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Sunday dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1845-1854, October 17, 1847, Image 1

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VOLUME 2. NO. 46.

5 |We ourselves cannot help thinking that mis
anthropy arises, in the first place, from a very
selfish disposition, which growing discontented,
because they cannot enjoy all the blessings of
life, but find that they must take the thorns and
briars, as well as the sweet-scented rose-buds,
fret their proud spirits into a state of mind that
they dignify by the name of misanthropy—a fine
sounding, dignified word, it is true; but if we
trace it to its real source, and are correct in
our ideas on the subject, all must necessarily
acknowledge that there is nothing atalldignified
in the state of mind that it implies—it being,
in our opinion, far more dignified to bear the ills
of life bravely, to make the most of the flowery
paths which are spread alike for all; and when
we get entangled in the briars and hedges,which
occasionally spring up between us and some fair
spot, all fresh and green, fight our way good
humoredly through them all, till we reach the
goal that tempted us to brave all difficulties,
and throw our weary spirits down to rest. Oh!
is it not wise—is it not far pleasanter to pass
through life with smiles upon our lips and sun
light on our brow; to pluck the flowers that
are strewn profusely round, and lighten our
journey by choosing some dear companions and
friends, to pursue it with us; to drain long
draughts from the cup of happiness whenever
it is proffered to our lips—instead, as gloomy,
moody misanthropes do, [of; sitting down and
bewailing every little scratch we may receive
in forcing our way through the ehvious briars
which will sometimes endeavor to stop our
paths ? Oh ! let us rather dwell long upon and
keep fresh in our memory all the bright and
happy hours we have ever known; for even the
retrospection will ever afford us delight. And
let us, at the same time, “ wipe from the tablet
of our memory” all the darker shades of exist
tence; for oh! it were foolish to give one
thought to circumstances that pained us at the
time of their occurrence. Oh ! when they are
past and gone, let them be for ever forgotten.
Albert and Marian had been for some time
buried in deep thought; they knew not well
how long—it might have been hours for aught
teat they could tell, when they were aroused by
a tap at the door. They both started; silence
had lor a long time reigned supreme, and this
was the first intimation that they received that
others were in the house, and the knock was
repeated before either of them made an effort
to attend to it. Albert, then, releasing himself
from his sister, gently opened it. anil, to his
surprise, beheld Henry Melville.
“ Io what do I owe this unexpected visit:”
said Albert, drawing back with an air of cold
“ This is no time for ceremony, Mr. More
land,” replied Henry, evidently endeavoring to
speak calmly, “ or I would not have intruded
upon you.”
“ Come at once to the object of the visit,”
said Albert, with increased coldness ; “ had I
known you were here, I should have refused to
see you, as my greatest desire is to remain un
disturbed by strangers.”
“ Mrs. Moreland,” replied Henry, giving no
heed to Albert’s observation, “ is*very seriously
indisposed, so much so, that it is absolutely
necessary, that some female relative should at
tend upon her.”
“ I told her own servant to attend upon her,”
returned Albert; “ what more can Ido ?”
“ What more can vou do !” replied Henry,
indignantly; “I tell" you she is'seriously iil.
God only knows, indeed, ~ whether she will
ever recover.”
“ What would you have of me?” said Albert.
“ Mrs. Trevors,” said Henry, advancing a
little within the room, and taking no notice
whatever of Albert’s last words, “ your sister
is entirely insensible, and evidently in a very
dangerous state: such being the case, I should
think your own desire would prompt you im
mediately to send her all the assistance in your
“I am perfectly at a loss,” replied Marian,
“ to know in what way I can render her any
assistance ; there are plenty of female servants
in the house.”
“ Servants!” interrupted Henry; “ and would
you leave so near a relative, in almost a dying
state state, entirely to the care of menials ?”
“ I am myself,” replied Marian, “ totally un
fit to watch by a sick bed, and though grieved
for Rose’s illness, yet I can but remember she
has brought it all on herself: she insisted, in
spite of our united endeavors to the contrary,
in giving way to the most violent passion, al
though my brother, so far from upbraiding her
with her guilt, made her the most handsome
offer of returning to her parents, and at the
same time concealing from them the knowledge
of her shame, yet 'she resolutely refused to
leave this house, and threw herself into snch
emotions, that I am by no means surprised to
hear of her indisposition ; indeed, it is no more
than I fully anticipated.”
“ It is useless to speak of that now,” return
ed Henry ; “ Mrs. Moreland is very ill, and the
only question is, whether you will, or will not,
cast from your bosom all bitter feeling against
her, and perform the office of a kind and tender
“ I stated but now that I was unfit for the
task ; neither do I think, were Rose capable of
choosing, she would be pleased with my atten
dance ”
“Very well,” returned Henry; “but Rose
shall not, I am determined, be left to the care
of a servant;” and then, turning to Albert, he
added, “ were Rose in a fit state to be removed,
I would convey her to my mother’s house ; but,
as I fear she is in far too dangerous and critical
a position to admit of that, you wi] I not, I think,
object to my fetching my sister here; and
Lucy, I know full well, will be only too
pleased, if she can be of service to one in dis
“ Do as you will,” replied Albert, “ I am
anxious that Rose should have every assistance ;
guilty and deceitful as she is, I would not, on
that account, she should be neglected.”
“ I will go immediately, then,” said Henry;
“ I have already sent for medical advice, and
shall not be long before I return with Lucy,
and then, if you will grant me a private inter
view of a few minutes, I shall take it as a fa
“Well, then, be it so,” returned*Albert,
with evident reluctance; “you will find me
here, and, after that interview is over, 1 trust
you will not disturb me more.”
“ Fear not,” replied Henry, “ that I will
again intrude myself an unwelcome visitor into
your presence. I would not even ask the few
minutes I now seek to converse with you alone,
did I not consider it my duty to do so ; but 1
am now as anxious to go as you are for me to
leave you;” and, without a word more, he left
the room.
When Rose uttered the planting shriek we
nave before mentioned, was patiently
", ai ‘ in S drawing-roois, to hear the result
of Marian s interview with her brother. Startled
at this sound of distress, without a moment’s
hesitation he hastened to inquire into the cause,
and arrived at the study door at the same In
stant as the maid whom Albert and Marian had
met in their passage from the room • and bend
ing over the prostrate form of Rose ’ Henry was
the first 1,9 raise her from the ground, when,
horror-struck at-the havoc grief had in so short
a time made in her fair countenance, but lately
beaming with hope and health, he tenderly
conveyed her to a sofa, and, with the assistance
of her servant, endeavored, by every means to
restore animation to her lifeless frame.
“ She will die,” exclaimed the poor girl,
wringing her hands in agony, for she was ten
derly attached to Rose.
“ No, no, my girl, do not thus alarm yourself,
or you will be incapacitated for attending upon
your mistress'; and y et,” he added, half uncon-
sciously, “ it is sad, it is dreadful to see her
thus; let some one,” he continued, in a louder
tone, “ run directly for the nearest surgeon,
and then, my good girl, remain here while I
acquaint Mrs. Trevors and Mr. Moreland of her
We have seen the result of Henry’s kind in
tercession with Marian on the behalf of Rose,
and also heard the resolution he expressed
to fetch his sister, the kind and gentle Lucy, to
watch by Rose’s couch. Getting into the first
vehicle that offered itself, Henry soon reached
his mother’s abode, and finding Lucy fortu
nately at home, lost no time in making her ac
quainted with all that had passed at Mr. More
land’s, and the service he jjjjjuired of her, and
truly did he find he had not overrated the ex
cellence of his sister’s character, when he said,
—“ He knew she would be happy to be of ser
vice to one in distress.”
Willingly, nay, gladly, did Lucy return with
him to Mr. Moreland’s, and her gentle bosom
heaved with anguish, as she gazed upon the al
tered face of Rose. During Henry’s absence,
she had been removed, under the doctor’s or
ders, into her bed-room, and by the bed-side
Lucy now took he‘r station,'receiving informa
tion from the doctor as to the treatment of his
patient, which she assured him she would see
was rigidly attended to.
