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WHIM ffiMWB.
TERMS, $2,00 PER ANNUM; IN ADVANCE.
Original Roctrij.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
A NIGHT IN FORT MANUEL.
BY ISJA AVINTA.
I heard the spirit-bands career last night,
In soundless armour dight;
Their airy banners flapping in the sky,
As swift the viewless host with shrieking cry,
On winged steeds swept by.
I was a prisoner in the chambers lone,
Vaulted with ancient stone ;
A place of ramparts and of echoes deep,
Where ghostly knights their night-noon pac
ings keep,
Forbidding human sleep.
Around the ramparts, like the fitful gush
Os blasts with stormy rush,
lever and anon the livelong night,
Heard the fierce charge, with wild and roar
ing might,
Dash by, but saw no sight.
I saw their strange and passing shadows tall
Upon my chamber wall;
And heard their charges ever and again,
Like pattering wild of fiercely driven rain
’Gainst the old window pane.
With sound like shrieking blast their wild troop
rushed —
Then all was still and hushed;
Till the grey rampart’s circuit compassed
round,
Again their furious way, with hollow sound,
They past my chamber found.
And ever as they p ssed my chamber near,
With spectral shield and spear,
They clattered to break in their ancient hold,
Where once held warlike sway Don Manuel
bold,
And his monk-knights of old.
’Twas thus they rode without; while at their
calls,
Went from within the walls
Strange answering echoes to their passing
hosts,
Where down the corridors old knightly ghosts
Paced their dim, solemn posts.
I know not why no entrance they could win,
Nor those within let in—
Perchance they did in some more distant
place
Os this old lonely fort; in my room’s space
None showed his ghostly lace.
In that room’s wall there was a deep niche
made,
Where once its master prayed ;
And there—perchance ’twas holy spell and
true —
I “ Vigilate ” wrote, “ Orate ” too,
And solemn cross there drew.
But though those spirit-bands my sleep did mar,
My thoughts still wandered far ;
And all night long, my wakeful, troubled
mind
Could only tender, prayerful, dear thoughts
find,
Os one left far behind.
(Original Cults.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
KATE AND 1.
BY A CONTRIBUTOR.
CHAPTER I.
I had retired much earlier than was
my custom. The society of friends
even, had no attraction for me, and the
merriment of the family circle served
only todeepen the sadness —unaccount-
able as it was —which, during the whole
day had weighed down my spirits. I
seated myself by the cheerful fire crack
ling upon the hearth, a prey to melan
choly thoughts, which seemed to pre
sage some great misfortune in the
womb of the future —unknown, but
dreadful.
The nicht was cold and boisterous.
u
The wind whistled mournfully across
the chimney-top, and the rain beat
with violence against my window. —
How similar, thought I, is this war of
the elements without, to the contending
emotions struggling within my breast.
A chilly dampness had gathered around
my heart, ominous of a still more an
gry storm soon to burst upon me, from
which, perhaps, I might find no shelter ;
a storm which no power of mine might
baffle.
Such were my reflections, when a
servant entered my room with a letter,
in the address of which, I immediately
recognized the hand of an old and high
ly esteemed correspondent. I seized
it eagerly, and with a trembling hand
broke the seal. My gloomy forebo
dings had nearly unmanned me, and it
was several minutes before I could
command sufficient resolution to ex
amine the contents. For well I knew
it would bear some intelligence of one
dearer to me than life itself, which
would either bring balm to my wound
ed spirits, or overwhelm me in ten-fold
deeper misery. She might be dead !
Kate! Long absent, but ever dear
Kate. Unable longer to endure the
awful suspense, I opened the letter, and
glanced hastily from line to line, until
my eye was arrested by the hallowed
name, and then 1 read—read —read.
Gracious Heavens! what did I read.
Kind reader, I will tell you, for the
words are still impressed upon my
memory. Would that I might forget
them. The extract follows:
“And now, my friend, I come to a
subject which will prove of painful in
terest to you. 1 would most w’illingly
withhold what I h ive to communicate
•concerning your adored Kate, were it
not, that, by so doing, I should incur
your displeasure. You will remember
the suspicions I expressed in my last
letter, of Jenks’ intimacy with her, and
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villain, by the aid of his truly syren
voice, might succeed in his deep schemes
laid for her destruction. You reproach
ed me severely for daring to doubt the
virtue of one so virtuous—‘for presu
ming to entertain the the most distant
o t
idea, of the remotest possibility, to
use your very words, that one so pure,
should ever become less pure. I never
doubted her virtue. But 1 knew the
nature of the serpent she had taken in
to her bosom—his engaging manners,
his pleasant countenance, belying his
black and wicked soul, his ready tongue
‘prompt to deceive with adulation
smooth’—and how well he could as
sume
‘The pleading look,
Downcast and low, in meek submission dressed
But full of guile.’
and I remembered that the angels fell
from heaven—and let me add with less
temptaion. Therefore it was, I trem
bled for her sake and yours, when I
learned that Jenks had become con
stant in his attentions upon her. And
now it becomes my painful duty to
state to you, that m y fears were but
too well grounded. Poor Kate has
been ruined.
