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VOLUME 11.
(Original €nlrs.
THE DREAM.
by MISS SUSAN A. STUART.
[The dream from which this story is taken
, n ctually dreamed by a young lady,
i death occured a few days after. The
WllO-* 0
r , lTl stance was narrated to the authoress
this tl o b y the brotller of the y° un g hidy,
jj V jjis permission,woven into the follow-
PART I.
It There are mote things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
an tre dreampt of in your philosophy.”
Twilight came stealing on, and
the quiet evening air was heavy
the breath of summer flowers.
j n a tasteful little parlor, whose
French windows opened upon a
heautiful garden, sat a lady, who
looked a very spirit of the flowers,
soetherial and dreamy was her ap
pearance. In her thin, summer
•nuslin, ample and cloudlike, and
her soft, rich braids of dark hair,
she sat, resting her round cheek up
on her hand in deep reverie. A
glen, whose slightest echo is gin cl
music to her ear, is heard ; and the
listless or desponding attitude is
changed to one more full of energy ;
the soft cheek is colored with a
trarmWush, and the dark eyes are
brink with beauty and with love.
“Good evening Kate,” said the
newcomer, who now Entered, and
wiiose arm was twined caressingly
around her slight form, “ ’Tis too
nveet an eveningto lingerin doors, j
[let us walk the portico my wife.” j
And still with their arms twined
round each other, did they walk
md chat lovingly, for the husband
had not seen his bride since early
.UUI li fllg*
“It was a bard days work
with me Kate, and I thought I
should never be able to clear the
poor fellow, the evidence was so
strong against him ; but, thank God,
the jury, saw with my ey 7 cs, and
their verdict was his acquittal.—
And thus you behold me at least an
i'.oursooner ihan I had any hopes of
seeing you. What have you been
H doing with yourself all clay? ”
“Oh, Fred ! I cannot tell vou
mw sad, how miserable I have felt,
Imd ’till 1 heard your step, I am
pure, not one joyful emotion has
; prung up in my heart to-day ; yet
almost ashamed to tell you the
,J? e, so sure am I that you will
au gb. Promise me Fred that you
V; ‘ i not, and I will tell you. Indeed,
deed, I could not bear you to
W in my present mood ”
” Tell me Kale, and if it affects
u so,be certain I shall feel in no
■ ‘ I •
■lghing mood, either. Tell me
I ’ J rest, what is it?”
the hand which had beiorc
on her husband’s
ilst 'Was withdrawn to screen her
■ and as he spoke fond and
:a ‘ n g words, she leaned her face
“ping against his shoulder, as
stood.
I My dear Kate, you make me se
uneasy. Do tell me what
■ ‘uat thus grieves you. Has
■ happened ? Come into
r-parlor a U( ] let us sit on the sofa,
tell me all that troubles
his so unsual for your light
~ j o
0 oe clouded that I can wot but
an -Xious.”
1 1 have bad an awful presenti
: Weighing upon my heart, I
[ n ot say spirits, all day, Fred,
[* that presentiment has been
1-d by a dream. Do not smile
I , if you only knew what an
IB y I feel at the very idea of the
Nation of this dream, your sym-
K “dor me would, I know, check
■ “ Parr)
■ 1 u °fi me, my sweet wife, but
■ u ‘ not help it. Come, laugh
B’ h merry Kate. What!
* ° llr strong mind and courage
Drnntrii tn Eitnafttn, .?rirnrr nnii 51 rt, fljc inns nf CfntjiMinrg (Diiit jfrlhmtiiljijj, Jllnflnnri} unit (Frnrrnl
which has not succumbed to three
years of hard trial, to be vanquished
by a dream ! A something, lighter
than air ! For shame. Kate
Come make a clear breast of it,
and I will see if 1 cannot be a Jo
seph, and give you a glad interpre
tation.”
