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Sunday dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1845-1854, October 24, 1847, Image 1

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VOLUME 2. NO. 47.
BOSE SOMERVILLE;
OR,
A HUSBAND’S MYSTERY AND A WIFE’S DEVOTION.
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When Agnes arrived at the farm, where she ,
was ever received with the warmest welcome
she found Mrs. Sotnmerville rather indisposed. 1
“ Why, how is tiiis, my dear mother!” she ■,
exclaimed, as she entered the usual sitting- i
room, and observed her pale and languid ap
pearance ; “ you are surely unwell; why did I
you not send for me this morning, you know i
how gladly I would have come to you ?” i
“ 1 do, indeed, my dear Agnes,” Mrs. Som- 1
merville returned, folding her in a warm em- i
brace, “ but I was sure I should see you this
afternoon, and my indisposition being very i
trifling, I would not alarm you unnecessarily ;
now you have come to talk to me, I shall soon
be well; I declare I feel better already.”
Agnes was not long in laying aside her bon
net and scarf, and seating herself at the win- :
dow, which looked out upon the London road, :
drew forth her work, and, while plying the i
busy needle, sought to amuse and interest Mrs.
Sotnmerville by her conversation. 1
“ I cannot so much complain of bodily ill- ■
ness,” said that good lady, “ as I think my in- !
disposition airses from more disturbed repose : :
I last night was troubled with a painful dream
concerning Rose, and I cannot divest myself of :
a fear which has taken possession of my mind,
that we shall hear bad news of her.” <
“ Do not, I entreat of you,” replied Agnes,
“ allow that to make you unhappy; it would ■
grieve Rose much if she knew that you suf
fered anxiety concerning her to disturb your
repose.”
“ It would,” said Mrs. Sommerville; “ and
yet, though I have never been a believer in
dreams, this one has made .such an impression
on my mind, that I cannot cast it from me. I
thought I saw Rose with a dead baby in her ;
arms, and while tears —such tears of anguish
as I have never seen her shed—poured from ;
her eyes, she begged of her. in broken accents, '
to come to her.”
“It was, indeed, a painful dream,” replied I
Agnes, and she could scarcely repress a convul- I
sive shudder; “ still, my dear mother, it was
but a dream, and, as such, should not claim any
attention, though at the same time I am not
surprised that it has affected your spirits- yet,” !
she continued, trying to assume a more cheer
ful tone, “ had Rose been ill, we should be cer- ;
tain to have heard of it without delay: you
know, dear mother, when she parted from us,
she voluntarily promised to forward us early
intelligence, should she be at all indisposed.”
“She did,” returned Mrs. Sommerville, “ and
would, I am certain, redeem it; no,” she con
tinued, seriously, “ I do not apprehend she is
now ill, but may not this dream be ominous of
the future
“ I do not think so,” replied Agnes; “ there
are many ways of accounting for your dream ;
for instance, you know how anxiously you have
bees thinking of her lately; your dream has
but taken the same shape as your waking
thoughts.”
“ You may be right,” said Mrs. Sommerville, '
“ God send that you may; and though I am 1
willing to hope that this dream arose from no- 1
. thing more than my over-anxiety concerning i
my beloved child, still I canriot wholly cast
from me the fear of ill befalling her, that has :
taken possession of my mind: when I awoke,
the impression of it was so strong in my me
mory, that it was impossible for me even to
attempt again to sleep, and I half resolved that
the morning should find me preparing for a
journey to London.”
“ I am very glad, dear mother, that you al
tered your resolution, as if, on your arrival, you '
found Rose perfectly well, you would have been ;
puzzled to account to her for your- appearance
without arousing her fears; and, as she evi- ;
dently looks forward to the future without the
slightest fear for the result, it would be wrong
needlessly to alarm her.”
“ It would, my Anges, and I am thankful I
did not act so rashly, and we will no longer
converse on this painful subject: it is certainly
unwise, as well as useless, to anticipate misfor
tune.”
“ It is,” replied Agnes; for it will neither
prevent nor mitigate it.”
And then, with that ready tact she so well
knew how to use when occasion required, she
adroitly turned the subject, relating some little
anecdote concerning her father and Henry,
which she knew would be pleasing to Mrs.