X“ In that case, my dear young lady, I will for
a time take my leave; but should any change
take place, do not fail to send to me imme
Poor Rose ! “ a change had indeed come o’er
the spirit of her dream.” It is strange and
painful to think what a terrible alteration a
few short hours may work; that morning,
Rose’s heart had been light, and free from care,
her spirits more buoyant than usual, for her
fondest hopes seemed on the point of being
realised. Yes, Albert had relaxed the sternness
of his brow, had conversed with her in a tone
of tender familiarity he had never before as
sumed, had manifested a cheerfulness totally un
usual to him, and her most anxious desire had
long been to win him from the melancholy
which so constantly surrounded him, and her
heart had danced with joy at the prospect of
happily accomplishing her wishes; but all her
hopes were suddenly "dashed to the ground, and
she had heard (oh! with what direful bitter
ness of heart,) herself accused of unfaithfulness
towards the being upon whom she fondly
lavished every thought and feeling of her young,
pure heart. None can know, or for a moment
even conceive, the heart-stirring anguish that
wrought so awfully on the frame as to steep
every sense in forgetfulness : none can form an
idea of the maddening intensity of her anguish
but those who have themselves been falsely ac
cused, and trembled lest those they love dear
est on earth should give credit to their calum
niators. It is oftentimes so difficult for the
innocent to-clear themselves of the vile asper
sions cast upon their spotless names, that even
their just indignation, which should be a proof
of their innocence, is more often held as a proof
of guilt. Thus it was with poor Rose, who
could only exclaim, “ I am innocent, indeed I
am innocent.” These were almost the last
words that escaped her ere her senses forsook
her, and the first exclamation that burst from
her lips when once more awakened to renewed
life; she became conscious of surrounding ob
jects ; and as her eyes, all dim and lustreless,
fell upon the form of Lucy, who, kindly bend
ing over her, inquired how she felt, the touch
ing- and earnest manner in which she repeated,
“ I am innocent,” went to Lucy’s very heart;
and, turning away to hide the tears that choked
her utterance, she could only press the dry and
feverish hand Rose presented to her in silence
to her lips. ,
“ You must keep yourself quiet, my dearest
Rose,” she said, alter she had succeeded in
calming a little her own emotion; “you have
been, indeed still are, very ill, and I have come
purposely to nurse and attend you. Think
me your sister, Rose, as such, indeed, I am at
“My sister,”, repeated Rose, earnestly,
“ come here purposely to nurse me ! I thought
“ Hush, dear Rose; you must not talk now.
I know all you would say, but you have mis
taken us. Yes, you judged wrong both of my
self and Henry ; for, though you thought ill of
us, we have ever been entirely devoted to you.”
Rose made an effort to reply; but Lucy mo
tioned her to be silent, saying at the same
“ Suffice it for the present, Rose, that we
now know and understand each other; when
you are perfectly recovered, we can mutually
enter into an explanation.”
Rose shook her head mourfully, and with an
expression of countenance that seemed to say
she had no desire to recover.
It is a pleasing, and yet a painful task to
watch by the sick bed of some dear relative or
friend, to admihister to their comfort by a
thousand little tender offices that are sweet and
precious to the sufferer, and are valued tenfold
more than the strongest protestations of love or
friendship, and the tenderest manifestations of
regard shown when we are in the enjoyment of
health and vigor. Oh! sorrow and sickness
will soon prove to us who are and who are
not our real friends. We have all of us
plenty of self-styled friends, who buzz about
like summer flies in our prosperity; but wait
until a winter’s day of storm and cold draws
nigh, and then, perchance, we may deem
ourselves blessed if one heart remains true in
Lucy was, indeed, truly attached to Rose;
and though, of late, repulsed in her efforts to
serve her, yet, knowing it proceeded from the
guileful influence Edward had obtained over
her, and not from any wrong feeling nourished
in the bosom of one, she felt certain, was herself
free from all sin, so far as it is possible to-be so
in this world ; knowing and feeling all this, she
was only too happy to avail herself of the op- I
portunity of showing Rose h'ow sadly she was j
mistaken in her character; and now, as the in
valid sunk into a quiet sleep, she remained
perfectly motionless by her side, fearful that
even her breathing might disturb her repose.
Rose slept for several hours, and still Lucy
stirred not from the position she had assumed;
but, tenderly gazing with tearful eyes upon her
face, remained in deep thought. She had much
to render her unhappy, and afford her matter
for sad reflection; she was well aware her
brother intended seeking an explanation of Ed
ward concerning her who now lay helplessly
extended before her, and she shuddered as she
thought to what that explanation would lead?
She knew the temper and bearing of both of
them too well to doubt for a moment that the
end of it would be bloodshed; perhaps she had
even now looked her last upon that brother
who from infancy had ever been her dearest
friend and companion—one upon whom she
could lean for succor and consolation in every
trial—who was ever ready to bare his own bo
som to the storm, so that he might shield and
protect her. The thought that she might be
doomed to.lose this, her best arid dearest friend
—that his days might be cut short by the hand
of Edward, of .one to whom she had paid her
first and earliest vows of love —the bare thought
blanched her cheek to a deadly white, and
curdled the life-blood in her veins; still she
moved not, though thought had become so
dreadful that she -was sick and faint, till to
wards midnight, when Rose suddenly roused.
In an instant Lucy cast from her mind the chain
of ideas that the moment before had seemed
riveted there, and giving every thought and
feeling at once to Rose, was shocked to observe
that she seemed decidedly worse. Her eyes,
tnat were before dull and lustreless, were now
lit up with an almost unearthly brightness; a
burning! crimson spot sat upon either cheek,
and the palms of her hands were parched up
and dry with heat. She became also dreadfully
restless, tossing from side to side, and now and
then giving utterance to sentences that showed
her mind was wandering.
Inexpressibly pained by these’alarming symp
toms, Lucy immedirtely isent a messenger for
the doctor, who, on his arrival, confirmed her
worst fears.
“If she has any relatives or friends,” said the
doctor, “it is but right that they should be
made acquainted with her situation, as she is
certainly in great danger.”
“ She has a mother,” replied Lucy, “ and I
will send for her at once. Alas! alas !” she
ejaculated, still gazing on the face of Rose, “1
fear it will break her heart!” .
Nothing could induce Lucy to leave the sick
room for a minute, but she desired the maid to
give the necessary orders for a messenger being
immediately dispatched to fetch Mrs Som
merville to the bedside of her daughter, from
whom she had so lately parted, in the very
bloom ol health and beauty, and now so sudden
ly brought low.
Hose continued in the same state of fever and
insensibility all night, and towards morning
prematurely gave birth to a still-born son;
thus the poor babe fell a sacrifice to its mo
ther’s bitter anguish' before it ever saw the
Till this moment, Lucy had not once left the
room since she first entered it; but now, press
ing a kiss upon the burning cheek of the still
unconscious Rose, she crept slowly from it, and
ascending the stairs, knocked gently at the
door of the room which the servant had pointed
out as the one wherein Albert and Marian were
sitting; a voice bade her enter, and, doing so,
she speedily communicated the intelligence of
the birth of the child.
“ It is well,” exclaimed Albert, as soon as
she had ceased speaking, “it is better thus—l
would not have it otherwise.”
Lucy looked at him with an expression of
countenance that appeared to doubt his reason,
and then, turning to Marian, .she said,
“Rose is still very ill; I have sent for Mrs.
Sommerville, who, 1 trust-, will arrive in the
course of a few hours, or, indeed, she mav be
too late to see her daughter alive.”
“Is she indeed so ill ?” said Marian, appar
ently touched.
“ So ill,” returned I.ucy, ,? that I think all
her troubles will soon end. It is sad to think
of one so young and beautiful descending so sud
denly to an early grave ;” and the tears she had
previously restrained gushed in torrents from
her eyes.”
“I had fully intended to have left England
with Marian this very day,” said Albert, “ but
I cannot go while Rose remains in the state you
describe—l will, therefore, wait the termina
tion of her disorder ; I do not forget she is my
wife, though she can apparently forget that I
am her huSband.”
“ Oh, believe it not,” said Lucy, looking up
in the midst of her tears, “ nothing on -earth
should induce me to believe it but her own
avowal, and, so far from doing so, she has
repeated, even in the height of her delirium,
‘I am innocent!” and she is innocent, I am
convinced she is.”
“ You would not even then give credit to
your own oyes and ears. I_suppose,” said Marian.
“Henry has told me all that you'saw ann
heard concerning her and Edward, and, though :
I entertain the very worst opinion of his de
signs towards poor unfortunate Rose, yet, so far i
from deeming her guilty, I acquit her even of a
knowledge of his desires; he has induced her, !
by the most artfuKnfl specious manners which :
he has assumed, to gain if possible his own ]
ends. I say he has in this way induced her to
regard him in the light of an affectionate bro
ther, who has her welfare and interest at heart i
—at the same time, he. has done his best to ‘
make her entertain a bad opinion of myself and j
Henry, has not indeed hesitated to affirm the ;
most direct falsehoods as regarded us, and thus s
he has succeeded most unhappily in imposing
on Rose’s credulity.” i
“ You forget the letter which she sent Ed- 1
ward from the country, and of which she re- ,
fused to give you any account,” said Marian. i
“ No,” replied Lucy, “I do not forget that ]
letter, nor do I forget that I have since aster- .