“Spare me—spare yourself the pain
of a further disclosure. Do not urge
me to tell alt. Yet why withhold it?
It can scarcely render you more wretch
ed than the news already communica
ted. You shall know the worst. Cour
age, friend, courage— Kate is crazed /”
I could read no more. The letter
dropped from my hand, my brain
reeled, and I sank back in my chair, in
blessed unconsciousness. I must have
screamed; for a servant came rushing
into the room to inquire if 1 was un
well. When roused up, I told him I
was not, and he left me.
Now all seemed as a vague dream.
Something, l knew was not right, and
glancing apon the floor, I saw the hated
leter, when a full sense of my misera
ble condition rushed in upon my mind.
Surely this must be the worst, thought
I; and picking it up, I read on, as fol
lows :
“You remember our favourite walk
along the bank of the Buskill, of which
beautiful stream, you have often asked
does it murmur here still? Well, I
was strolling one lovely evening, as we
were won’t to do in ‘lang syne’ among
the trees and flowers, reflected by its
crystal waters, when l thought to hie
me across the fields, to the grove sa
cred to you by many a hallowed recol
lection ; and see, as you requested, if
the moss’ covered rock were still un
moved, where you and she had passed
moments of bliss, which may well be
considered, a foretaste of heaven. —
What was my surprise to find, not on
ly your old seat in its accustomed
place, but also your idolized Kate.—
How changed. Her cheeks were sunk
en, and her countenance deadly pale.
Those lovely auburn ringlets, which
once hung in such beautiful luxuriance
around her fair neck, or nestled upon
her pure and innocent bosom, were
now matted and rough. Her dress al
ways so neat and becoming,now present
ed a slovenly and disordered appear
ance. She seemed in deep meditation,
with her eyes fixed upon the ground—
rivetted to one particular spot —and on
looking more closely, I discovered the
object of her steady gaze to be a small
and new made grave !
“Poor Kate, thought I, as I beheld
this wreck of loveliness, innocence and
virtue, may a double damnation follow
thy villainous seducer. I had scarcely
uttered this prayer, when she broke out
into a loud, hollow laugh, which made
me tremble, and then fell down beside
the grave. I thought she was dead,
and rushing towards her, I exclaimed.
Kate—Kate ! She raised her head,
and looking at me wildly, she screamed
out:
‘Go away, thou robber. You shan’t
steal my child. Go away. Go away
I tell you. You shan’t—you shan’t,’
and then she tore her hair madly.
Seeing that my presence only en
raged her. I turned to depart, when
she broke out again into a maniacal
laugh, at which the blood curdled in
my veins. I will dwell no longer on
this gloomy picture, only adding that
she still lives, and in this sad condition.
Forgive me if have already too far
taxed your patience. To one who has
loved as constantly as you have done,
such tidings must indeed be painful,
but—.”
Painful! Weak and barren language.
Can no word be found stronger than
this, to convey some more vivid idea
of the misery, the pangs, which were
then, and are now preying upon my
heart? And that incarnate devil Jenks,
“O thou well skilled in curses, stay awhile,
And teach me how to curse mine enemy.”
In a paroxysm of rage, I tore the let
ter into a thousand pieces, and cast
them into the flames, that I might nev
er again read how my hopes had been
blasted—my happiness forever destroy
ed. I smiled as the greedy flames de
voured them, but horror struck me, as
still gazing, I seemed to read in letters
of fire, the awful words, “Kate is
crazed.” I stamped them until the
last ember expired beneath my feet,
and then hurriedly paced the room, for
hour after hour, heedless of the flight
of time, vainly striving to banish from
my mind, all thoughts of her in w’hom
my hopes of future happiness had per
ished forever. How unavailing the
strife, for the cruel sentence was seared
upon my brain— “ Kate is crazed !”
That the reader may understand the
relation existing between Kate and my
self, which rendered this intelligence so
peculiarly mournful to me, it will be
necessary to go back a few years in
itfauaiiti^UiiuuyteA
we will reserve for a subsequent chap
ter or two.