Sommerville, and in a short time succeeded in
recalling the smile to her countenance, and was
gratified at seeing her regain, apparently, her
usual spirits.
It was, as we have said, a lovely afternoon,
and it being now the hour at which the family
usually took tea, Agnes, putting away her work,
began to arrange the repast in front of the open
window, and tripping out of the<room, and across
the farm, presently returned with Mr. Sommer
ville and his two sons.
“ I am quite afraid,” said the farmer, as he
stooped to kiss the polished brow of Anges,
“ that Henry and your father will grow quite
jealous, if we monoplise you so often.”
“ Oh, never fear,” returned Agnes, smiling,
“ if I have two fathers, you must remember
that I have but one mother,” and she cast an
affectionate look on Mrs. Sommerville, “ and it
is but right I should spare some of my time to
her.”
“ Well, dame, and how are you now? I must
confess you look better than you did at dinner- ■
time.”
“ I am, indeed, much better, both in health
and spirits,” returned his partner, “and you
must thank our dear Agnes for it, for to her
alone can I attribute the change.”
“ It is, indeed, kind of thee, Agnes, to come
to us so often ; and God, I am sure, will reward
thee.”
“ Do not praise me, or at least not yet; for
many years,” said Agnes, smiling, “ I hope to
be able to give you much stronger proofs of my
love than merely taking a pleasant walk—to
spend a pleasant afternoon with t hose I love.”
“ Thou art too modest, Agnes ; but we know
well thou leavest two behind who are dearer to
thee than all else on earth.”
“ We do, we do, indeed,” rejoined Mrs. Som
merville ; “ and though you wish us to think
but little of the sacrifice you daily practice in
leaving your husband and father to spend some
hours with us, yet we know and value it
highly.”
“ More highly than it deserves,” said Agnes;
“ for I assure you, so far from being a sacrifice,
it is a real pleasure to me. And then,” she
continued, archly, “ it is quite essential that I
should leave them to shift by themselves some
times, or they would not know the worth .and
value of my society; so, you see, my visits are
not entirely disinterested; and though I hold
long absence to be the greatest foe love can
have, yet short ones, I think, make the heart
grow fonder.”
They had by this time commenced the social
meal, and Agnes, seated at the table, dispensed
the refreshing beverage, and handed round the
seed-cake, made by her own hands, and brought
with her as an humble offering; and sweet
smiles and kinds words seasoned the repast, and
all cheerfully joined in the conversation, and
did their best to entertain the others.
How pleasant it is when friends in friendship
meet, and partaking of the frugal fare together,
converse over the tea-table with light and happy
hearts, when, free from all constaint and form
(which so encircle thd great,) they can pass the
merry jest and laugh at the little ills of life
which, perhaps, have at one time caused their
annoyance, but now only remembered to afford
mirth to themselves and others.
Oh! is not this pleasant ? We pity the man, '
be he whom he may, whose heart does not throb 1
with delight at the memory of some happy hours
round the tea-table,where each, gay and blessed, :
has added his modicum of mirth for the amuse- 1
ment of the whole. *
Ihe present circle were so happy that they 3
still lingered over their tardy meal, and were >
indulging in unrestaine.d laughter at some wit- >
ticism of Mr. Sommerville’s, when Agnes, who :
from her position at the window could see 1
right down the high road to London, thought
she perceived a great cloud of dust quickly ap
proaching, and called the attention of the others
to it.
“It must,” said Mr. Sommerville, “be caused 1
by a carriage, or some other vehicle.” Nor 1
were they kept long in suspense, for scarcely ‘
had he pronouned the words, before a post car- >
riage made its appearance, and drove rapidly up ;
to the house; the horses were covered with <
foam, and had evidently been put upon their s
mettle. “It surely must have come from Lon
don,” said Mr. Sommerville with increased as- :
touishment, as the vehicle stopped short at their
door. ]
His wife sank back upon her chair, pale and
spiritless, without the power for the moment i
to speak or move. Mr. Sommerville’s two sons i
rushed to the door, and received from the hands
of the position a letter addressed to their mo- ’
ther: to hurry jimamL give it her was-hut the 1
work of an instant. Breathless with impatiehce,
she tore it open, glanced her eye hastily over 1
the contents, and then, giving utterance to an 1
almost heart-broken shriek, she exclaimed, —
“ Rose, my dear, dear Rose, alas! my heart <
foreboded thisshe let the letter drop from i
her hands, and gave vent to her feelings in a 1
burst of agonised tears. >
Agnes endeavored to console her, but it was
in vain : she could only wring her hands, and ‘
exclaim, in piteous accents, “ Rose, my darling 1
Rose ! why, why did I allow you to leave me?”
