj her, wore black
if fol the dead, many of them have mar
ried, and you, you sacrifice me, and long
affection, you sacrifice yourself to such idle
fears In a few days | shall sail for a dis
tant land. Adelaide, you must go with me,
■nd should Audley by a miracle be among
the living, he cannot disturb us there. But
■gain I say it is utterly impossible he should
be ahve—thmk you he would not have
written in eight long years to his beloved
Adelajdc?-*,and while we ape convinced he
POSTAGE.
of
must be dead, we shall be happy i,i each
lher s love, and in the peace of our ow n
consciences.’
Adelaide leaned her head against the
tree, beneath which she sat, and wept bit
terly, at last she spoke, “If I go with you,
Robert, 1 well know, it will not be with a
heart and conscience at peace—but 1 can
contend no longer. The sight of your
wretchedness, and my own misery, take
I from me the powerot resisting. 1 owe you
; something for your long and constant aflec-
I lion, and to none but you, Sedley, would I
j thus make a sacrifice ol my feelings—Rob
ert, if we are wrong, may heaven forgive
us, hut take me—l am yours!”
Robert threw his arms passionately a
round her, and silence and tears were the
only demonstration of the sad joy that fill
ed their hearts. The sound of voices and
footsteps aroused them, and once more our
lovers resumed their walk, and leaning over
the tailings, gazed out on the broad bay
and lovely islands, and w hite sails, over all
which a soft and brilliant moon was shed
ding the light of her beauty. Near Staten
Island, a large ship was dimly seen in full
sail. Proudly, and silently she came on,
. growing larger and more distinct to the g; -
zerseye. She passed Governor’s Island
and approached the Battery, and now, in
I the lull light of the moon, with all her sails
floating like fleecy clouds about her, she
presented a magnificent monument of the
j power of man. Evidently she was from
abroad, and some who looked upon her
were speculating from what distant port she
came, and some on the pleasure now felt by
the voyager in arriving at this beauteous
land, or on the deeper happiness of those
who might be returning to their home and
friends again. To one alone of all who
gazedon that gallant ship, the glorious spec
tacle gave no pleasure.
“Alas!” sighed Adelaide, as she turned
her steps homewards, “bow can hopes of
peace and happiness come to my heart
when I shudder at the sight of a distant sail,
lest she bear back him whose return to these
shores would now bring to me infamy and
| despair.
The clocks of the city and bells of the
shipping had struck twelve—every lounger
had departed from the Battery. The lights
ol the castle were out; the music had ceased,
and the moon was set. All brightness and
gaiety had fled, and left this favourite prom
enade to darkness and solitude. No sound
was heard save the dashing of the waves
and the chirping of the catidids.—Even the
glorious ship lay motionless, her sails were
furled, and she also seemed to be at rest for
the night. Soon, however, the sound of
oars was heard—a little boat left the side of
the foreign vessel, and approached the shore.
At the castle’s bridge she stopped, and a
man sprang hastily up the stairs, passed rap
idly over the bridge, and stood on the bat
tery. His deerskin pantaloons, embroider
ed with silver, his rich jacket and scarlet
sash, and his large sombrero proclaimed
him a Mexican.
“Ha! native shore!” he said in English,
“here then I am again after eight long
years of absence, but I returned not for
love of thee, my country—this is no pleas
ant home for me—no, 1 come for revenge!
Revenge! andon whom? on her I loved?
Ah, Audley, how art thou changed?—’iis
strange, but the very touch of this soil, this
silence and sweet air, and the sight of my
native city, bring back all those soft and
boyish feelings which I thought had left’rny
breast forever. Oh, Adelaide, my wife!
how I could have loved you, had you not
thus, by such heartless coldness, spurned
my heart from you, and driven me from my
home a desparing wanderer.”