CHAPTER 11.
I had just entered the senior year of
my college course, and stretched at full
length upon a comfortable lounge, felt
the full enjoyment of that otium cum
dignitate , which is the comparative lot
of that particular class, when my room
mate, dashing aside a copy of Butler’s
Analogy, banished the visions of great
ness in which I had been indulging
even then, when I should have known
better.
“Well,” said he, “if that is’nt the
driest book that ever emanated from a
human brain, I’ll give up. Had I the
power, I would have old Butler and all
his works gathered into one huge pile,
and set fire to it myself. After all,
Caesar did the world a service, when he
ordered the Alexandrian library to be
burned, and I thank him for it, although
1 used to curse his Commentaries.—
Just think of it. Anthon says this li
brary contained ‘the whole Greek and
Latin literature, of which, we possess
but single fragments.’ Who knows,
but that otherwise, we should be com
pelled to wade through a classical
course ten times as extended as our
present one? What say you to some
twenty more cousin-germans to Longi
nus or Juvenal ? Eh, chum ?”
“Heaven preserve us,” 1 replied.—
“But, as to your opinion of the Analo
gy, I will oppose to it that of a young
lady, whom I heard pronounce it a
most interesting work, and declare that
she often read it for mere recreation.’’
“Barnum should have her, certain.
Apropos of ladies, it recurs to one that
you promised long ago, that you in
tended atoning for your past criminal
neglect of the dear creatures by visit
ing them more frequently, as soon as
you became a Senior. Suppose we give
Kate a call some of these evenings.
She is one of the loveliest, prettiest,
sweetest, most captivating, most ac
complished specimens of female human
nature, that you, or I, or anybody ever
set eyes upon, one alone excepted ; I
mean her sister, Jane. I believe I told
you she had an elder sister ?”
“Told me ?” said I. “Have you not
for the last twelve months, worried the
very life out of me almost, with your
extravagant euiogiums on her person
and character? You would talk of
nothing else, but your ‘darling-angelic
Jane,’ until my patience has become
completely exhausted. Yes, indeed,
you have t* >ld me.”
“Well that’s not the question,” he
replied. “Will you go?”
“Yes.”
“When ? To-morrow evening ?”
“By no means. Not for a week at
least. Why sir, I have not been in la
dies’ society for three years, and I must
have time to rub up a little, and think
of something to talk about.”
“Pshaw, chum, it is the easiest thing
imaginable to keep up a conversation
with a young lady. Take three parts
of flattery, and two of ridicule of some
rival acquaintance, mix it with a liber
al allowance of nonsense, and she will
pronounce you ‘a most agreeable gen
tleman.’ Come, suppose me a lady,
and I will carry you through the whole
performance. You must go out, and
then knock, I admit you, &c.”
To humour him, I consented. He
drew his long calico gown more closely
about his person, and picking up a copy
of Byron, seated himself by the table,
over which a solar lamp was shedding
its mellow light. I w r ent out and
knocked, he opened, and the usual sal
utations were passed. After seating
myself, I made the very unusual re
mark, that it was a very pleasant eve
ning.
“Most delightful,” was the reply, in
a capitally assumed female voice. “I
have just been reading,” he continued,
in the same mimicked tone, “one of
Lord Byron’s beautiful descriptions of
a Night at Sea.”
“Ah! indeed ?” said I. “Byron is
one of my particular favourites.”
“Indeed he is one of mine, too, al
though sometimes I am afraid to ac
knowledge it, for he has so many bitter
enemies, who denounce him and his
works in the harshest terms, I think
very unjustly. For my part, I consid
er his poetry unequalled, in sublimity
of thought, and beauty of expression,
by any uninspired bard of this or any
age.”
“1 am happy to find one whose taste
so fully agrees with my own,” I re
plied.
These wise reflections were followed
by a long silence, during which I hem
divers times. Chum is the first to be
gin anew train of thought, for which I
had but little relish.
“Are you acquainted with Miss
H ?” said he.
“I have seen her frequently,” I re
plied, “but have never formed her ac
quaintanee.”
“Report says she is to be married
soon,” quoth chum, “l can’t say that it
is true though.”
CHARLESTON. SATURDAY, MARCH 15, 1851.
“To whom?” I enquired with mock
earnestness.
“To a Mr. B , a tailor, I believe,”
and so inimitably did the expression of
his face, and the tone of his voice, ex
hibit the contempt he pretended to feel
at the idea of such an alliance, that it
was as much as 1 could do to look so
ber.
“She must have wanted a husband
badly,” said I.
“1 think so, he, he, he,” said chum.