tained, no matter how, that Edward p’rote to <
her by the same post as I did, and undoubtedly >
advised her how to reply to mine.” j
“ Well, it is useless to argue about it more,” I
returned Marian, endeavoring to assume an air 1
of indifference. ■
“ Worse than useles,” replied Lucy, “ for it <
is detaining me from Rose, to whom I am i
anxious to return.” ■,
Lucy found her in much the same state as she i
left her, and, resuming her position by the side i
of the bed, did her best to cool the fevered <
brow of the patient, and moisten her parched <
lips—a blessed and holy task, and one in which i
woman shines pre-eminent; it is her alone that j
can noiselessly move through a sick room, and, i
with light and skilful hand, apply the cooling 1
lotion to the forehead, or offer with prompt ex- ;
actness the medicine that is intended to relieve i
pain, subduing the violence of her own emo
tion, shedding no tear, unless she turn away <
and drop it unheeded by the sufferer: at such ]
a time self is totally forgotten by her—all her i
energies, hopes, and fears are excited for ano- :
tber. With what eagerness does she anticipate ]
each little waat, arranging and smoothing the <
pillows, so as they shall be soft to the aching 1
head, administering a cooling beverage, ere the i
patient hath time to express a wish for it. Oh ! 1
these, and numberless other, gentle and loving -
offices, doth a woman perform in the sick i
chamber; and these were never more tenderly i
or lovingly performed than by Lucy Melville, i
When Henry had brought his sister and i
placed, her as nurse in the sick room of Rose, 1
feeling that he himself could be of no further <
use, he proceeded to the room occupied by i
Albert, and demanded the interview with him
that he had previously promised to grant. i
Albert, leaving his sister alone, led the way \
into an adjoining apartment, and then, closing ■
the door, turned round, and, confronting Henry,
said,— I
“ You must be well aware that it is exceed- :
ingly painful to me either to see or converse
with you. You have witnessed, Marian in
forms me, what can only be interpreted into al
most convincing proof of my dishonor, and,
consequently, your presence is anything but
agreeable to me. Tell me at once, therefore,
what is your desire in seeking this interview,- i
that it may the more speedily be brought to a
“ I have,” begun Henry, “as you rightly ob- :
serve, been a witness of the great familiarity \
that exists between Mrs. Moreland and Mr.
Trevors, and it is that I have been a witness of
that, and also of much more—of Edward's vil
lany—that has brought me here this evening.
I desire,” continued Henry, raising his voice,
and looking steadfastly at the other’s counten
ance —“ I desire to know if, after what you
have heard of Mr. Trevor’s conduct towards
your wife, you intend to allow him to go un
Henry ceased speaking, but continued to
gaze on Albert’s countenance, which exhibited
signs of evident discomposure.
“ To what end do you put that question ?” re
plied Albert, after a pause of a few seconds.
“ 1 know not what right you have to do so ; but
perhaps you will be kind enough to explain
your motive ?”
This was spoken in 'sentences, with a pause
after each, as though lie were musing on some
thing partly foreign to the subject.
“ My motive is this,” replied Henry, with i
firmness, “ Edward, has behaved in the most!
dishonorable manner towards myself as well as
towards y«u, and dishonor can only be wiped
out in the blood of him who caused it.”
These words seemed to recal A Ibert’s scat
tered senses, and, with a shuddering that ap
peared to affect his whole frame, he, with diffi
culty, contrived to speak with at leastsomething
like the appearance of calmness.
“ There was a time, Mr. Melville, when
I thought and felt as you now do, but that is
long ago. Blood,” and he spoke the word with
a tremor, “ may never more be shed by me !
the very thought turns me faint and sick.”
“That being the case,” replied Henry, with
a contempt that he could not conceal from the
other’s observation, “ 1 will take him in hand
myself, and, believe me, I applied to you with
the utmost reluctance, doing violence to the
wish, I can truly assure you, lay uppermost in
my breast—that of revenging the wrongs he has
heaped upon your unhappy wife, with my own
hand; thank God!” he added, as he turned to
leave the room, “ I have no womanish horror
at the sight of blood.”
The handle of the door was in his hand,
but, at the moment he was about to turn
the lock, he was arrested by the voice of Al
bert, who cried in a tone at once of sternness
and command —
Stop !”
Henry immediately loosened his grasp, and,
turning round, oyce more faced Albert, and
folding his arms, waited what more he had to
“ I thought,” began Albert, “ that I had at
tained to that degree of dignity and firmness
with myselt, that 1 cared little or nothing what
others.thought; that, in short, being'well sa
tisfied with myself, I could afford to allow
: i a bad opinion ot me Ik
, others to enterm... ' - no reply, he again
> paused, but .Henry making .
i went on :
I “You have just now convinced me that my
I idea is erroneous, lor I cannot altow'you to
leave this house, carrying with you a mean
■ opinion of me: yoti think I am actuated by.
■ cowardly feelings in not availing myself of the
■ opportunity you have just afforded me of send
ing a challenge to Edward.”'
“I should have thought,replied 'Henry,
“ that you would have required no opportunity
—your own desire would have prompted you
alone to seek for instant revenge for the
foul dishonour that shall hereafter rest upon
your shield, and which, as I said before, no
thing but the blood of the injured can wipe
“ You can calmly speak of blood,” returned
Albert, shuddering; “but,” and bis face as
sumed the hue a spectre is supposed to wear,
1 you have never shed any.”
“Before this time tomorrow, ”■ lie replied,
“ I hope to do so ! and shall account blood so
shed as nought but an acceptable sacrifice,
which will lie very lightly on >ny conscience.
What!” and he turned his open, manly counten
ance full on the pallid features and sunken eyes
of Albert, “ would you allow this man to go
free—to practice fearlessly some further vil
lany on the young and unwary ? Oh, never I
never shall it be so, while I have an arm and
strength to use it.”
“You, you are different,” replied Albert.
“ I was once the same: to know rnyself de
ceived, and recklessly to seek the wildest re
venge, was one and the same thing. But, oh 1
I have seen, have feit—what, God forbid, you
should ever see or feel—the thought even now,
at the distance of years, drives me almost to
madness. Oh I blood, blood lies heavily on my
heart—the blood of one that was nearest and
dearest to me on earth—to whom I was
bound by every tender tie. Henry Melville,
when I tell you this, the heart burning secret
that is daily, hourly consuming me—that pur
sues me like the memory of a horrid dream,
saddening even my lighted hours, crying per
petually aloud for vengeance—oh ! when I tell
you this .(and let this care-worn brow, these
hollow cheeks, and these sunken eyes vouch for
the truth of my statement,) then say, can you
attribute my horror to the very name of blood
to cowardice ?”
“ No, no,” said Henry, frankly extending his
hand, which Albert met with more cordiality
than he generally showed ; “ no, no ; I can un
derstand and appreciate your feelings, they must
indeed be dreadful.”
“ They are,” returned Albert, and he bowed
his head upon his breast. “You are the first
to whom I ever breathed a word of this; but I
know I can depend on your secrecy.”
“ Be assured that your secret will die with
me. Should it be my fate to fall in the duel
that will take place between myself and Edward
to-morrow, you will, in remembrance of the
tender care she is now. manifesting for Rose,
do your best to fill my place to Lucy. I
would choose you above all men as her guardian
and protector, for I know, if you give me your
word to be kind to her, you will hold it.
“ 1 give you my most solemn promise,” re
plied' Albert, “ that in case (which God' in his
mercy avert;) your life should fall a sacrifice,
that-so long oa I-livewtll I take Lucy under my
most especial protection; nought "that I can
avoid by the most watchful care shall ever
cause her bosons the lightest pang.”
“I thank you,” said Henry; “your words
have relieved me from an anxiety I only' felt on
account of her. To-morrow, if I live, you shall
hear from me again,.till then ”
. “ Farewell!” said Albert, emphatically.
“ Farewell I” re-echoed Henry, as he left the
more alone, Albert, with anguish im
printed on his countenance, with hurried step
paced the floor of the room,’mutteiing to him
self, from time to time, —
“ Another victim —oh ! when will this cease .’
where, alas! where can I turn; ruined in my I
fondest hopes, doomed to see all around me, all
who can by any means claim kith or kin witii
me, hurled' recklessly from the very pinnacle of
happiness down, down to the depths of despair!
And oh ! if'my heart forebodes aright, ere an
other day shall close o’er my luckless head, this
warm-hearted young man, now,, in the very
prime and vigor of manhood, shall no longer
breathe the breath of life; and I—oh, dreadful
thought!—l alone the cause. And her, his
gentle, loving sister; alas ! alas! who will be
equal to the task of soothing her distress ? Oh,
misery ! that I, fiend-like, should thus wither
and destroy the happiness of all within my
reach, and yet fate has so ordained it; lam
compelled, not only to suffer myself, but to
cause, and then calmly look, on the sufferings
of others. Would that I could avoid this ! but
no, it is my destiny—a sad and fearful destiny
it is true, and yet I can do nothing but fill it
up ; it is useless to strive agsinst it, God
knows how much and vainly I have striven, and
yet would that this last stroke had been spared
Marian had remained alone while Henry
conversed with Albert, but having heard him
leave the room, <md her brother not returning
to her, she now venturned to open the door,
and take a peep inside. Seeing her brother
pacing the room with evident anxiety depicted
on his countenance, she pronounced his name;
he turned, and in the next moment was again
clasped to his bosom. Neither of them thought
for an instant of retiring to rest: their, minds
were too absorbed by the events of the day, to
allow them' to think of repose, and they re
mained (seated side by side, eacl; clasping the
other by the hand, though but few words es
caped them,) the entire night, undisturbed save
by the entrance of Lucy, who came to communi
cate the painful tidings of Rose’s illness, and
the premature birth of her child.