The stranger leaned against a tree, he
threw his Spanish hatviolently on the grass,
and lilted the masses ol dark hair from his
brow, as if by violent movements he could
thus throw from him those deep emotions
. which were fast o’erpow ering him. But it
: was in vain—not yet had all his former
j good feeling departed from his heart, and
i tears would come—he dashed his embroid
i ered sleeve over his eyes.
| “ Ha, ha !” he laughed wildly, “ what
! would Guerrero, that would Bravo say,
I could they see me now ? Am I the reckless
‘ Mexican warrior? Am|l the hero whou as
ito revolutionize a country, and place an
; Emperior on the throne ? No, Iturbide,
I am thine again—Lack to my heart,” he
said, striking his breast fiercely 44 down with
such humanly feelings, I am no longer the
fool I was when a woman’s coldness could
drive me from my home ; no, eight years of
wandering in foreign climes, battles and
prisons, have changed me ; and now, now
Adelaide! 1 come for vengeance. Yes,
proud one, your heart shall be wrung as
mine has been. Let me see,” he added,
I pacing up and down under the elm trees,
i“ she must away to Mexico—l need her
wealth, and might not obtain it here—once
! possessed of that, I’ll cast her from me, a
■ beggar in that wide land, and then for my
I brave soldiers, and my Josephina !”
j The next day was fixed for the marriage
of Sedley and Adelaide. In the afternoon,
Robert sat alone in his piazza : his Madei
ra was before him—and while slowly puf
fing a cigar he was indulging in visions of
happy days to come. A ring at the door,
and the entrance of a servant, aroused him,
A stranger wished to see him, ami in a
few- minutes the Mexican stood before
I him.
i “ I bring you letters, Senor, from your
1 friends in Alvarado,” he said.
Annoyed at the interruption, Sedley
took the letters, and having thanked the
stranger, and-offered him wine, seemed to
expect him to depart. The stranger, how
ever, thought not of going, but seated him
self, and sipped his wine in gloomy silence.
By degrees his face assumed a troubled
expression; and, as if unconscious of the
presence of Robert, he sighed profoundly,
and leaned his head on his hand, as if bu
ried in some mournful reverie. Once or
' twice he started up, as if with the intention
>itiLl.K, GIW.GIA, MORNING, OCTOBER 18, 1836.
of addressing his surprised and vexed host,
but he again resumed his cigar and glass in
silence. The shades of evening began to
steal over the garden, and Robert arose.
“You must excuse me,” he said to the
singular foreigner; “ but I have business of
importance to attend to, and must beg per
mission to leave you.”
“ Oh certainly, Senior; but I only wish
ed to inquire of you about certain friends 1
lift many years ago in this city.”
“ No, no—another time,” said Sedley,
“ I really must leave you. It is past seven
—and by eight 1 must be dressed and away
for”
Ho stopped, blushed, smiled, and seemed
confused.
fcAii ha ! Senior is to meet some fair la
dyriwjt s ' ie surely will pardon me, if 1 de
tain but a few minutes.”
“ Fl’t'je I must be plain with you, sir.—
To tell the truth, I am to be married, and
you mu t now see the necessity|« finy imme
diate departure, and excuse my seeming
rudeness in thus leaving you.”
“ Married ! and may I be so bold as to
ask the lady’s name ?”
Oh certainly—Adelaide Audley.”
“Adelaide Audley,” mused the stranger
— 44 ha ! that’s odd. Could there be two ?
—pardon me, Senior—has this lady been
married before ?”
“ Yes.”
“ And to Charles Audley, who was lost
in the Seraphina ?”
“ Yes, yes,—but what is that to you ?”
“A great deal, Senior,” replied the strati
ger, with a sneer. “ You were only going
to marry my wife, sir !”
44 Your wife ! Good heaven ! you are not,
you cannot be Audley ?”
“ lam Audley,” the stranger said, while
his brown grew dark with passion, and his
fierce eyes flashed o’er the trembling form
of Sedley, “ I have come to bear my wife
to my distant home—and truly I am here
in time. What! drive me from her stde,
and marry in my absence ! —my rival too ?
Ha !I am glad of this—l wanted but this
to rouse me, and make me a man again. I
was yielding too much to old remembran
ces. Oh woman !” he cried, furiously
striking the table with his closed hand,
“ where is your pride now ? Ail awe—all
fear of you, which had made me waver—
has now fled, and without remorse, 1 can
now force you away !”