Mr. Sommerville picked the letter from the !
ground, and, having read it himself, made the •
others acquainted with its contents; it was but
a few lines, and ran thus :
“ Mv dear Madam, —
“It is witli deep and painful regret that I 3
am compelled to acquaint you of the severe and 3
dangerous illness of your "daughter. Rest as
sured, till you can come to her yourself, she 1
tvill receive every care and attention from, my
dear madam,
“ Yours, most respectfully, 1
“ Lucy Melville.”
Agnes instantly, on reading this, crept from
the room, and with hurried hands began to pre
pare for the instant departure of her mother-in- (
law. In a few minutes all was in readiness, and
returning to the room with the necessary arti- j
cles, she hastily assisted Mrs. Sommerville to s
put on her travelling dress and bonnet.
“ Thank you, my dear Agnes,” said that ladv,
affectionately kissing her cheek ; “ what should (
I do without you, ever thoughtful and kind, ,
even in the midst of sorrow!”
“ You will allow me to accompany you,” said
Agnes, mournfully, “indeed I cannot allow you
to go alone.” ,
“ Oh no ! not for worlds,” replied Mrs. Som
merville; “you must, dear Agnes, remain to
comfort those behind: you will, I assure you,
serve me more by doing so.”
“ But are you, indeed, equal to travelling 1
alone ?” .
“ Yes, yes, my child; give me one kiss, and ,
let me go. Rose may, perhaps, be better when
I arrive.” ,
“ You will write to us, dame, immediately,”
said Mr. Sommerville, brushing away the tears
that dimrhed his eyes. 3
“ Oh, yes, I shall remember your anxiety,” ’
returned his partner, throwing her arms round s
him in a farewell embrace; and then, breaking ’
from him, she tenderly kissed her sons, and then 1
turning to Agnes, she exclaimed, affectionately, 3
“Farewell, my child, I entrust to you this 1
parting kiss for Henry; tell him he was not 1
forgotten, nor your father either, Agnes : once 1
more farewell, my dear husband and children.” 1
And, in the midst of kisses and tears, she en- 3
tered the vehicle, which, driving rapidly off, 1
was soon out of sight; and Agnes, with Mr.
Sommerville and his sons, again returned to
the parlor, where late-they had been so merry
—but dull and lonely it seemed now. Alas!
it was a sudden and a mournful change; and
oh ! how often does it happen that one flower
of happiness is, “in flushing, when blighting is 3
nearest.” Mr. Sommerville had never been
separated from his wife since their marriage.
No, they had lived together for nearly thirty
years without having once to pronounce the
word “ farewell,” till now; and he not only
deeply and bitterly mourned her absence, but
the sad cause which occasioned it. He felt as
one suddenly bereft of all that was near and
dear to his heart, and it was not till Agnes had
thrown her arms round his neck, and kissed
off with her ruby lips the tears that fell in tor
rents from his eyes, that he remembered he was
not entirely alone. Clasping her to his bosom,
the bitterness of his emotion gradually subsided,
’ and he could speak of his wife and daughter with
renewed hope.
“ I will not despair, my Agnes ; Rose may yet
be restored to us,” he exclaimed, in answer to
the words of comfort she whispered in his ear;
“ to-morrow, we shall hear of her. It seems a
long time to wait in anxious suspense, but there
is nothing for it but patience. It is a sad dis
pensation of Providence, but we must endeavor
to bear it as meekly as possible. I have a bless
ing, a rich blessing in thee, my Agnes, let what
will happen.”
