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1852.]
THE VIOLATED GRAVE.
BY MRS. CORNWELL BARRV WILSON.
“For fear of that, I will stay with thee ;
And never from this palace of dim night
Depart again ; here, here, will I remain
With worms that are thy chambermaids.”
[Romeo and Juliet.
CHAPTER I.
At the time when not only our own
country, but the whole civilized world,
was startled at the new page which had
been added to the annals of human crime;
when the atrocities of Burk and his com
panions were spoken of with disgust and
horror, even by profligacy itself—when
the inhabitants of every city in the king
dom were disturbed with rumours of their
church-yards being violated, and the fee
lings of relatives outraged by the har
rowing thought, that the bodies of their
kindred—the father, brother, the mother,
perhaps the wife or sister —those gentle
ones, whose very dust is sacred, and
whose memories are hallowed in the
heart, were mangled and exposed upon
the dissecting table ; it was then that a
beautiful girl, the daughter of an officer’s
widow, died in London. She left a bro
ther a few years older than herself, they
were the widow’s only children.
Frank Hamilton was twenty-two. llis
father, a major in the army, a short time
before his death, obtained the promise of
a pair of colours for his son. He had
now been dead three years, and the pro
mise was not yet fulfilled. lie left no
fortune, and Frank was still dependant
on his mother; —a burden on her humble
pittance. It was a life which to most
men would have been a painful one, to
him it was agony. He was too proud to
dun his patron, and too sanguine not to
trust him. Weeks, months and years
passed away ; without a profession, with
out earning a shilling, he lived in hope,
f in the evening he was wretched with
despondency, the morning sun brought
confidence with its gladdening beams;
his state of mind prevented him from
directing his thoughts to any means of
temporary employment; he was fitted
but for few, and these were difficult to be
obtained. The feelings, perhaps the pre
judices of his education, made him shrink
from others, there was yet a “to-mor
row” to atone for the disappointment of
to-day. And to-morrow came, and went
again, but hope lingered still.
It was a life of bitterness. Youth’s
burning ambition and manhood’s native
pride, rebelled at the dull routine of his
dependant condition ; his character was
ardent, but sensitive and generous, and
the chivalry of his feelings made them
prey upon himself. It crushed the buoyan
cy of his spirits, and damped the exhilara
tion which was then natural to his years;
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
but did not engender moroseness, for his
nature had not selfishness enough for that;
nor did it make his countenance abject,
for Frank possessed that native dignity
which poverty cannot hide, nor wealth
bestow, and which when the heart beats
proudly, although beneath a thread-bare
coat, will still reveal the aspect of a gen
tleman.
Yet his sorrows had a solace. There
was one who could soothe him in his
most troubled moments, who could decoy
his anxious mind to scenes of the past,
and visions 6f the future that he loved
to dwell upon ; —who understood and ad
mired his character, pitied his sufferings,
and loved him w r ith all her heart. It was
his sister ; the being w : hose gentle sym
pathy made life endurable, and whom he
loved w ith an affection equal to her own.
And Lucy Hamilton was a sister of whom
a brother might well have been proud.
She was in her nineteenth year, graceful
and lovely, her mind was cultivated and
generous, and her heart as pure, as warm
and affectionate as ever woman’s was.
Every body that knew her loved her, but
to her brother she. was dearer than life it
self. She was the good genius of his
dreary dest'ny ; the truest happiness his
young life had ever known, he ascribed
to her ; she embodied his fondest ideas
of all that was best and beautiful in earth
and heaven. She died.
It was of a fever. Her illness was a
short one. A week before she had walked
with him, hung upon his arm, and looked
up to his face to see him smile again. On
her death bed she remembered the tales
she had shuddered at, the instincts of hu
manity gave them terror even then, and
she whispered to her brother “let them
watch my grave.”
The simoon that is said to blast the
verdure of the tree it sweeps over, and
leave the boughs bared and blackened
with their withered bosoms scattered on
the soil, may be compared in its effects to
those created in Frank Hamilton’s mind
by his sister’s death. It left him deso
late, his little world of happiness was
blotted out, the storms of life might burst
upon him, the friend was gone who knew
his sympathies, who alone could pity or
cheer, or if the triumphs he once had
panted for shduld be his lot, there was
no one to share them now. The mother’s
grief w as wild and heart-touching for her
lovely girl, the brother’s was more calm,
but the iron had entered into his soul;
the world to him was now a wilderness,
in which he stood alone.
He returned from the funeral, and en
tered the silent, deserted parlour. There
was no fond smile to meet him, no kind
look to mark his troubled eye, no sw reet
toned voice to whisper hope, and chase
aw ay his gloom ; he felt that first cold
blank which death creates, when the body,
the poor ashes, for they filled a place, are
gone ; when the sun shines, the household
duties proceed, the unheeding faces pass,
and the careless laugh of the bustling
world says “your sorrows are your own.”
Evening came on, and he remembered
his sister’s request. It touched anew
chord in his bosom. A fearful thought
for the first time arose in his mind. With
restless dread he saw night approach, and
formed the resolution to watch the grave
himself. His startled mother when he
informed her of this, in vain endeavoured
to dissuade him from it, others could be
procured ; his state of mind and body
alike unfitted him for such a task; but
Frank’s course was taken. lie put pis
tols in his pocket, buttoned himself up in
his great coat, and departed on his me
lancholy errand. The Sexton assured
him that the duty he assigned himself
was unnecessary; that ihe police, the
high walls, and the watchman in the
neighbourhood of the place were suffi
cient to protect it; but Frank was deaf
to these representations, he demanded
admission, and was left in the church
yard by his sister’s grave.
It was a calm winter night. The sky
rose high, the bright stars trembled there
as pure and beautiful, as if instead of the
gray tomb-stones of a city burial ground,
they were shining on a summer lake. The ,
air was keen and nipping, the sounds of
passing carriages died away on the for
saken streets, the cry of the reveller
ceased, and the silence became as death
like as the scene.
Day dawned, and Frank still sat there.
Ilis head was drooping on his hands, his
hat was silvered with the hoar frost, and
his face was wan and care-worn.
The following night he kept the same
gloomy watch. The sky during the day
had been overcast, and at sunset the rain
fell. It continued all that night. The
stars were shrouded, the black clouds
mingled with the darkness, and the wind
blew pitilessly. The streets were sooner
deserted, the lights in the distant win
dows were extinguished one by one, the
watchman sought shelter from the rapid
rain, and Frank sat alone among the
dead. Once he thought he heard foot
steps approaching, he started, and listen
ed with breathless attention, the sound
ceased, he heard only the gusts of the
wind, the pattering of the rain, and the
quick beating of his own heart. His
eyes could not penetrate the darkness,
the sounds were not renewed. “It was
the rain dashing on the tombs,” thought
he, “my imagination has deceived me.
It may well do so, while my mind doubts
so often its own consciousness, and asks
if all this is real V’
The cold bleak morning came again,
the gray light struggled through the wa
tery clouds, life and labour wakened in
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