Alfred Robert had sank into a scat—a
horrid mist seined around him—fromwhich
started out the furious and sneering face of
the stranger. He arose—he dashed down
a glass of wine—he pressed his hands
to his eyes to shut out the hateful vis
ion, and to bring back his scattered sen
ses.
“ And you,” said Audley, with a sneer
turning to Robert, while the red hue of rage
faded before Hie lividness of a deeper, dead
lier feeling—“ Seducer ! how have you
meanly tried in my absence to supplant
me ! Could you still hope to triumph over
me ? VV retch ! how did you dare but look on
Adelaide!”
“ Come! come !” said Sedley, who had
recovered a little from this first stroke, but
was still aimostfrantic at the idea of losing
her he had so long and so fondly loved,
“this is no time or place for raving. She
is no longer your wile—by our laws she is
free. But how know we that you are him
you so bo.dly proclaim yourself? Who
will lake a Spanish bravo for a slender youth
of twenty, who left these shores in ill health ?
No !no ! —you are an imposter!” he wildly
exclaimed. “ Away !—quit this place !
or, ere an hour’s over your perjury shall
meet its due.”
Audley grasped his dagger—he shook
with rage in every nerve—the veins in his
forehead swelled—and bis white lips trem
bled.
“Yes, kill me!” cried the almost raving
Sedley, “and the gallows shall free Ade
laide, if indeed you are her bated husband.”
“ No,” said Charles, shearing his dagger
with a fiendish smile, “ unless you live, my
triumph will not be complete.”
He left the piazza—the wretched Sedldy
listened to the jingle of his Spanish stirrups
as he strode through the hall and down the
stone steps---and now when all was again
silent he seemed fully aruosed to a sense of
bis misery. He dashed his head on the ta
ble—then suddenly started up and rushed
down to the garden and sought to cool
his burning brain on the dewy grass; but
heavy, heavy was the load ot wretchedness
which pressed on his heart.
“And can this be?” he exclaimed.
“ After so many years of sorrow, and so
near a haven of peace, must 1 again be
doomed to misery ? Is my bealiful, my
adored Adelaide, to be again torn from me"?
Ah ! bitterer far is it to give her up now
than when we were first seperated !—But
no !it cannot, shall not be—that ruffian
shall not have her;—fool, to waste rnv time
thus. I will away to her—she knows not
Audley is here—and once married we will
fly this night where he cannot pursue us.”
Eager lo save Adelaide, Robert did not
stop to question the feasibility or justice
even of his plans, but, jumping in his car
riage, he was soon at the door of his belov
ed and unhappy Adelaide. The hour ot
the celebration of the marriage was fast
approaching and Adelaide, in her bridal
array, sat alone in her chamber. “ Sweet
and bitter fancies” alternately passed thro’
her mind, occasionally a blush of triumph
lightened over her lovely face, as a glance
at the mirrors around her told her that time,
since her first marriage, had added to in
stead of taking from her charms. But that
first marriage ! as the rememberance of that
and of her perhaps still living husband came
over her, a sense of guilt banished all those
pleasing thoughts which had occupied her
aeart before.
“Ob, if he should return,” she exclaim
ed, starting up, and wildly pacing the room:
—“ no, mi, 1 must not think of this now.
After this hour he must be as one of the
dead, or even with one, whom I so truly
i»'tr I'ooKiuim—<>«»• touniry Ssur Jt*arty.
love, happiness will fly for ever. Injustice
to him, who has so suffered for me 1 must
banish all these uneasy thoughts.”
Carriages now began to arrive, and when
all the guests were assembled, the brides
made led down the trembling Adelaide to
her expecting bridegroom. The room was
filled with beauty and fashion but there was
none there who rivalled the brilliant love
liness of the bride. Her beauty, however,
and her rich attire, failed to attract notice
as all eyes were fixed in surprise on the
singular appearance ofSedley. His dress
was disordered, his face pale and wild, and
during the ceremony, he started at every
sound, and gazed at the door, as if expec
ting some horrid apparation. They were
at last married* All were preparing to
seal themselves, when the Mexican stran
ger strode haughtily into the room. His
foreign dress was laid aside, and now, in
his usual attire, Charles Audley was recog
nized by all who knew him before be left h>s
native land. Every heart sank for the fair
bride.