In the course of the evening, as had been pre
viously arranged, Henry and Farmer Forster
walked over to fetch Agnes home Great, in
deed, was their surprise, and severe their dis
tress, to find, instead of the gay and light
hearted family, where peace and happiness
made their home, one sunk in the depth of
affliction. They were soon made acquainted
with the mournful cause of their sorrow, and
they mingled tears and sighs with them. The
night that followed was long and sleepless to
them all, and when the morning dawned, fair
and beautiful, its beauty was for the first time
unheeded by them. Oh, how drearily the day
passed on ! but it went at last, and evening again
closed round them; and, with throbbing hearts,
and anxious, fluttering breasts, they received a
letter from Mrs. Sommerville. It was given to
Agnes, and her hands trembled so, that she
could scarcely open it. It was written almost
immediately on her arrival. She had found
Rose very ill, but the surgeon gave her some
hopes that she might yet recover—that was
all the letter contained. But oh ! the hope
; that she might be spared with rap
; ture; still, they hoped with trembling, and
; mingled tears with their aspirations to Heaven
I on her behalf.
We left Lucy in attendance upon the insen
> sible Rose, and thither we return. The morn
, ing on which the duel took place found the
f unhappy Rose in a high state of delirium. Un
-1 conscious of the birth of her infant, she yet
4
retained in her memory much that had passed
previous to her illness.'j”Sometimes she ap
parently fancied herself in the country, and,
iddressing her- parents and brothers, would ex
oress in touching language her desire to return
to Albert. ■ ’
“ Why,” she would exclaim, “ do you desire
to separate us ? Oh! nothing but death should
ever part husband and wife. Let me—let me
go to him. Oh, why detain me so cruelly here!
You would not keep me, did you know how
dearly I love him;” and then, remained quiet
for a few’minutes, she would suddenly make an
effort to get out of bed; and clasping her hands,
exclaim in accents of the tenderest devotion,
and most earnest supplication, “ Do not, pray
do not send me from you. I will submit to any
thing, if you will only allow me to remain near
you. Oh ! do not look upon me with that
dreadful frown—your anger pierces my very
drain and then again she would fancy her
self conversing with Edward; and, calling him
by his name, would say, “ You know I am in
nocent of all that is wrong; you alone can make
it clear to Albert. Do me justice in his eyes
What! you refuse? Oh no ! it cannot be; he
will listen to you ; he will believe you; I shall
die if he sends me from him. Indeed—indeed,
I cannot go.”
Thus did poor Rose rave till her strength
wholly exhausted ; she sank back into a deep
sleep, disturbed only by the convulsive sobs
that occasionally heaved her breast. I.ucy,
seated by her side, watched her slumbers with
a grateful heart. After having witnessed with
intense agony the wanderings of Rose's thoughts
from one thing to another, but always with the
same sense of misery weighing her down —oh !
it was sweet indeed to see her sunk at least for
a time into an oblivion of her sorrows; and she
took every precaution to prevent aught awak
ing her. i
Marian and Albert still occupied the room
above that in which Rose was. They had, as
we before remarked, never once thought of re
tiring to rest; but Marian, towards morning,
had fallen asleep on a sofa; while Albert, rest
less and unable to keep the same position for a
moment together, now trod the floor with hasty
strides, and anon seating himself at a table,
buried his face in his hands; and then sud
denly starting up, would clench his hands, and
seem on the point of leaving the room, and then
checking himself, would mutter between his
closed teeth, “ No, no; things must take their
course; I cannot alter them; Fate will work
its own way ; and yet, if that one life might be
spared, he is a brave and noble youth, beloved
by his mother and sister. Oh ! my life would
be as nothing in the balance weighed against
bis, and gladly would I have yielded it is save
his;. but oh ! blood to me is too awful to allew
me for an instant to think even of shedding it;
and I felt from the first that it would be per
fectly useless to attempt to persuade him not
to Edward. Well, it was to be ; and
it he falls, it will only be in the fulfilment of
his destiny.”
As hour after hour passed on, his anxiety but
increased. His impatience to know the result
of the duel, he felt assured had taken.-place,was
so great, that he knew not what to do ; touch
ing the bell with a light hand, he asked of the
servant who obeyed the summons, if any letter
or message had arrived for him; he was an
swered in the negative.
“ The moment one arrives, bring it to me, or
should Mr. Melville call, admit him instantly.”
The servant bowed, and inquired if it was his
pleasuse he should bring breakfast in.
He was about to say, “ No,” but his eye fall
ing upon Marian, who was just rousing from hei‘
slumber, he replied, “ Yes.”