When Henry Melville left Albert he pro
ceeded direct to the hotel where Sir Charles
Mortimer resided, and, sending up his card,
was instantly admitted.
“ I am afraid you have come on no pleasant
business,” said Mortimer, as Henry entered,
and he noted his harrassed and care-worn ap
“ I have come,” replied Henry, “ to claim
that service of you, you promised to grant
whenever I might require it.”
“ And you find me ready and willing to fulfil
the promise; but help yourself my good fel
low,” he added, pushing a bottle towards him
which stood on the table.
“ I thank you,” replied Henry, “ but I can
not drink to-night; I must even, 1 fear, stop
your libations, at least for a time, as I am de
sirous of your carrying a message to Mr. Tre
vors immediately : he is now at the club, ex
pecting to hear from me; and I would not,” he
continued, with a satirical smile, “ keep him
longer in suspense, than I can well help.”
“ I am at your service now—therefore, give
me your instructions at once, and I will be off.”
They then conversed lor some time, after
which they left the hotel together. As soon
as they were in the street, Henry said, address
ing his companion, “ There are a few things I
wish to arrange at home, in case it may be my
lot to fall; but, in two hours from the present
time, I will again joinyou here;” and, mutually
wishing each other good evening, they pursued
different roads, Mortimer took that which led
to the club; upon entering which, and casting
a hasty glance around, he discovered Edward
and Fairford seated at one of the tables; ap
proaching nearer, he heard singing, and Ed
ward, with goblet in hand, he found had
1 arrived to about the middle of the popular
j melody,
11 When glasses spaikle rouud the board.”
Not wishing to interrupt him, he remained
concealed from their notice, till, with a full.,’
clear voice, he concluded the last stanzas,
“ If life is pain. I say again
Why, diown itin the bowl.”
“ Bravo 1” exclaimed Fairford, smacking th®
foot of his glass vehemently on the table >
i “that’s the song for me; come, fill yourself a ■
. bumper, and let’s be happy while we can, and ’
I merry while we may.” |
“ Yes,” replied Edward, as he drained off
the contents of his goblet,, “ a short life, and a
merry one for me.”
“So say I, old boy,” returned Fairford;
“ what is the good of a long life, I should like
to know, if we are.to spend it in dulness and I
care ? for my part, I’d rather bid it goOd-ofe at j
once, and take my ehance of finding seme more
congenial clime elsewhere.”
“ As to that,” replied Edward, “ I can’t say
I have much faith in the popular doctrine of
heaven and hell: it maybe some comfort to a
weak mind to suppose that when he leaves this
world he may be fortunately installed into a
better; but, for myself, I am well content with
my present situation, and have no desire to leave
it; but come, Fairlord,you must giveus a song
let us spend the evening as merrily as we
“ With all my heart,” replied Fairford, and
he immediately commenced “ Friend of my Soul,
this goblet sip.”
“ Surely,” thought Mortimer, who remained
still unobserved, " Mr. Trevors cannot be ex
pecting the challenge I have come to bring
him. Mr. Melville must be laboring under a
mistake, at any rate. I will take advantage of
the next pause to brtak in upon their merri-
e ment.” Accordingly, as soon as Fairford had
a, finished his song, and before Edward had time
to rnake any olservation, he stepped up to the
''hie and said, by way'of apology for the inter-
■ • ’’ -n: sorry, gentlemen, to be obliged
' ruption, '■ x—. hilarity, but I come
to piit i Stop to you* ' r " 1 and press
. on business that is at iiiidt! t'an»*.. ' I
ing. Did it admit of delay, I vifollrt .
assure you, have intruded, at the''present
“No apology is necessary,” returned' Ed
ward; “ yon come, I presume, from Mr. Mel
ville : we have been expecting you a long
“ Had I known that,” returned Mortimer,
“I would have.spoken.sooner, as I have been
waiting some time, in ’hopes of having the op
portunity of taking advantage of a break in your
conversation, not wishing to disturb your
“ Of course,” said Edward, carelessly, “you
bring a challenge Fairford has received in
structions from me to arrange everything
with you; only appoint an early hour for the
meeting, as, in things-of this sort, I hate
“ You but anticipate the wishes of Mr.
Melville,” returned Mortimer; “he charged
me to insist upon its taking place to-morrow
“ That exactly meets my wishes,” replied
Edward; “Fairford, yon will oblige me bv
proceeding to arrange everything necessary at
once, and then we can conclude the evening as
we have begun it, in merriment.”
Mr. Fairford immediately withdrew Sir
Charles Mortimer toa distant partof the room,
where they soon settled the preliminaries, and
then,’with a word of caution to be particular
as to time, Fairford returned to Edward, and
commenced the festivities of the evening afresh,
and with renewed vigor after this interruption.
They drank long and deep—song after song
was given and applauded, till day began almost
imperceptibly to dawn, when, pledging each
other in a farewell cup, they sallied forth into
the cool fresh air, disturbing the calm silence
of that early hour by rude shouts and snatches
of songs. Arrived at Fairford’s apartments I
Edward threw himself on a couch, in order to
seek that repose which was absolutely necessary
to refresh his exhausted frame, while Fairford ■
examined his pistol-case, to see that all was I
ready for immediate use.
Time wore on, till the sound cf wheels an- :
nounced the arrival of the coach Fairford had 1
ordered to convey them to their destination; <
awakening Edward, he informed him all was in 1
readiness, and, in a few minutes, they were I
seated in the vehicle, and hastening rapidly to- i
words the ill-fated spot.
They conversed together during their jour- >
ney on things and subjects totally foreign to the i
object, they had in view in thus taking so early t
a drive, till they had nesrly reached the place i
appointed for meeting, when Edward suddenly i
exclaimed,- ■ ,
“ I will not conceal from you, Fairford, that
I have not yet succeeded in gaining Rose ; still, ■ i
I do not repent having resolved to accept I
Melville’s challenge, as it may serve to help •
my suit with her; though, at the same time, I i
would, had it been possible, much sooner i
have preferred deferring this duel tilEAhe —
was entirely my own ; I should then have had s
the satisfaction of knowing, that if I fell, it \
would have been in the moment of victory; but 1
now, if I .lose my life in this encounter, it will
be sacrificed without obtaining aught that made s
it worth the cost.” s
“Think not of falling,” replied Fairford; i
“ the first fire is yours by right, and you have s
ever been famed for a clear eye and a steady ;
aim; therefore you may make sure of disabling
him, in a manner that will put it out of his c
power to do you any serious injury.” (
“You say right,” returned Edward; “ I have, s
indeed, ever been famed for possessing a clear <
eye and a steady aim, and if they ever did <
me good service, I hope they will do so this
day; and then see if Ido not succeed in winning i
the fair and lovely Rose: she has already t
given me good proof that she regards me high- ,
ly, therefore, with that sweet reward in pros- j
pect, I will not, even for one momeet, des- 1
pair.” ' ]
Henry Melville slowly retraced his steps to i
his mother's residence. ]
“Mv dear Henry,” she exclaimed, as she 1
entered, “ how very indisposed you look ; you ]
must absolutely take some refreshment and re-' i
tire to rest-immediately.
“ No, no, my dear mother,” replied Henry, |
“ 1 am, I assure you perfectly well, and have ;
only now come home to arrange a few trifling i
things, and shall then return to Mr. Moreland’s >
my services may perhaps be required by him. ;
I know, my dear mother, that it is hardly right ,
for both myself and Lucy to leave you at the j
same time, but your own kind heart will, I am
sure, prompt you to forgive us, for you are ever i
ready to succor the distressed.” ]
“Certainly, Henry; I should be the last to.
prevent your affording assistance to any that ‘
might require it, ahd shall therefore most!]
gladly resign' you.” .
And Mrs. Melville, though a most kind and ,
anxious mother —even apt to be, if anything,
over solicitous for their health and comfort— ‘
did not now say one word concerning her fear ,
of their over-fatigueing themselves. This is i
worthy of remark, as showing how a really
good and feeling heart will forget all connect- j
ed with self, and think only on the sorrows and ■
distresses of others.
Retiring to his own room, Henry wrote a ;
kind and affectionate letter to his mother and i
sister, and havingdisposed of a lew other’ things, ■
in anticipation that the forthcoming duel might
prove fatal to him, he placed the letters in his i
bosom, and with a heavy heart prepared to bid i
his mother farewell, perhaps for ever. It was i
a hard task to conceal from this tender parent ■
the suffocating emotions that filled his breast, i
and when he affectionately kissed her cheek, ]
and bade her be careful of herself in his ab
sence from home, she was somewhat startled ■
by his earnest manner.