“ This is well,” he exclaimed, bowing,
and lookingareund him ; “but indeed quit**
unexpected, to be thus welcomed home l.v
so gay and brilliant an assembly. But
where is the mistress of these revels ? why
does she not come forward to receive her
long absent husband ? Ah !” lie added with
a sneer, 44 there she stand, the proud, the
virtuous, the faithful wife !”
Adelaide, on his first appearance, had
thrown herself in Sedley’s arms ; she now
raised her head, and gazing, as if in horror,
at the fearful spectre, uttered such heart
broken screams, as drew tears to the eyes of
all.
“Oh ! take him away !—take him a
way !” she cried, while al his approach she
continued to step back. “Do not let him
come near me, or I shall go mad !”
The distracted Robert threw his arms fl
round her, and exhausted and almost
senseless, she buried her face in his bo
som.
“ Wretch !” exclaimed Audley r , gazing!
fiercely on Robert ; “ how dare you appear
here, when, but an hour ago, you knew I
was in the city. Villain ! leave that lady, ;
and quit the room !”
Audley seized the arm of Adelaide, and
would have struck Sedley to the earth, but
for the interposition of those around him.
“ Woman !” he cried furiously, “ leave j
the arms of your lover, and come with your
lawful husband !”
“She is my wife!” cried Robert. “Were
we notjust wedded ?—Dare not to touch
her—you are not Audley, I can proveit
and, impostor as you are, I command vou
to leave this house!”
“ Mr. Sedley,” said the venerable bishop.
“ calm yourself; and you, who call yourself j
this lady’s husband ;—there can be no need
of all this fierceness. There must be ma
ny in this city who knew' you, and violence
cannot help to right you. Come to-mor
row with one who can swear to your i
dentity, and then justice must be done
yon.”
“ I want no evidence but hers who stands
before yon, hiding her guilty face f rom my
sight. Adelaide, look on me—deny, il you
can, that your hnsband, Charles Audley,
stands before you !”
“ Adelaide,” whispered Sedley, wildly,
“do not be imposed upon. Deny it is him
—or, if him, are you not free ?” Come, let
us away this moment.”
“ My child,” said the bishop, “ weep not
thus—look up —you are called upon to end
this fearful scene.”
Adelaide raised her eyes to heaven, as
if there alone she might hope for pity', while
her beautiful countenance, lately radiant
with joy, now but expressed the deepest an
guish. She vainly endeavoured to speak
—her agony almost suffocated her. The
bishop pressed her hand tenderly, and Sed
ley stood looking breathlelsly on her—ho
ping, he knew not what—and waiting as if
for sentence of life or death.
Tears dimmed many a bright eye, and
sorrow for the fair bride was felt by all ex
cept Audley. Cool and calm he stood op
posite his wretched wife, looking quietly
down on her agonized face. Adelaide
pressed her perfumed handkerchief to her ■
ey es, and at last spoke.
ItisCiiarles Audley—it is mv husband !
—alas !”- * |
A deep silence pervaded the room, and j
even a shade of emotion, al the wretched- I
ness of that lovely being, passed over the I
countenance of Audley ; but it was momen
tary.
“ Come, then,” he cried, taking le i pas- ■
sive hand, “ there is no more to ue said,
and we must away to-night.”
“To-night! and whither?”
“ To my ship.”
“Oh leave her with us now—she is weak i
and faint. To-morrow she will go with I
you.”
“No,no!” he cried with a ruffianly:
laugh; “she cannot be trusted. In die i
ship she is safe. To-morrow we sail for
Mexico, and 1 have too many affairs to set- .
tie to spend the morning in search of a ;
rimaway wife. Good night, ladies and
gentlemen.”
“ Nay. nay,” interrupted the bishop,
while her i’rieuds clung weeping around her;
“ 1 must insist”
“ Away, all of you !” cried Audley, fu
riously—“ who shall dare prevent a hus
band from taking away his lawful wife!”