But the young wife was unable
to speak for her sobs, and the bus
band waited long ere she told it.—
At length her sweet trembling tones
came low, and sicrljing: :
1 o a
“Youknow Fred you rose very
early this morning to make notes for
your case, and, as I knew you
would not breakfast at home, I
thought I would indulge myself in
sleep. But what a horrid dream
came with that slumber ! Oh I
shudder as I recall the bare thought
of it. In this dream, Fred, it was
just like our real life, so I imagined
my 7 self well and happy; and that I
had gone to my Aunt’s. I recollect
vividly the impression of this hap
piness, fori was singing, it seemed
in my dream, and that you know I
never do, unless my mind is at ease.
Well, I was singing, and whilst sit
ting in that vine-covered portico,
walking backwards and forwards—
I did not see you in my dream Fred,
there—when a man rushed from the
garden, a strong, bony, haggard
I wretch, and stabbed me here , here in
this side. The pain seemed actual,
j the mind so identified itself with
!mv body, in this dream. But above
it was my agony, for I thought 1
should die and leave you, Fred. —
I then, methought, held’vou with a
clmntr grasp. nr| d hegrggd yOll to
save me from death, and though
vou held me fondly, vou shook your
head, and said so low, and mourn
ful, that it appeared to me, I felt
more sorry for you than myself,
* Impossible, my love for vou is
strong, y*et it cannot save 3*oll. Death
is stronger than the might of man.’
I awaked, and the bright sunshine
gleaming through the blinds could
not cheer me. I dressed hastily,
thinking that action and my break
fast would drive from me these
gloomy impressions, but. m3* hus
band, they but gained new strengtli
each moment. I went forth into the
garden and tried to drive it from m3 7
mind; but when I saw the flower?
which your hand and love had plan
ted for me, then the thought came,
‘ I must leave him’ I returned to
the house. Everywhere around did
I meet evidences of your love, scat
tered about; books, the new furni
ture, pictures, the pianp; and still
came that harrowing thought, ‘ I
must leave him,and go into the dark,
dark grave, to be the companion
and the food of the gnawing
worm.’ Indeed Fred, I gave not
up willingly, to this feeling, I tried
in every way to banish it, but in
| vain. I put on my bonnet and
walked forth, thinking io drive it
from my mind, but still it would
come. When I turned into a jew
eller’s to get something I left to be
mended, 1 almost started for a voice
seemed to whi-per in my ear : ‘ Go
thou and set thine bouse in order,
lor soon will thy soul be required or
thee.’ And such has been my state
all day, I know 3*ou will not* laugh
at me now, although it may seem
foolish in me.”
“ No, Kate, I will not laugh, but
will certainly try to talk 3*ou out of
this fantas3*. B must certainly have
’ been caused by fever, or perhaps
* 3 7 ou have been reading something
i horrible, and from the train of
thought engendered, arose this
dream.”
“No Fred, I have neither read
nor heard an3 r thing of such a na
ture, and am, besides, in perfect
health.”
SAVANNAII, GA., SATURDAY. APRIL 20. 1850.
But the hu band still reasoned ;
sorqetimes soothing, then shumin^
her, till the tea-waiter came ; and
during this repast he spoke gavly
and laughingly of events that had
come under his notice during the
o
day.
After tea, also, he begged for mu
sic ; and bis selections was this
‘light of the gayest, and though his
wife complied with his request, vet
a cloud rested on that brow, gener
al^ 7 so sunny and childlike.
Frederick Darsey and Kate Com
eges had been married scarcely a
month. The house, in which, as
now we see them, had been pur
chased and fitted out by the 3*oung
and loving husband, with all care
and taste; to receive bis bride ; she
for whom he had struggled with
poverty, and hoped almost against
licpe, for the last three y 7 ears.