“ Henry, my dear child,” she said, as she
gazed with maternal pride upon his open,
manly countenance, and pushed from his fore
head the thick, clustering curls, that she might
press it with her lips, “ did I not know that it
was impossible that you could leave me for any
length of time without informing me of your
intention, I should imagine, from your serious
and almost melancholy leave-taking, that you
were contemplating a much longer absence than ’
that of a few hour only.”
“ Honored, deir mother,” replied Henry,
“ please God I an still living, we shall meet
“My dear boy,” returned his mother, “ I
never saw you so sad before; to what can I at
tribute it
“ Attribute it,” replied Henry, kinnly, “ to
the sad events that have so recently taken place
at Mr. Moreland’s. Poor, unfortunate Rose is,
you know, dear mother, stretched on a bed of
sickness, from which, it is more than improba
ble, she will ever recover. Is not this enough
to make me, who knew, admired, and loved her
as a sister —oh I is it not enough to make me
“It is, it is, my Henry,” returned Mrs. Mel
ville, tears filling her eyes; “ and I would not
at the present moment wish to see you more
Thank you, dear mother, for saying so; and
now let us,hope that our last wishes may speedi
ly be realised—that we may have the unbound
ed delight of seeing Rose, not only restored to
health, but also to her good name.”
“ God grant, my child, that may yet be the
“ And now, dear mother, for the present,
“ Farewell, dear Henry : mind you forward
me early intelligence of Rose in the morning.”
Henry promised to do as she wished ; and,
once more in the street, pursued his way to the
hotel. He bund Sir Charles Mortimer already
returned fran the club, and who, in a few
words, comirunicated to him all that had pass-
I ed. They S]ent the night together—but oh !
j tar different from Edward and Fairford. No
i noisy revelry characterised this, perhaps the
last night tbit one of them should live—no
quenching of sitter thoughts in the maddening
bowl. No; they passed the night in serious
converse. Henry delivered the letters he had
written to hismotherand sister into the keep-
I ing of Mortimer, with a charge to him to safely
I give them to those dear friends, should the en
gagement he was under unfortunately prove
unfavorable ti himself.
“ This is tie first encounter of the sort I >
have ever been engaged in,” said Henry ; “and :
1 cannot cast from my mind a—l will not say I
fear, tor fear is unknown to me—but a forebod
“ Stop,” replied Mortimer, “ 1 know what
you would say; it is always the caSe when a
man first enters upon a duel. I felt it myself,
1 assure you; yet I returned home sound and
whole, without even a graze of the skin.”
“ You were fortunate.” replied Henry; “but,
nevertheless, a man will die none the sooner
for making preparations for it.”
“Not a bit,” returned Mortimer; “I am
glad you view it in that light ; and depend,
dear fellow, that to-morrow morning all 1 shail
have to do on our return will be to give these
letters back again to yourself.”
[t.*‘Well, 1 hope so,” replied Henry; “ yet
I think not, Mortimer, that! fear death on my
a own account, for I know full well it is a debt
3 we must all pay, and it would be of little con
- sequence, as regards myself, whether it was
1 paid now or some years later; but I have a
■ mother and sister who cling to me as their
dearest earthly friend, and when’l think of the
bitter grief I am well assured they would feel
■ loss’, I must confess it unmans me.”
at my— . ' “ more about it,” returned
“Thdti tiling . ’’l vour coolness.
Mortimer, “yoiiwill t:°ert a*. . ' excellent
Mr. Trevors is, I have heatd, ftiia -■
“ I believe so,” said Henry, and yet I think
we are very nearly matched ; for we have not
unfrequently, in our days of friendship, tried
our skill against each other, and 1 think I may
say with truth that he has missed the target as
often as myself”
“That is fortunate,” replied Melville, “al
though you being the challenger, Fairford, I
have no doubt, will endeavor to procure him
the first shot, but I shall most strenuosly oppose
it.” — ~
“Oh no,” said Henry, “ let him have fair
“[shall,” returned Mortimer, “ but shall
see that you have fair play, too.”
“ Well, you understand these sort of things
better than I,” said Henry, “ so I gm sure I
cannot do better than leave all to you.”
The morning broke fair and fresh, the sun
rose majestically, pouring forth its rich flood
of light o’er the soft green valley, and the rich
clad mountains; all nature seemed in harmony : :
the air gently rustled the rich foliage of the
trees; and, gathering from each modest flower 1
some sweet perfume, flung it softly on the am
bient air; the grass was yet damp with the
pure refreshing dews of night, and lay so en- 1
shrined in the blushing rose and modest lily, :
that now.the sun shone fully on them, it gave I
them the appearance of so many precious stones. :
The lark rose from his lowly bed, and, uprising
towards the heavens, his clear and melodious :
note sounded far and wide; and taken up and
re-echoed by others, the whole air resounded I
with this enchanting music. The spot chosen 1
by the seconds for the duel was a quiet, seclud- >
ed valley ; one of those pretty, tranquil spots >
which are to be found at a short distance from 1
the metropolis, and which, are valued by the I
lovers of nature, as affording all the fairy sweet- I
ness of the country, within a moderate drive ; i
and here it was that, on this .soft, early morn, I
the' grass' suddenly gave signs of being trodden
down, and in a minute more Sir Charles Morti- i
mer, Melville, and a third person—evidently ’
from his dress and bearing a surgeon —made 1
their appearance.
“We are the first on the ground,” said Morti- ’
mer, as the trio withdrew, and placed them- s
selves under the shelter of a few trees that <
skirted the open meadow; and, laying the i
pistol-case by his side, he threw .from his 1
shoulders a large cloak that had previously
completely enveloped his form.
“ You will excuse me,” said the third person, I
following Mortimer’s example, and allowing
the cloak he also wore to fall to the ground— i
“ you will excuse me, but I trust when the
other Jparty arrives, this affair may be settled i
without bloodshed. ’ ’ ' ' 1
—“TPuo not ttiirik fit can be,” said Mortimer, t
speaking to the surgeon, and looking at Henry,
who stoo'd with his arms folded on his breast, i
leaning, in a pensive attitude, against a tree. j
As he took no notice of this mute appeal, the c
surgeon, who appeared a man possessed' of \
strong feelings, of humanity, blended with the
upright bearing and character of a gentleman, 1
stepped to his side, and, gently touching his s
arm, said — ]
“Mr. Melville,you are tire challenger; conse- i
quently you should be.the first to offer tokens I
of reconciliation. Let me entreat of you to do f
so. Think, sir, how awful it is to take the life
of another, and especially of one whom you a
once called your friend.” I
“I. pardon, sir, this intrusion on my feelings,” i
replied Henry, with dignity, “ for I believe you t
to be actuated by honorable and praiseworthy 1
motives; but, had you seen,” Henry continued, I
in a voice hoarse, and broken with emotion, 1
“ the devastation, the utter, wreck of hope, of 1
health, perhaps even of life, that this man, <
whom I am here now purposely to punish for r
his villany, has caused to one young and lovely r
beyond what your fairest ideas could picture— 1
I say, had you seen this, you would not speak <
to me of reconciliation. Still, spite of all this, i
lam ready, for the sake of others, to receive t
from him an ample confession of his infernal
acts, and a solemn promise that he will quit s
this country immediately after he has made in ;
writing a contrite apology for the part he has s
acted. Can you wring this from him, I will be 1
content to allow him to depart uninjured ; but ‘
no other satisfaction will 1 receive.” j
The surgeon bowed; and turning to Morti- <
mer, expressed a hope that these.terms might ;
be acceded to by Mr. Trevors. |
“Do not, my good sir,” returned Mortimer, <
“ flatter yourself for a moment with such a <
hope, I am myself so certain of their being 1
scoffed at, that Ido not think it advisable to I
offer them.” (
“Oh I surely, surely,” urged the surgeon,
“you will do so; it is, indeed, your bounden j
duty to leave no stone unturned that may lead ;
to a reconciliationbetween the adverse parties.”
“As you think so, I will do as you wish, 1
though I warn you, before trial, that I know it i
will be useless.”
“You will, at least, have the satisfaction,”
replied the other, “ that should either of the ,
unhappy men lose theiv lives, of knowing that
you did your best to avert so awful a calamity.” ;
Wliile this conversation was going on, Morti- i
mer was engaged in loading and preparing for :
use his weapons. Henry maintained his posi
tion under the tree, while an air of stern re
solve sat upon his usually gay and hadsome ,
countenance. He looked around him on the
hills and valleys, all freshly decked in Nature’s
livery, and above him at the cloudless morning
sky and glorious sun, shedding his refulgent
beams so brightly on hill and plain. He felt
the soft, pure air fanning his fevered brow,
and invigorating with its freshness his harassed
frame. He heard the song of the birds blithe
ly carolled, as, borne up with lightsome wing,
they poured forth their’ morning hymn of
praise—he saw, felt, and heard all this as one
who saw, felt, and heard it for the last time.