“ 1 dare I” cried a voice—and the Mex
ican cloak and slouched hat, which had en
veloped a form at the door, fell to the
ground, and a Mexican woman sprang for
ward. Her dark, snake-like eyes were fix
ed on Charles, and every feature was ex
pressive of the most malignant passions,
i At the sight of this fiendish apparition all
recoiled, and Audley’s cheek was blanched,
and his eye quailed before the fierce glare
of hers. He was subdued but for a mo
ment.
“Hu! Josephina !” he cried, «ho\v
dare you follow me litre ?”
“ 1 came fo'r vengeance !” she screamed;'
I came to see if they told me the truth,
who whispered that you had another wife
at home. No! treacherous Pedro—she
shall never go to Mexico to trample on the
rights of Josephina !”
“ Back! back! cursed girl!”
With one bound Josephina sprang to
wards Adelaide—but Audley, aware of her
intention, threw himself before her, and the
dagger of the wronged Mexican wife sank
to her husband’s heart! Shrieks, death
and horror were around Sedley—but wild
joy was his only feeling, for Adelaide was
free.
From the Knickerbocker.
THE VICTIMS OF CONSUMP
TION.
SKETCHED FROM REAL LIFE: BY THE
AUTHOR OF ‘ AMERICAN SOCIETY.’
After reading an article on Pulmonary
Consumption, i;: a late number o. the
Knickerbocker, my mind r'verted to the
many victmis I sptu, during 1 even a
Miort pilgrimage along the pathway of
life.
Strange and sad disease! How mel
ancholy is it lo mark thy slow yet sure ad
vances—to know that thou wilt throw coil
after coil around the captive, until thou hast
drawn her into the cold and clasping arms
ol death—to see that she alone is uncon
scious of thy thraldom, and reaches forth
her taper fingers to gather the flowers of
love and hope, that others are placing in
their bosoms, or twining aronnd their
brows. But these blossom not for her; the
devotion of the lover—the tenderness of
the husband —the soft caresses of infantile
love—she must not dream of these—for the
grave has claimed her as its own !
Poor Caroline B ! Hers was a sad
and an early fate. She passed away like
the morning cloud, before the blush of
life’s dawn had faded from her heart. Ti
mid and gentle as a fawn, she was one of
those who seem as if they can only live in
the atmosphere of afl’ection. She withered
and shrank from the least breath of unkind
ness ; and so great was her sensitives, that
it became necessary to remove her from the
care of an instructress who followed a stern
and rigid system of government, as the
fear with which she inspired her became a
disease, that was prey ing on her spirits and
j her health.
At this time, we were school-mates ; and
! years passed ere 1 saw her again. But 1
heard her history from one wtio knew her
well. She became a lovely woman—a
creature of smiles and tears —of softness
and sensibility. With strangers, she was
timid and reserved, but when with those
who loved her, she had all the caressing
fondness, the spoitiveness and simplicity, of
a child. She could not have been happy
without something to love ; her heart was
full of tenderness—full to overflowing.
Seldom were mother and sisters loved as
she lovjjd hers; and when her young affec
tions were sought by one w ho had given her
bis heart, she yielded them up, in all their
fullness. She became devoted to him.
The tendrils of her love twined so closely
around him, that not only her happiness,
but even her life, was dependent on bis
welfare and his existence.
He was worthy of her, and loved her as
man seldom loves. He was yet in 4 the dew
of his youth,’ with a heart full of virtuous
impulses, and untainted principles—for he
had not entered into the dissipations of the
world. He was actively engaged in a bu- i
sinessthat secured a competence, which,
with the simplicity of their tastes, would
have been affiuence to them. The time of
their union drew dear, and he furnished a
home to which he was shortly to take his
Caroline as liis bride—the wife of his bo
som. B,it sickness came over him —a ma
lignant fever, so violent and dangerous,
that bis physician gave no hope of recove
ry.. Where was bis betrothed ? His fami
ly had sent for her, at his request, but be
fore she could reach the house, be was ra
ving in a delirium, and knew her not. Site
hung over him in ail the distraction of hope
:.nd fear; and who can imagine the wild
agony that rushed through her heart, when
she saw that be was djing ! It was
seen iu its effects. Her heart was bro
ken.