The morning wore on ; still no news of Mel- |
ville till towards mid-day, when the servant, i
brought in a letter for Marian. 1
“ Who can it be from ?” she said, glancing at
the direction; “ the hand is totally unknown to I
me.” :
“ Open it,” replied her brother, with a quiver j
of the under lip, which Marian could by no 1
means account for; but, however, doing as he
bade her, she, not without some misgiving, be
gan to read it. 1
“ Good God !” she exclaimed, turning pale, i
“Edward has been shot, in a duel, by Henry <
Melville.” i
“ How say you ?” said Albert, quickly. “ Is s
Mr. Melville injured ?—does he live ?—speak )
at once !”
“ Yes, he still lives,” she replied, mistaking i
him, “ though the surgeon pronounces the <
wound dangerous; and he expresses a desire to ’
see me; of course—I—must comply with his ]
request, and go to him immediately.” <
“ And does he say nothing about Lucy ?” re- <
turned Albert. ’
“ Lucy!—oh dear no ! —what should he ?” 1
“ I thought he might desire to have his sis- J
ter with him.” 1
“ His !—of whom do you speak, Al
bert ?” ’
“ Why, of Henry Melville, of course.” I
“ Henry Melville! it is Edward, not him, 1
that I told you was wounded.” s
“ Did you ?” replied Albert, with a ray of s
hope upon his countenance, that surprised his
sister, “ there is, then, no allusion to him in s
that letter ?”
“ None whatever, beyond the mere statement t
of his having shot Edward, who has been con- 1
veyed to his own residence, where he now lies 1
in a dangerous state.” <
“ May I ask who is your informant ?” f
She gave the letter into his hands. It was i
from Fairford, and merely contained what Ma- I
rian had acquainted her brother with. 1
“ I should think,” said Albert, after he had j
perused it, “ that as no mention is made to the '
contrary, Melville must have escaped unhurt.” ,
“ God grant that it may be so !” returned <
Marian; “ it is enough that one is dangerously <
wounded.” i
“More than enough,” replied Albert, solemn- i
ly; “ would they had both been spared !”
“ He may yet recover,” said Marian, who, '•
now that she was assured her husband’s life 1
was in danger, had lost much of the resentment J
she had previously nourished against him, and '•
was all eagerness to obey the summons which >
called her to his side. “ It is with sorrow that
I leave you Albert,” she continued, gazing in- >
tently upon his anxious countenance, “ but do ■
not allow yourself to be sunk in despondency ;
no one, I assure you, but Edward should in- 1
duce me to part from you—nor he,” she added ;
after a pause, “ were he not dangerously ill; I
cannot think what right Henry had to seek a ■
quarrel with him; if you did not choose to
challenge him, he certainly had no business to
do so; but he is himself a great admirer of ,
Rose, and thought it his duty to revenge any
injury done to her, though I cannot myself
conceive he was by any means authorised to do
so.”
“ What is done cannot be undone,” said Al
bert ; “ troubles seem to gather more closely
and thickly around us. It was not enough that
Rose lies in a very precarious state, but another
—what do I say ? perhaps two, for we know
not how Henry has come off—is added to the
number. It is not improbable even that they
may all die.”
“Oh! do.not talk so,” said Marian; “youab
solutely frighten me ! Let us rather hope that
all may recover.”
“ I do hope it,” replied Albert; “ no one
hopes it more than I; but, alas! it is more
than I can expect; one kiss, Marian, and then
adieu!”
“ Adieu, Albert, my dear brother! remem
ber, though I leave you for a while, my heart
still abides with you;” and with a sad and tear
ful face she left the room, and Albert was alone
once more, with nothing but his perturbed
thoughts for a companion. The servant, as a
matter of form, brought in dinner, but it was
taken untasted away.
“ Inquire how Mrs. Moreland is,” were the
only words he addressed to the servant, who,
hastening to obey, returned with the answer
that she had for some time been in a quiet si um
ber, from which they trusted she might awake
a little better.
“ Is Miss Melville still with her ?”
“ Yes ; she has not left the room for an in
stant since she communicated to you the birth
of the child.”
“ And she has received no letters ?” said Al
bert, pursuing his inquiry.