Henry had ever been, even from his earliest
youth, an ardent admirer of nature ; but never
before had she seemed to him half’ so beautiful
as now, and as his eye took in at one glance the
wide expanse of heaven, thoughts long forgot
ten came back fresh to his mind, as though
they had occurred but yesterday—scenes of
childhood, when he lisped the morning prayer,
and was first taught that beyond the blue sky
of heaven lay a land where holy spirits dwelt,
enshrined in bliss, where tears and sorrows
were forbid to enter, and where the weary are
at rest; and he wondered if there was any truth
in these doctrines that, till now, he had long
ceased to think of, and riveted his gaze upon
the sky, as though he could pierce through the
clouds, and view all that lay beyond. He
steadfastly avoided giving even one thought to
his mother or Lucy. He had done his best to
provide for their comfort and mitigate their
grief in case he fell; and to think of them at
such a moment as this, he knew, would melt
his whole soul to softness; and Henry would
not for worlds appear’ otherwise than stern and
cold. Oh no ! he would avoid by every means
in his power, showing any outward signs of
softness, and consequently, he resolutely re
solved to fix his thoughts entirely on what was
passing around him ; but, even then, we have
seen him ied back to days and years, long since
past and gone. He was startled from his medi
tations, by the voice of Mortimer, who ex
clamed, aloud—
“ Here they are at last, having kept us wait
ing a good ten minutes, by my watch.”
Henry and the surgeon simultaneously turn
ed their eyes in the direction of Mortimer’s,
and observed Edward and Fairford quickly ad
vancing. As they drew near, they raised their
bats —a salutation which was returned in a
similar manner by their party, and then Ed- i
ward withdrew to a short distance, and Fair
ford joined Mortimer alone. Like hini, he
carried a pistol-ease, from which he now began
eagerly to draw the weapons destined for use.
“ 1 desire to inform you,” said Mortimer,
“ that Mr. Melville, in order to save bloodshed,
is willing to receive from Mr. Trevors a writ
ten apology; with that, and his promise to quit I
this country immediately, he will withdraw his
“ AH apologies are out of the question, unless
i they come from your side,” returned Fairford,
! haughtily ; “ then, indeed, we might be will-
I ing to listen to them, though certainly with re
! luctance.”
“ Mr. Melville is the aggrieved party,” re
turned Mortimer, mildly.
’ “We think differently,” said Fairford,
1 “ therefore, it is useless to waste time in ban
dying words. Are your pistols in readiness ?”
, “ Quite ready for us,” said Mortimer, “ and
: Mr. Melville is, I assure you, ready, and anx
ious to use them.”
i This being settled, and the distance walked
, over by the seconds, nothing remained but to
i place the opponents in their respective places,
e “ Mr. Trevors, of course, can claim the first.
fire,” said Fairford.
t “ I believe in the strict principles of duelling,
V he can do so,” replied Mortimer; “ but I think
t it would be more .honorable in him to waive it;
- indeed it is an observance that I have never
5 myself found adhered to, as it is certainly taking
i an undue advantage of another. Mr. Trevors
is, T know, an excellent marksman, and if he
• perseveres jn his claim to the first fire, he will
at least n,aim Mr. Melville, and so deprive him
of the power of retaliating. ■ Therefore, i.
justice to him, I desire that both parties shall
be allowed to fire at the same moment; thi.-
will place them on an equhlity; ahd were Mr.
“'■'’ville the challenged instead of the challen-
’ '* hesitate an instant to do as 1
ger, I shqula no.. »
now wish to be done by. , ->ll 'as excel-
There wqs so milch irUtii, 8S Riat
lent, reasoning,-in Mortimer’s reifiarlts, '
Fairford felt himself obliged in a manner to
accede to his request. This the seconds com
municated to the principals, as they placed them
opposite to each other. Melville and Edward
were both tall, fine men ; indeed, they were
much of the same figure and height, and were
both-dressed Ir. a j.’olt, it -watfono-
thing about them that, could afford a mark for
the other. Henry was deadly pale, but not
from fear, for his hand was steady, and not a
muscle about him moved. Edward’s cheek, on
the contrary, was flushed, and he seemed en
deavoring to assume an indifference he did not
feel; and oh ! how sad, that bands which bad
oftentimes been clasped in friendship, should
now be raised in an attempt to take each other’s
life. It was an awful pause,Though only a few '
seconds, that intervened after the weapons
were placed in their hands, and they stood con- 1
fronting each other,, waiting for the signal
which had been agreed upon. Oh ! words can- '
not tell the multiplicity of thoughts that i
crowded on - their minds during those few •
seconds, and which were suddenly’ driven away I
by the voice of Mortimer, who cried in a loud i
and distinct tone, “ Fire.”
In an instant both the pistols were raised, f
and the report of the two blended so closely I
together, that it almost seemed but that of one. I
Ere the smoke had time to clear away, Morti- 1
mer, Fairford and the surgeon ran to ascertain 1
the result: Edward they discovered stretched <
upon the ground, and to him they instantly *
proffered their assistance, partly raising him f
from the ground: Fairford supported him on :
his knee, while the surgeon hastened to stop >
the blood, which was flowing copiously from I
his right side.
“Is there any danger said Mortimer, with s
anxious countenance, as he bent over Edward, ’
who was perfectly sensible, though very weak 1
from the loss of blood. I
The surgeon shook his head, and motioned '
with his hand that he and Melville should con- '
suit their own safety in flight. Mortimer turn- 1
ed away, intending at once to seek Melville, '
and Induce him to leave the ground, when to <
his surprise he found him by his side. I
“ Thank God, you have escaped, my dear fel- 1
low,” paid Mortimer, grasping him cordially 1
by the hand, “ but I fear it is all over with Mr. t
Trevors, and consequently we had better be '
off at once.” t
’ “ Stop a moment,” said Henry, and his voice 1
was faint. “ I have not wholly escaped ; my. s
ngntrnrrny-you SCO.” -he- CVllliimeU’,—pointing I
to it. t
“Why, God bless me! you are wounded,” '
interrupted Mortimer, now’, for the first time,
perceiving his arm hung powerless by his side, c
and that the blood was flowing freely from a t
wound in it. 1
“It is but slight,” replied Henry, “ and yet,” 1
he added, “ I feel sick and faint. I must even •
sit down on the grass and refresh myself, and '
perhaps, Mortimer, you may be able to obtain s
me a drop of water. I think we passed a small. J
brook on our way here this morning, not far t
from this spot.” <
Mortimer hastened to the place indicated, 1
and found, as Melville had said, a small running 3
brook, whose water, was as clear as crystal: ‘
dipping some out with his hat, he quickly re- 1
turned with it to Henry, but found that, during
his absence, he had fainted. In the meantime I
Edward’s wound had been hastily dressed, and a
Fairford and the surgeon were now conveying 1
him in their arms to the coach, which had been '
drawn up a short distance off. Mortimer sum- ‘
inoned the coachman to aid them, and then, i
whispering to the surgeon he should be glad of 1'
his attendance on Henry, returned to.the side ■
of his friend, and endeavored, by throwing I
water over his hands and face, to restore him 1
to consciousness. t
“ This is bad,” said the surgeon, who, as 1
soon as he had placed Edward in the coach, 1
and given the man strict orders to proceed I
slowly, returned to offer his assistance to 1
Henry; and then looking at his arm, he added, <
“ Well, 1 do not think there is any danger, it a
is certainly a bad wpund: the shot must have c
entered at the elbow, and travelling up the 5
arm, escaped at the shoulder, and it has cer- t
tainly bled very profusely, and that alone has i
caused him to faint.” While speaking he pro- t
ceeded to bind up the arm, and Mortimer, re- I
lieved of the fear he had began to entertain for i
his friend, inquired what opinion he had form- ’
ed of Edward’s: wound.' ;
“ I think it is impossible he can ever recover,” '
replied the surgeon, seriously; “it is a sal 1
affair, a very, very sad affair.” i
“In that case,” returned Mortimer, “we 1
had better get Mr. Melville into the coach, and )
proceed at any rate some distance from London, <
immediately.” 1
“Yes, 1 think that would be the best we I
could do, at least for the present.” '
They then raised Henry from the ground, i
and, placing him in the coach, got in them- s
•elves, ordering the man to drive in an oppo- ‘
site direction to London. I
Thus, the quiet, tranquil spot we described :
previous to the duel was once more left in un- <
disturbed repose ; but oh ! the sad evidence
they left behind told its tale to all, that some
lamentable affair had taken place during the
last half hour. The soft grass that had, in the '
early morn, been sprinkled o’er with the most
refreshing dews 'of heaven, was now reeking
with blood —blood shed in the defence of what
men call their honor—and though, in this case,
Edward’s villany well deserved the chastise
ment, vet could no other way have been found
of inflicting on him the punishment he so richly
merited, than thus for the guilty and the inno
cent to stand face to face, and calmly point the
fatal weapon in a cold, reckless desire to take
each other’s lives ? Oh ! surely, surely, such
sacrifices as these to wounded honor are utterly
the reverse of acceptable to God, and should
never be deemed so by men How very often
does it happen that the life of the innocent is
sacrificed by that of the guilty! and one per
chance in the bloom of manhood, the hope and
comfort ofawidowed mother and orphan sisters,
who are bound to him by the dearest and noblest
ties, in his endeavor to right what is sometimes a
fanciful wrong, is suddenly—in the very midst
of life and joy, without time to seekfortbat par
don which we all, more or less, stand in need
of—oh ! oftentimes, indeed, without being able
to give utterance to even a single prayer—de
prived of that life which God gave, and which
God alone should ever take' away. Sudden
death is at all times melanchely, even when we
are conscious that it is the omnipotent will of
God alone that ordered it; then how much
more so when man, in defiance of God’s holy
law —“ Thou shalt not kill”—to avenge some
trifling wrong, wilfully deprives a fellow-crea
ture of life, and thereby not only incurs the
awful sin and consequent punishment of so
doing, but frequently plunges a whole family
into the very depths of affliction. Oh ! if they
would but consider that not only their own
lives depend on the issue of the duel, but the
happiness, also, of all that are near and dear to
them, and which they ought to feel themselves
bound to consult, even at the price of lowering
a little their own dignity, and endeavor by
every means in their power to avoid the awful
onset 'which they are well aware will render
those they love unhappy, no matter which way
it may terminate !