After toe death ol h r ,ilh:;r,c, d husband,
nirintci< : t :o ii'. ;n„i < .mgs, M.em- l
etl lost t > - ■■ ... i, .. , vuihdrew '
to the solitude. , i vl. • . , ..id saw no I
one !>ut i.er i.e. 'b.r, •.< i uie fe-
male l.i'.-ir;. io v.iiu ti„ y tie dio arouse I
her from the grief tin!i had st iileii on her
like an incubus. Houraher hour she set
with her clasped hand testing on her knees,
and her eyes fixed ou one spot, with a
strange vacant expression, as if dead to ev
ery thing around her. The only circum
stance that appeared to bring her to con
sciousness, was th • marriage of the sister
who had been her nurse and attendant since
the atlliclion that had made such ravages on
her frame. When the bride and groom e
lect came to bid Caroline farewell, as they
were about to proceed to the church, where
they were to be ' nited, the broken-hearted
girl folded her sister iu her arms, and wept
over her, as if the separation was more
than she could bear. When licr intended
brother-in-law offered his hand, she said :
4 No, George, icauuot take your hand—
not yet —it seems so hard to take my Mary
from me.’ When the bridal party had
gone, her friend tried to console her, but
she 4 refused to be comforted.’ ‘No !’
said, she mournfully, 4 it is always so;
every thing that I love is taken from
me !’
Shortly after her sister’s marriage she
was taken to the country, in the vain hope
that the fresh air would revive her. The
beat of June, in the crowded city, had been
too much for her enfeebled stale. All ex
pectation ol her recovery was gone, for the
fatal symptons of a confirmed and rapid
i consiimptioi) were upon her, and Ijcp fnepds
knew that she must die. She alone was
yet unconscious that this was to be her last
summer upon earth—that the grave
would soon be opened to receive its victim.
As soon as 1 heard that she was in the
neighborhood, I visited her. We bad not
met since we were school-girls. Though
nearly of the same age, yet the tranquil
seclusions in which I had lived, had kept
me in ignorance of the trials and the experi
ence of life, while she had drank deeply of
its poisoned chalice—and to her it was a fa
tal draught.
When I first saw her, she was leaning
back in an arm chair, with her head resiiug
against one of the porch-columns. Her
cheek touched the fragrant blossoms of the
white jessamine, that twined its light and
feathery foliage around the fluted pillars,
and mingling with the graceful woodbine,
hung their united drapery above her head.
1 had often heard of the peculiar beauty with
which consumption invest its victims ; but
here I saw it in all its fearful lovliness. The i
fragile from, almost bending beneath the I
summer breeze—the transparency and pu- !
rity of her complexion, through which you i
could trace the delicate tinting of the blue (
veins—her beautifully formed lips, to which {
fever had given the coral hue of health— j
and her eye!—oh how spiritual, how un
like earth was the brightness of her dark
blue eye ! As I looked on her high, fair
forehead, over which the golden-brown hair
was parted in rich waves—on her gentle
smile and the soft serenity of her counte
nance—l was reminded of the artist’s con
ception of a beauty not of earth-’ At times,
she became quite animated, and we spoke
together of school-days, and of several oc-'
currences that had then excited our mer
riment, notwithstanding the rigor of our
teacher, with whom laughter was a punish
able crime. I never shall forget her smile,
when she could be roused to cheerfulness. '
There was something so sweet, so peculiar, j
so radiant with the loveliness of her charac- :
ter, that it instantly won the heart. How ;
painful was the reflection, that one so beau- |
tiful should pass away from the fair, green i
earth, to the cold, dark grave—from life !
and beauty, to corruption and decay ?
As soon as the fatal disease became seat
ed, the settled gloom that had hung over her
since the death of her lover, suddenly pass
ed away, and her natural buoyancy of spirits
returned. Before this, she was never seen
to smile; and though still subject to occa
sional depression, yet she was more cheer
ful than she had been since the fatal event.