“Do you count her pretty ?”
“I don’t think her beauty will ever
kill her,” I replied, “I think she squints,
does she not ?”
“Well, I declare, Mr. . He, he.
You are a close observer. He, he, he.
She does squint, and I have heard it
said, that it comes from having fits, al
though her parents try to keep it a se
cret. I never thought you would have
noticed her squinting. He, he, he, he.”
I had become disgusted, and jump
ing up, told Charley (such was my
chum’s name) that I was tired of this
mummery.
“Capital—capital!” he exclaimed
laughing. “You played your part admi
rably. Come now, when shall 1 have
the pleasure of introducing you to
charming Kate ? Suppose we appoint
Saturday ?”
I agreed. Saturday evening came,
and I found myself with Charley, in
the presence of the two Miss Chamber
lains. 1 was first impressed with the
radiant beauty of the elder sister. She
was indeed all that Charley had repre
sented her to be. It was not until after
some general remarks, I read indica
tions from my chum, that he wished to
assume the sole responsibility of enter
taining Jane; when, on directing my
attention more particularly to Kate, ]
discovered how eminently she, too, de
served all the high encomiums which
had been lavished upon her. But the
sisters were different —both in the qual
ities of personal attraction, and in those
of the mind. Jane, as we have said,
was indeed beautiful—Kate was be
witchingly lovely. The former was
calculated to dazzle—the latter to at
tract. The one was captivating, the
other, modest and retiring. The ball
room was the world in which Jane
moved as queen—the heart, the king
dom, overw’hich Kate swayed her scep
tre. I soon found myself deeply en
gaged in conversation with Kate, and
discovered that she possessed a highly
accomplished mind, a taste improved
by a perusal of the best aut hors in
prose and verse, and a disposition irre
sistibly sweet. Her soft mellow eyes
would sparkle; her pale and interest
ing countenance w r ould brighten, and
her very soul seemed to swell forth in
each word, as she conversed eloquently
of her favourite authors, or repeated
such passages, as from their beauty or
sublimity had won her admiration.—
Oh ! how eagerly I caught each word
as it dropped from her lips, and before
an hour had passed, I felt that I was a
lover.
“Well,” said Charley, noticing our
earnest conversation, “you. are the apt
est scholar I ever had. Another lesson
will make an ‘admirable Crichton’ out
of you,” and then he turned in and
stated the full history cf the sham per
formance of the preceding Monday
night. He and Jane made the whole
house ring with their merry laugh.—
Kate joined in with infinite gusto, and
I of course, had to do the same.
“I’ll wager a dollar, chum,” he con
tinued, pulling out his watch, “that you
can’t guess within an hour the time of
night.”
“Done,” said I. “It is about ten.”
“You hit it that time,” was the re
ply, “it is precisely ten minutes of
tw r elve.”
Impossible as this appeared, it fur
nished food for another hearty laugh,
during which, we prepared to leave.
Once more we are in the street.
“Well,” said Charley, “how are you
pleased with Miss Kate Chamberlain ?”
“Much better than I was with the
cruel joke you perpetrated upon me.
That was’nt clever, chum.”
“Fiddlesticks! Jokes are free in har
vest, and I trust you have commenced
this night a harvest of pleasure, of
which angels might feel happy to par
take.”
Thus we conversed until we reached
college, and the town clock struck three
before, overcome by sleep, we ceased
talking of the sisters.
CHAPTER 111.
Kate grew more lovely in my eyes
at each subsequent visit, and these
became more frequent as Commence
ment drew nearer, at which we should
both be compelled to leave—Charley
his adored Jane, and I her no less
adored sister—soon, however, to re
turn and clasp to our bosoms the darl
ing objects of our affections. Thus I
dreamed. There was a lofty bluff of
rocks a mile distant from the home of
the sisters, which philosophers say, was
torn from a neighbouring mountain, at
♦jie time when “all the fountains of
the great deep were broken up,” and
lodged there as a huge monument of
the wrath of God against a wicked
world. One side of this, sloped gent
ly, rendering access to its very summit
easy. The three other sides were
steep and precipitous. Thither each
sunny Saturday, our little party would
wind its way, and there were passed
the happiest moments of my existence.