Kate’s father, when first asked for
his consent, had positively refused ;
for he said lie was unwilling to give
his daughter to a penniless young
lawyer ; and what was worse, with
out any prospect in the world of
making a living. But the sad face
of his child, his once merr3” Kate,
pleaded for her love ; and the fath
er’s heart softened so far as to make
the sentence less harsh. He al
lowed Frederick to visit at his house,
and promised to give him Kate
when he could support her. What
is impossible to love ? ’Tistbetrue
Archimedean lever. We read in
story 7 bow it made a great and fa
mous painter out of a blacksmith ;
and many and manv a feat still
more wondrous has been accom
plished I)3* lho ngency oftbisstrong
incentive.
Thus with a heart nerved by this
sweet hope, of one day calling Kate
bis own, did the young man go on
his course, meeting with reverses,
but still buo3 7 ed up, still hoping.—
When lie would come into her pres
ence with a sad heart, and de
pressed spirits, her own trusting
and hopeful temperament, would
cheer him, so that he always left
her with a strong resolution to bear
up and conquer 3*et.
Which, of course he did. It was
next to impossible to pass over a
3*oung man whose very face, and
whose every action and word spoke
of bis determined will to make cir
cumstances bend to his control. —
Early and late did he devote him
self to study, and he eschewed bad
company and the intoxicating wine
cup, till men, even of the dissipa
ted class, were obliged to respect
and believe in him. A case ot
some importance was entrusted to
him, and so well was this trust dis
charged, so eloquent did his own
hopes make him, that it was gained
chiefly through his eloquence; and
the young lawyer openly compli
mented.
This was the commencement,
and soon cases multiplied. No lon
ger was his green bag empty and
collapsed looking, but stood out
portly and ostentatious, with its sup
ply of “ valuable papers.” Thus
did Frederick Darsey woo and win
his young bride, and ’tis to them I
introduce y 7 ou.
part 11.
” Leave* have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north wind’s breath,
And stars to set—but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! ”
“Kate,” said Frederick Darse3 7
tlie next morning, while at break
fast, “if I was not obliged to at
tend court to da3 7 , I should take an
excursion into the country, and dine
with your mother; but, as I cannot,
what say 3'ou to putting on your
.bonnet, and paying a visit to 3*our
aunt Jane. It lies in my way, and
you are dressed nicely enough.”
“ Certainly, if 3*ou wish me to go
f red ; but —
“ Ah, I know whv vou hesitate
and’tis for that very reason I wish
vou to go. If I leave vou here you
i will be brooding over that dream
all da3 T ANARUS, as you did yesterday, and I
shall have you really unwell. You
do not like going to your Aunt’s,
but that is the very best place for
3*ou, under present circumstances,
as vou will find the reality in that
visit so contrary tovour dream, that
3 7 ou will at once forget it. Come,
3 7 ou must go, if ’Lis only to please
me.”
“ 1 will go Fred, wait ’till I get
m3 7 bonnet.”
They” were a beautiful couple,
and so many thought as they saw
the young wife in her simple, taste
ful dress, and becoming little bat,
hanging so fondly on her husband’s
arm. Mrs. Greenley was delighted
to have her neice with her for that
sociable day, and Kate herself al
wavs felt at home with her. Fred
erick lingered awhile, talking and
laughing gayly with his wife ere he
betook himself to the court house.
“Take good care of* Kate, aunt
Jane,” said he, as a parting saluta
tion, “ for she is rather nervous
about a dream, of which she will
teli vou. Do get into a real, lively
chat, fori shall expect bright smiles
to greet me when I return for her to
night.”
* After his departure the ladies ad
journed to Mrs. Greenley’s chabmer,
a cool and delightful apartment, to
pass the morning hours with their
sewing, or books, or conversation.
The dream was told, and Mrs.
Greenly laughed as she assured her
niece that dreams must always be
interpreted by contraries, at the
same time cnteiing largely into her
own “ experience,” to prove the
truth of her remark. She was a
lively, chatty 7 old lady*, doatingly
fond of Kate, and succeeded in
banishing her gloom somewhat, by*
not leaving her a moment for reflec
tfon. A flow of anecdotes and
lively narratives succeeded one
another so rapidly that dinner was
announced long ere either lady was
aware it was so late.