“ None ; she wrote a few lines to her mother
this morning, which were taken to Mrs. Mel
ville, according to her request, but which re
quired no answer.”
“ That will do,” replied Albert, seeing the
servant waited. “ You may go; but forget not,
should a letter or messenger arrive for me, to
let me have it without delay.”
Mrs. Sommerville travelled as fast as it was
possible to urge the horses, which indeed they
changed frequently, and with as little hindrance
as possible; for the man had. given orders to
have horses already harnessed at every stage ;
so they had nothing to. do but to take the tired
ones out, and put the fresh ones in, and yet
how little, how very little did the speed keep
pace with the impatience of a mother hasten
. ing to the sick bed of perhaps a dying child.
“Oh! if I should be too late to receive her
■ parting breath,” inwardly exclaimed Mrs. Som-
■ merville, as she wrung her hands in agony.
; “ Oh ! that I could fly to her side, could even
. at this moment know that she was still living,
t it would be some little relief,” and then bury-
NEW YOBI£, SUNDAY MOWING, OCTOBER 24, 1847.
ing her face in?jher handkerchief, she sobbed
and wept like a'child.
~Oh ! how long and dreary the miles appeared;
it seemed as though she would never reach her
journey’s end;;but everything must have an
end, and so at length did that mournful and
tedious journey. As she approached the resi
dence of her daughter, known to her only by
description, her heart beat almost to suffoca
tion ; and, when the carriage stopped at the
house she felt contained her, her agitation was
so great, that she was scarcely able to support
herself. The door opened, and a middle-aged
gentleman dressed in black, whom she at once
knew was the doctor, proffered his arm to assist
her in alighting; and, kindly supporting her
into the house, placed her in a chair, without
a word having been spoken on either side.
Mrs. Sommerville tl.en turned her eyes full
upon him, with an’.expression he knew well
how to interpret, and he instantly replied to
it, —“ Your daughter, my dear madam, has had
some refreshing sleep, and, though she still re
mains in a state of insensibility, yet she is cer
tainly more quiet, and the fever is a trifle sub
dued.”
Mrs. Sommerville drew a deep breath, and
then exclaiming, “Thank God! —you will
conduct me to her, doctor,” immediately rose
from her seat, and moved towards the door.
“ Are you prepared, my dear madam, to see
her ill—very ill ?”
“ Yes, yes, doctor, only let me see her; I am
prepared for all.”
“ Then follow me,” and he led the way to the
sick room.
Mis. Sommerville had thought herself pre
pared to see Rose sadly altered, but the sight of
her fevered cheek and pallid brow, where so
late had revelled eveiy charm of health and
beauty, had almost proved too much for her,
and she sank, well nigh fainting, on a seat. And
she now, for the first time, became aware of the
presence of Lucy, who, gliding gently to her
side, besought her to seek rest and refreshment
after her journey, before she commenced her
attendance upon Rose. “ I will, myself,” she
added, mildly, “ do everything for her that can
possibly be done, and, as she is insensible of
your presence, it cannot, at present, benefit her
in the least.”
“ You may safely leave your daughter under
the care of this young lady,” said the doctor,
“ for she has indeed, unmindful of fatigue or
anxiety, been constant and unremitting in her
affectionate care and solicitude for her.”
Mrs. Sommerville raised her eyes, overflow
ing with tears of gratitude, to Lucy’s face, and
then, complying with their united request, she
suffered herself to be led into an adjoining cham
ber. After a few hours’ rest she arose, and,
seeking Lucy, learned from her the particulars
of Rose’s illness.
Lucy dwelt as lightly as possible upon the
supposed improper familiarity that existed be
tween Rose and Edward Trevors; yet it deeply
affected Mrs. Sommerville, and when she heard
of the premature birth of the child, she gave
way to a flood of bitter tears, exclaiming,—
“ I know, I am certain my Rose is innocent;
but, they will kill her with their unjust sus
picions.”
“Compose yourself, my deal- madam,” replied
Lucy. “ I feel with you sure that she is inno
cent ; indeed, none who heard her, as 1 did, so
pathetically declare it, would doubt her asser
tion for an instant, and it will yet, I am sure,
be made clear in the eyes of every one. My
brother intends seeking an explanation of Mr.