There it was that Kate seemed dearest
to me—there Kate seemed loveliest —
the very perfection of loveliness. It
appeared that, as she approached near
er heaven, she drew inspiration down,
which she drank in with eagerness, un
til she grew more and more assimilated
to the bright angels themselves. She
loved to perch herself upon the high
est rock, and look down the giddy pre
cipice into the bright waters of the
Bushkill, which laved its base, and
watch the boats sailing across its silvery
surface, like sporting birds, and clap
ping her little hands, would exclaim,
“how beautiful—how beautiful.” And
then, how eloquently would she con
verse, upon the beauties of nature so
profusely scattered above, around, and
beneath us. These pleasant visits were
destined soon to be ended forever, by
the foul schemes of an enemy—not,
however, until this solitary mountain
had become consecrated by a confes
sion of my love, and whispered assu
rances, that my love was not without
hope.
Charley and I were alone in our room
conversing upon the all-absorbing sub
ject of the sisters, when a student of
the Junior class entered very uncere
moniously.
“Most noble seniors,” said he. “I
send you greeting, and great success
crown your efforts, with —you know
who. Those long solitary walks are
not for nothing—and must be for some
thing. There’s Logic for you. Well.
Ha, ha, ha ! ‘Where roses shed a couch,
&c.’ Report whispers—”
“You are a liar , Tudor Jenks,” said
I, “if you insinuate ought against the
virtue of the Miss Chamberlains, and
let me add, there is the door.”
Coward ! he did not strike me, but
skulked from the room, on seeing some
angry movements made by Charley ;
but shaking his finger at me—“you’ll
repent this,” he said.
“What do you think of that fellow,
chum ?” said Rafter he had disappeared.
“Think of him ? Why I think he
has the smoothest tongue, and the smal
lest soul—the sweetest face, and the
blackest heart ever possessed by man
or devil, and had he not gone out as he
did, I would have kicked him out.”
The morning after the occurrence
just described, Charley was very unex
pectedly called home to attend at the
death-bed of a dear sister, who was lin
gering in the grasp of that curse, Con
sumption.
“Bid the sisters farewell for me,
chum, I dare not do it; and beware of
Jenks!”
These were his parting words. I was
prevented from performing his injunc
tions by sickness; for the following
day I was overtaken by a fever which
confined me to my room for a long and
tedious month. During all this time I
heard nothing from Kate, Jane or Char
ley. This was unaccountable. One
lovely morning, as my strength began
to return, I had determined on taking
a walk, when a note was handed to me.
It was from Kate. How well I knew
the delicate pencillings of the address.
I kissed it, opened it, and read— thus !
—thus!!
“Sir —Proofs sufficient have appear
ed, that your friendship for me, is hol
low —your love false—your intentions
base. This is to inform you, how ut
terly I despise you, how deeply I hate
you. If you possess the smallest par
ticle of honour, you will regard my
last request to you. It is, that you
will not insult me, by seeking to palli
ate your past conduct, by addressing
me either on paper, or in person. It
will be in vain.
Kate Chamberlain.”
“What could this mean ? Such lan
guage from such a source, was as mys
terious, as it was astounding. Oh!
dare I but write to her—could I but
speak to her. But this was denied me,
and I sank into the deepest despair.—
And did not my love abate ? Could I
love her still ? Yes, yes,
“Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds.”
In this wretched and hopeless condi
tion, months rolled away, and Com
mencement was at hand. I had grad
uated, and on the following morning
was to bid adieu to the scenes of Col
lege life. This I could not do, without
once more seeing the dearest being to
me on earth. I must visit her, 1 must,
thought I, and I did. 110w r my whole
body trembled—how my heart failed
me, as, on approaching the house, I
heard Kate’s sweet voice, carolling forth
one of my favourite songs. 1 rang the
bell.
“The young ladies are not at home
this evening,” squealed out an old ser
vant who answered the summons.
“Pshaw !” said I angrily, and push
ing past her, I rushed through the hall
into the parlour. And there she was—
how natural—how lovely seemed the
darling idol of my heart. Yielding to
the impulse of the moment, I threw
myself at her feet.
“Hear me, dearest Kate, hear me,”
I exclaimed, as she rose to quit the
room. “Do not leave me thus, lam
innocent. By the sweet recollections
of the past, by my hopes for the future,
I have been wronged—foully—cruelly
wronged,”
For a moment she seemed to hesi
tate. But wounded pride, and slighted
affection urged her on, and casting a
mournful but haughty look upon me,
she hastened from my presence.
“Oh ! Kate, Kate, one moment—one
short—” But she had gone—gone for
ever, for I never saw her again. Al
most frantic, I rushed from the parlour,
and what language can express my in
dignation on meeting Jenks at the
door. In an instant, the truth flashed
across my mind, that he was at the bot
tom of all my troubles.
“Villain!” I cried, seizing him by
the throat. “The sanctity of this place
protects you now. But all the powers
of hell, cannot preserve you from my
future vengeance.”