Mrs. Sommerville had greatly regained her
spirits, and succeeded in dissipating much of
I 1 lie fears she had entertained concerning her
daughter, since the receipt of Rose’S letter,
which was all that her fondest wishes could
have desired, and was read with rapturous
delight by the whole circle, and many fond an
ticipations for the future were warmly indulg
ed in by all —how sweet and pleasant it would
I be to greet Rose amongst them again ! when
i. restored to perfect health, she would present
to them her infant babe; how loved and trea
sured it vyould be by them, who so truly loved
and treasured her, especially her fond and
doting parents, who bad tenderly nurtured her
in infancy, and carefully watched over, her
early-budding charms! How sweet it. would
be to them to fold their child with rapt ore to
their parental breasts—to trace the fresh,
warm beauty of the mother in her infant’s face,
. to mark the soft'roundness of its little limbs,
and know that in time they would attain to the
polished fulness of hers. Oh ! this would in
deed be transport to their truly affectionate
hearts, and much and long they dwelt upon the
promised joy, and these hopes were fully par-.
I ticipated in by the warm-hearted old farmer
) Forster and his good and amiable daughter
■ Agnes. It is true that Mrs. Sommerville had
t occasionally a. little of that gloomy and unac
countable foreboding, which all have felt, before
, any dire misfortune or heavy calamity—fore-
1: boding of ill, which we cannot cast from our
; minds, but sadden our hearts even in the midst
r of mirth, which comes we know not how or
- where, “ like warning ghosts,” and give us a
s mournful presentiment of sorrow, which is
• afterwards only too tiuly realised. But Mrs.
1 Sommerville was not a woman to give way be
i tore the presentment of misfortune, and the
presages she now felt were comparatively tri
•ling ; so, buoying her mind up with the hope
that all would yet be well, she pursued her ac
customed avocations with the peaceful serenity
of countenance that so peculiarly marked her
usually unruffled brow. Ami in Agnes she
laily found increased comfort, for not a day had
nassed since Rose’s departure without finding
Agnes a visitor at their farm. It Was indeed a
n>eL s '’ re , to s amiable girl to devote an hour
or two of t’Cbh day to mutual converse, —“ al
ways friendly, and always sweet,” with Mrs.
Sommerville; atul on the afternoon of the day,
when at early morn the'duet took place be
tween Henry Melville and Edward Trevors,
Agnes tied on her straw bonnet, and banging
her little’Work-basket on her arm (for though
Agnes found time to visit Mrs. Sommerville,
she could not afford to be idle while there)
tripped across the fields on her way to Mr.
Sommerville’® farm. The morning of this day
was, we have already Said, fair and beautiful as
ever beamed upon this eai’t/l, and the afternoon
was worthy of so sweet a beginning. If was
the delightful time of harvest, and Agnes occa
sionally . lingered on her road to view with
beaming eyes the gloden store which the reap
ers were gathering in against the forthcoming
' winter, relieving their toil by snatches of
song, or pausing to quaff the nut-brown ale,
and then pursue their task with renewed vigor. 1
Agnes was well known to all the laborers, and 1
they lifted their straw hats, and bade her good I
afternoon as she passed, which she returned ,
with that affability which made her so univer
sally beloved; and, after she had passed through
f the cornfields, her road led through some beau- ‘
tiful meadow land, where the tinkling bell of i
the sheep sounded drowsily on the ear, inviting
the toil-worn wayfarer to repose, who, stretch
ed upon the grass, slept sounder than many on 1
their luxurious beds of down. Not a single ‘
fleecy cloud was to be seen in the heavens; no, j
all were transcendently blue, and just that soft ,
breeze stirring which prevents the weather
being styled sultry. 1
Agnes, though used to the beauties by which I
she was surrounded from her very birth, yet i
still looked upon them with an unwearying de- *
light. Cowper has said, and we think truly,
that scenes “must be beautiful, which, daily 1
viewed, please daily;” and this well applied to 1
the fair landscape on which Agnes now cast
her delighted eyes “ Sweet spot I” she in- .
wardly exclaimed, as her eye took in the wide
expanse of hill and dale; “ here surely is to be r
found all that heart could wish. Oh I here 1
may I live and die, surrounded by those I love!” j
and she sighed as she pursued her walk, for her
thoughts involuntarily had fled to Rose. “ She '
writes as though she were happy,” she con- <3
tinued, musing to herself; “ and yet how her
heart must pine amidst the dusty, bustling v
streets of London for the fresh air that blows
from thoso-Jicx'native Hills.' poor * would f
that, like me, your choice had fallen upon- one
who loved these rural scenes, and would have c
been content to abide amongst them—then, in
deed, we should not be separated from you, but c
together could rove o’er the fair hills and val- s
leys, visiting, as in childhood, hand in hand our r
favorite spots—together could draw around the e
fire of a winter’s eve, and sing the songs we
loved again. And oh !.’ it would have been a
sweet mutually to have soothed the declining n
years of our beloved parents—to assist their 1
tottering steps, when age shall have bowed them v
down, and thus gratefully pay back the debt t
we owe them for their love and tenderness '■
shown to us by uiany years of anxious solid- t
tude for our welfare. But, alas! it is ordered y
otherwise: the greater part of Rose’s life must
be spent at a distance froth all that are dear to
her; she will be obliged to have her cares and r
anxieties (for from these none are free) totally v
unconnected with us, and it is useless to repine, t
Let me rather bear m.mind that I have, conse
quently, a double duty to fulfil. Yes, I must
endeavor so to supply Rose’s place that her ‘
parents may not miss her affectionate case, and, 1
in doing this, lam confident I shall gain, if v
possible, still more the love and esteem of my
husband.” Husband! how' sweet and dear a
tie ! It was new to Agnes ; and the very word s
possessed a charm that was truly precious to t
her ; and, though Agnes knew and felt herself
blessed, yet she determined carefully to guard ,
her happiness. Her happiness,she knew, pro- .
ceeded chiefly from the mutual love of herself 1
and Henry; and love, she felt convinced, was a t
delicate plant —one that required constant care j
and attention, or it would wither and die ;
therefore, she wisely resolved not to neglect it v
in these her early marriage days, but carefully 1
to cultivate it, day by day, till at length she s
hoped to have the unbounded delight of seeing (
it grow into a strong and virgorous plant, which
should be able to withstand the rude blasts of _
adversity, should such ever threaten to over- i
whelm it. Wise resolve ! would that others of ,
her sex would act in the same praiseworthy (
manner! It is the only way of securing their
husbands’ happiness, which we naturally sup ‘
pose to be the greatest desire and highest aim of
every woman who becomes a wife. Women, un- ;
fortunately, are too apt to think that, if a man j
loves them at the time of their marriage, he
will continue to do so as a matter of course, and 1
never dream that it is their duty, their most ]
solemn duty, by every tender and winning grace, ,
by a constant and Unremitting attention to even
his slightest wish, to make him feel blessed in !
and proud of the choice he has made. Instead
of all this, it, alas ! too often happens that— :
“ Eyes forget the gentle ray,
They wore in courtship’s smiling days;
And voices lose the tone that shed
V tenderness around all they said.’’