She now' frequently spoke of her lost Wil
liam, and loved to relate the circumstances
connected with their acquaintance, though
previous to this, his name was never heard
to pass her lips. The world seemed again
to become beautiful, and the love of life once
more awakened in her bosom. « Oh,’ said
she, ‘if 1 could only get strength enough to
rove through these woods and meadows, 1
know I should be well again !’ This change '
was one of the strongest symptoms of the
melancholy disease. Illusive consumption! ,
Thou clotbest thy victims w ith new beauty,
as thou art about lo crumble them into dust
and ashes, ana thou inspirest them with a
love of the pleasant things of earth, just as
thou art ready lo snatch them from our sight
forever.’
The last time I saw die dying girl, was
the evening of her departure for the city.
The revival produced by the change of air
was but temporary. She was sinking rapid- !
ly, and it was tlKiiight better to remove her, 1
wtiile she yet had strength to bear the fa
tige. it was a beautiful summer evening,
when she was carried down stairs, and laid j
upon the sofa. The shutters were thrown ,
open, and the full moon poured in a radi- :
ance oflight, bringing the lovely invalid in
to bright relief, as she lay there, like some
beautiful creation of fancy. As its pale
beams rested on her ’brow, showing the
classic outline of her features, she looked
like sculptured marble. There was a fear
ful beauty iu the sight! Her eyelids were
closed ; their long dark lashes lay pencill
ed on her cheek, and so death like was the
composure of her countenance, that her
mother arose, with a cold shudder, and clo
sed the window. The sight wns too like a
vorjise for a mother to bear. She was ta- !
ken to the city on that beautiful moonlight
evening, and I never saw her more.
A few days after her return home, she I
was told that there was no hope ofher resto
ration to Iteaith—that the hour of her!
death was at hand. She received the infer-1
mation with calm submission; and as the I
patriarch 4 gathered up his feet into the:
bed,’ ere be 4 yielded up the ghost, t so did !
■die gather up her thoughts, that she might
be prepared for tlie great awful • hange.
She would lie tor hours in deep meditation,
and silent prayer ; ard when one of het
gay acquaintances wishes to relate to her
the news of the day, site waved her hand,
and gently said : 4 My dear friend, I have
now no interest in the things of earth ; my
concerns are with God, and eternity’ She
4 fell asleep in Jesus,’ as tranquilly as the
wearied child sinks to repose on its moth
er’s Itosom : and the sweet smile of serenity
that dwelt on the lips ofher beautiful corse,
showed how gently death had done its work
in severing her redeemed spirit form its
earthly tennement.
" |
Printer's Wants.— lt is very likely that j
f persons ignorant of the poverty of Printers '
generally, must have vague opinions of
us men of types and paper. Take up some !
ten or fifteen papers every morning, and !
peruse tiie various advertisements under the |
head of 44 wanted,” then observe the pero- I
ration of each one is, 44 Apply to the Prin- 1
ter,” 44 Enquire of the Printer,” 44 Cull I
al this office,” &.c. One wants a horse, ano
ther a cow, another a house, and Another a
barn. This one wants a carriage, and that
one a farm — one a Man servant, and anoth
er a iWairf serv/ZB?.—One, perchance if he
has any tiling to eat, wants a Cook, and a
nother a Chambermaid. Printers, who are
l single men, often make the world wonder
o r. i. ftZiSwleSt
WBi O NO. 113
by advertising for a dry or a wet nur*
Some want active and others sleeping part ’
tiers. In fine there is no end to their ’
“ wants."’ They «// want cash, and many
of them want 44
An everlasting now.- -One of our poets,
(which is it r) speaks of an everlasting now.
It such a condition of existence w ere offer
ed lo us in this world, and it were putlo the
vote whether we should accept the offer and
fix all things immutably as they are, whonre
they whose voices would be given in the af
firmative ?
Not those who are tn pursuit of fortune,
or of fame, for with regard to all of
as far as any of them are attainable, there
is more pleasure in the pursuit than in the
attainment.
Not those who are at sea, Or travelling
in a stage coach.