Driven on by the tide of passion,
and hastening to my room, scarcely
conscious of my own actions, I grasped
a dirk, and swore by the dear bosom
of deluded Kate, that I would stab to
the heart the monster who, at that mo
ment, was preparing the way for her
destruction. I repaired to a deserted
part of the street, which I thought it
most likely he would pass, and paced
backwards and forwards—hour after
hour—starting wildly at every noise I
heard, until the old town-clock had
struck twelve, one and two, and still
he came not. Surely—surely he must
have returned ere this, thought I, and it
was true. Even then, whilst bloody
thoughts filled my mind, he was secure
from dauger in his own room, perhaps
exulting over his progressing success,
or dreaming of his innocent victim.
The serpent had eluded my grasp, and
nought remained for me but misery
unavenged—despair without a ray of
hope.
I determined on leaving these hated
sopnpj on tßp approaching morning, and
to commit Jenks’ fate into the hands
of a just God. 1 did so. Soon after
I had reached home, I received a letter
from Charley. He was sad, for after
many months of the most painful sus
pense, he had just followed to the grave
his only sister. He merely mentioned
the names of Jane and Kate, stating
that he had heard nothing from them
since he left College. With a part of
the sequel to our story, the reader is
already acquainted. We hasten to its
close. A year rolled by, and Charley
and Jane were married. It was not a
merry wedding —for from the little
party gathered together to witness the
ceremony, there was one absent, and
remembrance of her, the lovely one—
once so; but now, the ruined and
crazed Kate, saddening every heart.
Another year has been added to the
past, and the following note received:
‘■'‘Dear Friend— ln due course of
time, my adored wife, a few weeks
since, presented me with a fine, bright,
blue-eyed boy —and the world, a ‘gen
eral,’ I hope. How my heart swells
with all a father’s pride, as I gaze up
on the features of my own child. lam
determined on making a wonderful
man out of him, and even now, in vis
ions of future years, my fancy paints
to me, this weak, helpless babe, stand
ing among his fellows, ‘the chief among
ten thousand,’ the pride and ornament
of his age. By common consent, and
in token of mutual regard, we have
christened him after you.
“But our otherwise inexpressible joy
upon the advent of this young stranger,
has been very materially marred by
very sad intelligence, received by my
dear Jane from home. It has almost
distracted her, and I fear you will
scarcely be less affected by it, Kate is
dead. Oh! had I been at College du
ring your sickness, I might have pre
vented the ruin of this too innocent,
too confiding girl, and preserved your
happiness. As it was, Jenks devised
his tale so cunningly, that the whole
family were deceived by it, and laid
his hellish plans of destruction so deep
ly, that it was not in the power of his
pure and virtuous victim —not in the
power of woman to evade them. The
ciroumstances connected with poor
Kate’s melancholy death are these:
“Kate one bright moonlight evening,
after her parents had retired, made
an escape from her room. Her kind
old father, hearing a noise and suspec
ting the cause, hastened in pursuit, and
soon discovered her in the distance,
flying as it were, so swiftly did she
run. Although his limbs were totter
ing with age, spurred on by a father’s
love, he quickened his pace, and gained
upon her. His piercing cries of ‘Kate !
Kate! my daughter !’ were answered
by a chuckling laugh, as still swifter
she hurried from him. She is now at
the foot of the mountain—that rocky
bluff so sacred to us both. Up—up
she flew, hotter—faster the father’s pur
suit, his long grey hairs streaming in
the wind. “My dear Kate, stop, stop,
stop,’ he cries, as he miraculously had
almost reached her. But how his old
heart sickened, as he saw her still be
yond his grasp, standing upon the very
brow of the awful precipice ! ‘My
daughter, oh! my daughter,’ he ex-
THIRD VOLUME-NO. 46 WHOLE NO. 146.
claimed frantically. The only reply
was a hollow laugh—a loud piercing
scream, as she dashed headlong down
the mountain’s rocky side!
**** * * *
I can write no more. So farewell.
Charley.”
Dear reader. Have you ever expe
rienced a decay of your fondest hopes ?
Have your sweetest visions of future
bli§s ever vanished as a morning cloud?
Have you ever stood upon Pisgah’stop,
and gazed upon the “promised land of
your existence, and whilst still gazing,
seen the delightful prospect melt away
into the blackness of darkness without
one ray of happiness? If so, then may
this unvarnished tale win from vou the
tribute of a tear, for one whose pen is
dipped in sorrow—for one whose life
is cheerless and desolate; for one who
is sad, while others are gay—who sighs
w r hile others laugh, and whose prayer
is soon to be translated to that happy
country, where even now, dear Kate is
wearing a “crown of glory which fadeth
not away.”