About twilight Frederick came for
his wife, and was glad to see her
sweet face wearing its accustomed
smile, as she greeted him on his en
trance. Tea, seemed, but to give
new spirits to the trio; and the
laughs of glee issuing from those
open windows, were heard that
evening by 7 more than one passer
by 7, who almost re-echoed a mirth
which appeared infectious.
“Oh, y 7 ou must not think of go
ing before y*ou sing my favorite,
Kate,” said the old lady 7 , as Kate
arose to get her bonnet, at Darsey’s
suggestion.
O O
“ Well, I will sing it for vou now.
Thank y*ou, 1 can sing very well
with my bonnet on,” as her
Aunt was about to remove it,
“ Come Fred, help me to sing it.”
How lovely she looked as she
thus sat singing in her sweet, gen
tle voice, to the plaintive accom
paniment of “ I would not live al
was,” Mrs. Greenley 7 ’s favorite ;
and her husband smiling upon her
in his fondness, and thinking her
an angel. He had certainly more
excuse than the generality* of lovers
for deeming her such, for Kate Dar
sev was as angelic in heart as she
ms O
was beautiful in person.
“ Good by*e, Aunt Jane,” said
Frederick, as Kate rose from the
piano, and commenced drawing on
her gloves, “ I hear the carriage
which I left orders to call for us, as
I do not think it healthy to go out in
these heavy dews. You must come
round to-morrow and see us, Aunt
Jane, can’t you ? ”
But ere she could answer him, a
shriek burst from the lips of Kate,
as she caught her Aunt’s arm, who
was standing near her, arid turned
ghastly*, in ihe bright light of the
lamps.
“What is it my dear Kate?”
questioned her alarmed husband, a
iie placed his arm around her.
“Oh, mercy! such an awful
pain in this side, this very side—l
can hardly* draw my 7 breath. Oh I”
she shrieked, “ 1 feel it again.”
And with a strong spasmodic con
traction of the hand, she grasped
Frederick’s arm. He was much
alarmed, but when her grasp loos
ened, and she seemed to have a
cessation of the acute agony, he
thought it best to place her in the
carriage, accompanied by 7 her Aunt,
and drive home, whilst he dispatch
ed a messenger for their physician.
The carriage was also sent that no
O
lime might be lost. All that night
and the next day 7 and night, did she
lingerin fearful agonv, with scarce
an interval of rest. If for a mo
ment Frederick quitted her side, or
occupied a position in which he was
hidden from her eyes, her cries for
him were heart rending, “ Oh, Fred
my husband, save me ! save me ! ”
The physicians did all that medi
cine or skill could do; but on the
morning of the second day 7 , they
told the husband their services were
unavailing—that death must ensue.
She lay resting peacefully as a
babe in his arms, whilst they 7 spoke
these awful words, to the wretched
man in a low, pitying tone, for a
change seemed to have passed o’er
her spirit, releasing her from her
agonized feeling.
“ Oh, impossible ! ” he cried, “she
breathes so calmly 7 , so gently now,
she must be better. Look, even a
smile is playing around her mouth.
Unsay whatyouhave said for God’s
sake! ”
They answered not this appeal;
but, even their ey 7 es, which had
grown almost inured to scenes of
suffering and of death, were moist
at the grief of the heart struck man,
as he looked into the beautiful face
of his dying wife, trying vainly to
check the sobs that, shook his frame,
lest lie should disturb her. She
opened her eyes, and looked wildlv
around her.
“Where is Fred? Oh!” as he
bent fondly 7 over her, so as to let
her ey 7 es rest on him—“Oh !do not
leave me for one moment, send some
one fir Mamma and aunt Jane; —
but keep your arms still around me
dear husband, ’till all is over.”
Those summoned, now entered
from the adjoining chamber ; and as
they approached the bed, her voice
fell upon their ears, in a clear but
mournful cn deuce.