The new-made wife will forgive us, we are
sure, for strenuously urging her to avoid falling
into this fatal error—this rock against which so
many have had their happiness wrecked. We
fear not for Agnes; her mind was completely
divested of all romantice notions of love; she
saw all in its proper light; and, though she
was confident she now possessed the entire love
and affection of her husband, yet she did not on
that account look forward with certainty to his
never changing; on the contrary, she felt that
it rested entirely with herself either to unloose
the chains that now bound him to her, or to
rivet them more firmly to him. And, oh ! she
felt it would not only be an easy but a delight
ful task to study his wishes and happiness be
fore all else on earth, and, by commencing thus
early, she should so accustom herself to think
and act only in accordance with his desires,
that it would become so habitual-that she could
not., if she would, throw it off.
There is little or no medium in marriage:
persons are either happy or miserable, and it is
all but optional with themselves which they
will’be. More, we are ready to grant, belongs
to the wife in the way of happiness; for it is
certainly more in her power to render both
herself and her husband blessed ; it is she who
can make his home so happy that he will never
desire to be absent from it longer than he can
help. A woman is by nature so constituted that
her power over man is almost unbounded : she
can mould him to anything she pleases, direct
his tastes and pursuits in accordance with her
ownj and so fix his affections upon herself that
lie will never so much as think of another. Of
couase, it- requires tact and knowledge of his
natural disposition to enable her to. do this;
but it is easily acquired by one who really and
truly loves her husband, and desires to make
him at once love, admire, and respect her. A
wife, nevertheless, should avoid appearing to
rule, or even lead her husband, as her doing so
makes him contemptible in the eyes of others ;
she should, therefore, appear to the world ra
ther to follow the bent of his inclination, and
never, by any means, seek to deprive him of the |
liberty of a single, while she procures him the i
comforts of a married, man.
[To be continued.!
Retribution will come. —Speaking of the j
murder and 'suicide in the Do Praslin family at
Paris, the Freeman’s Journal says:
“The Marshal Sebastiana also, the father of
the victim , may he not see in that awful desola
tion of his own hearth, the hand of avenging
justice visiting upon him the part he took in
rendering Poland childless among the nations .’
His mouth it was that pronounced “ L’ordre j
regne'a Varsovief and now in the hour of his
bitterness, a French liberalist paper is found to
repeat “ L’ordre regne dans la famille de
, Fancy Ball. —The following from the Lynn
, News, is a very fair hit at the manner in which
, the description of fancy 'balls appears in the pa
, pers:
! Th-re is to be a f-ncy b-11 at N-h-nt, one of
’ th-se d-ys. H-pe th-y’ll ha-ve a g—d t-me.
j Humility in the use of Rouge.—We
- found, tile other day, in an old and rare book
r we were turning over, a mention of the first use
r of rouge, which, by this account, seems to have
1 somewhat perverted from its original purpose.
- It “ was worn by the Roman Generals in their
e triumphs, that they may seem to blush continu
-1 ally at their own praises
r [Original.]
r ‘ Slidfljcs by Captain.
The Pirate’s Wife,
■ “ Why did she love him .’ Curious fool ! be still—
Is human love the growth of human will,?
To her he might be gentleness—”
Late in the year 1826 I was laying in the har
bor of Charleston, advertised to sail for Havana.
The day before clearing, a handsome young
Spaniard'came on board, and introducing him
self as Senor De Soto, asked me in excellent
English, when I was to sail, and if I could take
another passenger.
“ I sail to-morrow and can accommodate two
or three more passengers,” I replied.
“ I think Captain,” he said after a pause,.
“ that I will take passage-with you. I have
been lately in command of a Florida wrecker
and by one lucky chance have made doubloons
enough to stand a winter’s frolic in the Havana,
It is not often that an honest wrecker meets
with such a windfall,” he added with a laugh.
“ And pray what was it, Senor ?” I asked'.
“0 rare good fortune,” he returned promptly
“ I was out about six weeks ago,when one morn
ing, after a terrible storm, I discovered a ship
on the reef, in a most dangerous situation. Her
deck was crowded with men, and I saw at.a
glance that the vessel could not hold together
four hours. I ran under her sterri and made a
bargain with the poor wretches to take them
“ Made a bargain 1” I exclaimed with horror..
“made a bargain to save the lives of your fellow
“ To be sure, why not ?” he returned with «
reckless laugh, “ I, was a poor wrecker. It was
all in the way of trade. The vessel was from
New York, and I saved the lives of her crew
and passengers, at a round price a head. So
much money in my pocket disgusted me with
the wrecker’s life; I abandoned it, and have
been enjoying myself between New Orleans and
this place since. Now I’ll go to Havana, ask
my father’s blessing, and see what luck I shall
have at the gaming table during the winter.”
All this was said in a manner, which not less
than the words, betokened the heartlessness of
my new acquaintance, who as I subsequently
learned was the son of a rich merchant of
Havana, by whom he had been discarded.
Young De Soto paid his passage, and th f. next
day we sailed.
I had six other passengers, two of whom, a'
wealthy Cuba lady and her daughter, were re
turning from a summer’s visit to the States,
creoles I ever saw. She could not have been
over sixteen years of age. Her figure .was
slight and graceful; the features of her counte
nance were regular and symmetrical, while her
eyes told eloquently of a gentle, confiding, and
affectionate soul. De Soto and her mother had
met before, and ere we had been twenty-four
hours at sea, the young lady and himself were
walking the quarter deck, chattering away its
Spanish with delightful familiarity, as though
they had been acquainted with each other for 1
years. Before we reached Havana they were
lovers; before I sailed from that port they were
married. Young De Soto had made his peace
with his father, by feigning repentance, and the
two families had in consultation decided that it.
would be best to let the young people have
their way. I visited them several times, and
like all young married folks they seemed, and
were, very happy. For the gentle young wife’s
sake I prayed that her influence might prove
strong enough to subdue the bold, reckless, ven
turous spirit of her husband.
Nine years after the period alluded to, thir
teen Spaniards were, tried in Boston for piracy
in robbing' the brig Mexican of Salem, confining
the crew below, and firing the vessel. Happily'
they were rescued by a passing ship ; the pirates
were apprehended on the coast of Africa six
months afterwards, by a British cruiser, and
sent to Boston, where eight of them were con
demed. Only six, however, suffered death on
the scaffold. The seventh committed suicide
in prison. The eighth, the mate of the vessel,
was respited. I had read the account of the
trial of these pirates, but the subject excited
but little of my attention.
In the month of June 1836, I was passing
along Chesnut street, Philadelphia, when hear
ing my name called, I turned and saw gazing at
me, a lady dressed in the deepest mourning.
Her face was ghastly pale, and the skin seemed
to be drawn tightly over the bones—flesh there
seemed to be none.
“ Captain ” she said in broken English
and with a trembling voice—" Captain, you do
not remember me. I am Mrs. De Soto, your
passenger trom Charleston to Havana, ten years
In an instant the whole truth flashed upon
my mind. The name of the respited pirate was
De Soto, the bold wrecker, her husband. I en-.
tered into conversation with her, and learned
from her own lips the efforts she had made to
save her husband’s life. She had travelled
from New Orleans to Boston in search of the
persons, whom her husband had saved, for
money, from death on the Florida reefs. By
advertising in the papers, she found many of
these persons, and exciting their sympathies in
her behalf, they certified that they owed their
lives to her husband bravery—carefully con
cealing the fact that before he threw them a
rope, he had been promised a large amount for
every man rescued. With these certificates
she hastened to Washington, and asked of Gen.
Jackson the life of her husband. The heart of
the stern Old chieftain was moved by the wife’s
prayer, and he gladly availed himself of the
only ground for interposition—the supposed
services rendered by De Soto to American citi
zens in distress—and the pirate received a par
Two years ago I was in Havana, and met De
Soto in a coflee house. He was in command of
a steamboat running between that port and
Matanzas. I asked lor his wife.
“ She’s been dead these three years,” he re
plied with indifference, as he picked up a cue
i and challenged an acquaintance to a gipne of
Irish Legislation.—ln May, 1781, a bill
intended to limit the privilege of franking, was
eent from Ireland for the royal approbation :
I in it was ,a clause enacting that any member
: who, from illness or other cause, should be un
j able to write, might authorize some other per
| son to frank for him, provided, that on the back
l of the letter so franked, the member doth, at
I the same time, give under his hand, a full certi
ficate of his inability to write ! This admirable
joke we copy from an Irish publication; its
genuineness, therefore, cannot be doubted.
Qc? - A few years since in Western New York
■ a church which had been built by subscription
I was struck by lightning and entirely consumed.
Mr. Huddlestride Oldbags, an honest Dutch
man, who had contributed liberally towards the
building of it, was called upon to subscribe
again, for the purpose of rebuilding it. He ob
stinately refused with the eccentric remark :
“ If de peoples build de church to vorship de
■ Almighty, and he feel disposed to burn him
down again, why let him built him up de next
time heself.”
We are afraid this is an old Jo, somewhat re
s' duced in size.
. i A friend asked us yesterday why no man
r ( old possibly starve in the Great Desert of Sa
-Ira ? We could not conjecture. “ '
I si-.id he, “ of the sand-which-is there.”

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