A few weeks since, the following
paragraph appeared in the papers:
“Dreadful Accident. —As the morn
ing train was travelling at full speed
between and , a young man
by the name of Jenks, whose manners
were very singular, and who is suppo
sed to have been intoxiccated, fell from
the cars, and had his head severed from
his body and was otherwise horribly
mangled. Nothing is known of his
family or residence.”
God is just. Men call such solemn
occurrences, accidents. But methinks
the Recording Angel trembles as he
pens these awful dispensations of the
Divine displeasure.
St. Mathews, S. C.
€lit Slltnr nf Injgffn.
From Tait’s Magazine.
COLDS AND COLD WATER,
Who has not had a cold ? or, rather,
who has not had many colds ? Who
does not know that malady which com
mences with slight chilliness, an uneasy
feeling of being unwell, which does not
justify abstinence from the ordinary bu
siness and occupations of the day, but
deprives one of all satisfaction and
enjoyment in them, and takes away all
the salt and savour of life, even as it
deprives the natural palate of its pro
per office, making all things that should
Bf> good to eat and drink vapid and
tasteless? Who does not know the
pain in the head, the stiff neck, the
stuffy nose, the frequent sneeze, the
kerchief which is oftener in the hand
than in the pocket ? Such, with a
greater or less amount of peevishness,
are the symptoms of the common cold
in the head ; which torments its victim
for two or three days, or perhaps as
many weeks, and then departs and is
forgotten. Few people take much no
tice of colds; and yet let any one,
who is even moderately liable to their
attacks, keep an account of the number
of days in each year when he has been
shut out by a cold from a full percep
tion of the pleasures and advantages of
life, and he will find that he has lost no
inconsiderable portion of the sum to
tal of happy existence through their
malign influence. How many speech
es in parliament and at the bar, that
should have turned a division or won
a cause, have been marred because the
orator has had a cold, which has con
fused his powers, stifled his voice, and
paralyzed all his best energies ! How
many pictures have failed in expressing
the full thoughts of the artist, because
he has had a cold at that critical stage
of the work when all the faculties of
head and hand should have been at their
best to insure the fit execution of his
design ? llow many bad bargains have
been made, how many opportunities
lost in business, because a cold has
laid a leaden hand upon them, and con
verted into its own dull nature what
might have resulted in a golden har
vest ? How many poems —but no :
poetry can have nothing to do in com
mon with a cold. The muses fly at
the approach of flannel and water-gruel.
It is not poems that are spoiled, but
poets that are rendered of impossible
existence by colds. Can one imagine
Homer with a cold, or Dante ? But
these were southerns, and exempt by
climate from this scourge of the human
race in Boreal regions. But Milton or
Shakspeare, could they have had colds?
Possibly some parts of “Paradise Re
gained” may have been written in a
cold. Possibly the use of the hand
kerchief in “Othello,” which is banished
as an impropriety by the delicate crit
ics of France from their versions of the
Moor of Venice, may have been sug
gested by familiarity with that indis
pensable accessory in a cold. Colds
are less common in the clear atmos
phere of Paris than in the thick and
fog-laden air of London ; and this may
account for the difference of national
taste on this point. It is said of the
great German Mendelssohn, that he al
ways composed sitting with his feet in a
tub of cold w r ater. This was not the
musician, but his grand-father, the met
aphysician, and father of that happy
and contentedly obsure intermediate
Mendelssohn, who used to say, “When
I was young, I was known as the son
of the great Mendelssohn; and now
that I am old, I am known as the father
of the great Mendelssohn.” But who
ever was known to compose anything
while sitting with his feet in a tub of
hot water, and with the composing
draught standing on the table at his
side, to remind him that in the matter
of composition he is to be a passive,
and not an active, subject ? How many
marriages may not have been prevent
ed by colds! The gentleman is rob
red of his courage, and does not use
his opportunity for urging his suit; or
the lady catches a cold, and appears
blowing her nose, and with blanched
cheeks and moist eyes:—
The sapphire’s blue within her eyes is seen ;
Her lips the ruby’s choicest glow disclose ;
Her skin is like to fairest pearls I ween ;
But ah ! the lucid crystal tips her nose.
And so the coming declaration of love
is effectually nipped in the bud by the
unromantic realities of the present ca
tarrh.