“Mamma, I am dying—Short as
my illness has been, I felt that it
was mortal from the first —1 must
bid vou good bve, and thank vou,
dearest mamma, for all y*our care
and kindness to me, since I have
come into existence. Tell Papa,
good bye for me, and say I wish I
could have seen him ere I died, but
beg him to meet me in Heaven—-
Oh ! mamma, how happy 7 , how very
happy I have been in this world, so
happy, that if God willed it so—J
should pray him to spare me yet a
little while—but cry not dear ones,
He knows best,he makes me to feel
that , in my dying hours; and I beg
you not to grieve for me, for now, 1
am not afraid. Christ is waiting to
bear me through the dark valley, in
to the realms of light—where you
must all meet me. Mamma, com
fort poor Fred when I am gone.—
Let him be to you in my place.—
Good bye, dear Aunt Jane, I cannot
talk much more—kiss me, for I feel
1 have hut Jiti le time to stay. Fred,
my own dear Fred, hold me in your
arms until I go hence : and now all
kneel and pray whilst l am leaving
this world, that we shall all betogeth~
O
cr in the next, where there is nei
ther parting or sickness more.**
As *he desired, they obeyed ; and
for the next hour the voice of pray
er—heartfelt and deep—went up to
the throne of Mercy from that cham
ber ; mingled with the convulsed
sobs of her husband and friends.—
Through all, did her sweet face
wear its heavenly look and her quick
breath, shortening each moment,
told that she was passing away.—
“My husband meet me in heaven,”
was breathed forth with herlast sigh,
and she slept.
Frederick Darsey, secluded him
self from all society: and when at
last he reappeared to fulfil the du
ties of his profession, it seemed as
if a weight of years rested upon
him, so changed was he. He sur
vived his lost and loved bride, ma
ny years, hut never was he seen to
smile the same gladsome, heart
cheering smile of his happy wedded
days. To his death he was a firm
believer in dreams.
A witty lawyer, once recorder of
the third municipality, yesterday jo
cosely asked a Itoarding-house keep
er in Recorder Baldwin's court,'the
’l
following question. We think the
reply was good :
“Mr. , if a man gives you
$•500 to keep for him, and he dies,
what do you do? Do you pray for
him?”
“ No, sir,” replied the man, “ I
pray for another like him.”
A Very Truthful Answer . —Bun-
kum, in the Old North State, is un
doubtedly the healthiest spot on the
earth ; and it was on that account
that some ‘lower country gentle
men’ were surprised one day to see a
Bunkumite at work opening an omi
nous looking ‘hole in the ground.*
Os course they inquired what he
was about ?
“ Digging a graye, sir.”
“ Digginga grave! Why I thought
people didn’t die often up here—do
they ?
“Oh no, sir, —they never die but
once !”
They never asked the question
“but once.”— Spirit.
Judicious Investment. —Tn our ef
forts to benefit our families, we fre
quently go the wrong way to work.
A gentleman, fifty years ago, gave
bis daughter at her birth a diamond
ring, costing $1,500, which she has
still in her possession, and which
will remain in the family. A gen
tleman at the same time gave his
daughter $1,500, which she had in
vested for her at seven per cent,
compound interest, and as no part
of the amount was used, the sum
at this day has accumulated to $43,
185,50! while the lady’s diamond
ring remains at its original value.
“ What a censorious liar ! ” ex
claimed old Mrs. Partington, as she
read in a certain newspaper an ac
count of anew counterfeit which
was said to contain three women
and a bust of Washington on each
end. “ What,” said she, “ Gen
eral Washington on a ‘ bust,’ ’tis
not so,” and the old lady lifted her
specs and declared she had known
the old gentleman for the last thirty
years and she never heard of his be
ing on a bust—much less with three
women.
Be neither lavish nor niggardly;
of the two, avoid the latter. A
mean man is universally despised ;
but public favor is a stepping stone
to preferment; generous feelings
should be cultivated.
NUMBER 7.