Not tiie man who is shaving hhnself.
Not those who have the toothache, or
who are having a tooth drawn,
Tiie fashionable beauty might ; and the
fashionable singer, and the fashionable op
era dancer, and the actor who is in the
height of his power and reputation. So
might the aiderman at a city feast, So
would the heir who is squandering a large
fortune faster than it was accumulated for
him. And the thief who is not taken, nnd
the convict who is not hanged, and the
scoffer of religion, whose heart belies bis
tongue.
Not the wise and the good.
Not those who who are in sickness or in
sorrow.
Not I.
But were I endowed with the power of
suspending Uie effect of time upon the
things around me, methinks there are some
of my flowers whicl should neither fall nor
fade: decidedl/loy kitten should never at
tain to cathood ; and I am afraid my little
boy would continue to “misspeak half-ut
tered words and never, while I live, out
grow that epicene dress of French gray,
half European, half Asiatic in its fash
ion.— The Doctor.
Political.
BATTLE OF THE THAMES.
The subjoined extract from the Natiimal
Intelligencer is of interest at the present
time, showing as it does, who was tiie real
hero of the battle of the thaines. Partizan
ship is tampering with history, and errors
should now be corrected.
From the Nat. LntAHgencer of April 18, 1320.
The sword voted to Colonel Richard AL
Johnson, by resolution -of Congress, inlrli- ,
duced by Governor Barbour of Virginia,
and urged by a powerful speech, which led
to its unanimous adoption, in testimony of
their high sense of his gallantry and good
conduct, in the decisive battle on the
Thames in Upper Canada during tiie late
ivarwitlt Great Britain, was presented to
that gentleman yesterday by tiie president
ol the United States, James Madison. The
heads of departments, and many members
of both Houses of Congress attended to
witness an honor not less distinguished than
it is deserved. In presenting to Colonel
Johnson this mark of his country’s appro
bation, the President addressed him as fol
lows.
Site—l now perform an office which is
very gratifying to my feelings. In the late
war, our country was assailed on every side;
ou the Atlantic coast and inland frontiers;
and iu many quarters at the same time.
Honored by your fellow-citizens, you then
held a station in the public council, which
afforded you an opportunity to render servi
ces with which a patriotism less ardent
would have been satisfied. But you re
paired to tiie field, ot the bead of a regi
ment of mounted volunteers, and met the
enemy atone of the points where he was
most formidable.—at the head of that corps,
and well supported by it, you fought with
heroic gallantry, and essentially contribu
ted, to the victory which was obtained.
Your country is grateful for these services,
and in compliance with a resolution of Con
gress, I present to you this sword, as a tes
timonial of its high regard.
To which Col. Johnson replied.
Mr. President: With sentiments of tin
feigened gratitude to this national legisla
ture, fortlie testimonial of their approbation,
audio you, sir, for the cordiality witn
which it is presented. I accept the donation
as the richest reward of a soldier’s merit;
but not without a deep sense of the claim
which I have to such distinguished honor.
Conscious of the forbearance of our country
under a continued repetition of
became my duty when the last resort of :
nations was adopted, to contribute, with onr
fellow-citizens, my personal services, in vin
dicating our common rights, and it was my
good fortune to be placed at the head of a
corps w hose valor was equal to the occasion
and who would have done honor to any
leader. Their worth supplied my deficien
cy and it will ever give me pleasure to rr
gard this as a token of the merit. Unwor
thy as 1 ain of this distinction, I derive greal
■consolation tram the elevated character
i the illustrious body under wiiose
' you act, which is much increased by aw
! collection of the revolutionary services, and.
| the exalted repution nf the individual desig-'
| naled to carry it into effect.—Penjk
j
: Corrections.— ln the article wbieh ap
j peared in the Globe of headed
I Gen. Harrison, it is said that, he risignedhis
commission in the army in the spring of.
1815, whereas he resignesl in the spring of.
1814, as the context shows. It is stated
that he resigned when his services were
most needed, which is true. All the hard
fighting on the Niagra frontier took place id
1814, after he left the army.— Globe &£
i instant. '■