Napoleon, as is well known, lost the
battle of Leipsig in consequence of an
indigestion brought on by eating an
ill-dressed piece of mutton; and Louis
Philippe, in February, 1848, fled igno
minious! y from the capital of his king
dom because he had a cold, and could
not use the faculties which at least
might have secured for him as respec
table a retreat to the frontier as was
enjoyed by his predecessor, Charles the
Tenth. He might have shown flight;
he might have thrown himself upon
the army, or upon the National Guard;
he might have done a hundred things
better for his own fame, rather than
get into a hack cab and run away.—
But it was not to be; Louis Philippe
had the influenza; and Louis Philippe
with the influenza was not the same
man who had shown so much craft and
decision in the many previous emer
gencies of his long and eventful life.
Louis Phillippe, without a cold had ac-’
quitted himself creditably in the field
of battle, had taught respectably in
schools, had contrived for himself and
his family the succession to a kingdom,
had worked and plotted through all the
remarkable events with which his name
is associated, and by which it will ever
be remembered in the romance of his
tory ; but Louis Philippe, with a cold,
subsided at once and ingloriously into
simple John Smith in a scratch w T ig.
Os places in which colds are caught
it is not necessary to be particular.—
For, as a late justice of the Court of
Queen’s Bench laid it down in summing
up to a jury, in a case of sheep-stealing,
after some time had been wasted in
showing that the stolen sheep had been
slaughtered w r ith a particular knife —
any knife will kill a sheep —so it may
be said that a cold may be caught any
where : on the moor or on the loch;
travelling by land or by water; by
rail or by stage; or in a private car
riage, or walking in the streets; or sit
ting, at home or elsewdiere, in a draught
or out of a draught, but more especial
ly in it. Upon a statistical return of
the places in which colds have been
caught, by persons of both sexes, and
under twenty-one years of age, founded
upon the answers of the patients them
selves, it appears that more colds are
caught upon the journey in going to
school, and at church, than at the thea
tre and in ball-rooms. Upon a similar
return trom persons uaoie to serve as
jurymen in London and Middlesex, it
appears that a majority of colds are
caught in courts of justice; to which
statement, perhaps, more confidence is
due than to the former, as it not known
that Dr. Reid has ventillated any of
the churches or theatres in the metrop
olis. Indeed, if the ancient physical
philosophers, who had many disputes
upon the first cause of cold, had enjoy
ed the advantage of living in our days
and country, they might have satisfied
themselves on this matter, and at the
same time have become practically ac
quainted with the working of our sys
tem of jurisprudence, by attending in
Westminster Hall, when they would
go away perhaps with some good law,
but most certainly with a very bad
cold in their head. Upon the jeturns
from ladies with grown-up daughters
and nieces, it appears, from their own
statements, that more colds are caught
at evening parties than anywhere else;
which is in remarkable discrepancy
with the statements of the young la
dies themselves, as before mentioned.
The same curious want of agreement
is found to prevail as to the number of
colds caught on water parties, pic-nics,
archery meetings, and the like, which
according to one set of answers, never
give rise to colds, but which would cer
tainly be avoided by all prudent per
sons if they gave implicit belief to the
other.
Os the remedy for colds something
may now be said. As with other evils,
the remedy may exist either in the
shape of prevention, or cure, and of
course should be most sought after, by
prudent people, in the former. Much
ancestral wisdom has descended to us
in maxims and apothegms on the pre
vention and management of colds.—
Like other venerable and traditional
lore which we are in the habit of re
ceiving without questioning, it contains
a large admixture of error with which
is really good and true; and of the
good and true much occasionally meets
with undeserved disparangement and
contempt. Our grandmothers are right
when they inculcate an active avoid
ance of draughts of air, when they en
join warm clothing, and especially
woollen stockings and dry feet. Their
recommendation of bed and slops is
generally good, and their “sentence of
watergruel” in most cases is very just,
and better than any other for which it
could be commuted; but when they
lay down the well-knowu and authori
tative dogma, stuff a cold and starve a
fever, they are no longer to be trusted.
This is a pernicious saying,and has caus
ed much misery and illness. Certain
lovers of antiquity, in their anxiety to
justify this precept, would have us to
take it in an ironical sense. They say,
stuff a cold and starve a fever; that is,
if you commit the absurdity of em
ploying too generous a diet in the ear
lier stages of a cold, you will infallibly
bring on a fever, which you will be
compelled to reduce bv the opposite
treatment ot starvation. This, how
ever, may be rejected as mere casuistry,
how r ever well it may be intended by
zealous friends of the past. Our Bri
tish oracles were not delivered in such
terms of Delphic mystery, but spoke
out plain and straightforward; and
even this one permits of some justifica
tion without doing violence to the ob
vious meaning of the words. For ev
ery cold is accompanied with some fe-