Trevors, and if possible force him to do Mrs.
Moreland justice.”
“ Dear, generous young lady,” said Mrs. Som
merville, “ Heaven will reward you for your
goodness, and your brother too; noble family,
thus to espouse the cause of the suffering and
distressed I” i
Indeed, Mrs. Sommerville regarded Lucy in
the light of a ministering angel come to succor 1
and soothe her in affliction, and they now con
jointly directed their every,care and attention >
to the truly unfortunate Rose. :
*****
After the carriage which contained Jlelville '■
had driven for some distance he gave signs of 1
returning animation, and in a feeble voice in- 1
quiring whither they were going? On being ’
informed of the necessity that existed for them
seeking, at least for the present, concealment, 1
he at first strenuously opposed doing so. 1
“ I am ready,” he exclaimed, with deep ear- ’
nestness, “ to answer, even at the bar of my :
country, for the wound I have inflicted on Ed- i
ward, and which I think he richly deserves. '•
He has (in a more underhand manner, I allow) ’
destroyed the happiness, perhaps even the life i
of one young, lovely, and innocent—one whose I
very loveliness should have pleaded with him 1
to pity and to spare so sweet n flower; but he 1
heeded it not, and with fell ruthlessness sought
to wither and to blight it.” I
“ Hush !” said the surgeon, “ this earnestness
will injure you; be content to follow our advice <
for a while. You are yourself badly, though I 1
trust not dangerously, wounded. Still it is ab- i
solutely necessary that you should keep your- 1
self perfectly quiet.”
“ Yes, yes,” urged Mortimer, “ you will, I ! am i
sure, listen to reason.” <
Henry signified his willingness to abide by )
their decision, and feeling very weak and faint,
leaned back in the carriage and maintained si- 1
lence the rest of their drive. When they had 1
got, as Mortimer considered, a prudent distance I
from London, they stopped at a road-side inn ; 1
and, assisting Henry into the house, he was, by t
the advice of the surgeon, immediately put to 1
bed, and his arm, which had been only super- <
ficially dressed, was now properly bandaged. <
The surgeon evidently considered it badly <
wounded; indeed, he appeared to entertain
doubts whether he might not ultimately be i
obliged to have it amputated. But this he pru- s
dently concealed from Henry, who began to be 1
uneasy concerning his mother and sister. <
“What is to be done, Mortimer ?” he said, i
anxiously. “ If you write to inform them of <
the duel, they will certainly think I am dan- 1
gerously wounded, and will be suffering an 1
agony of suspense on my behalf. I really can- i
not think what we had best do ” i
The surgeon, who was one of the most hu- :
mane and kind-hearted men living, replied to
Henry’s interrogatives,—
“ Undoubtedly, by this time, they are ac- 1
quainted with the fact of the duel having taken
place; for Mr. Trevors’ second proposed con
veying him to his own residence, and that being
so very near- Mrs. Melville’s, she cannot fail to
know of the duel. Now 1 purpose, if agreeable
to you, to go myself and convey a message from
you to Mrs. Melville, and at the same time re
lieve her mind from the fear that your life is in
danger, and I can also learn how Mr. Trevors
is going on.”
“A thousand thanks,” exclaimed Henry.
“You cannot possibly serve me better than
doing as you purpose, and, if you will also call
on Mr. Moreland, you will add still more to the
obligation.”
The surgeon promised compliance, and all
arranged, both as regarded Henry’s treatment
in his absence, and his own mission, he bade
Mortimer and iiis patient a short adieu, and set
forth on his praiseworthy errand. On reaching
Mrs. Melville’s residence, he found that good
lady, as he had anticipated, already apprised of
the duel, and fluttering between the hope of
Henry’s safety and the fear of his danger. A
few words sufficed to acquaint her with the
truth, and, amidst tears of gratitude to Heaven
for her son’s preservation, he learned from her
that Mr. Trevors had received the best surgical
advice, and their opinion was unfavorable to his
recovery.
Mrs. Melville was at first very solicitous to
be allowed to go to Henry, but upon reading a
note from him, which the surgeon placed in
her hands, and in which Henry assured her that
she would more serve him by remaining in town
and forwarding to him, from time to time, an
account of the health of Rose and Edward, and,
not thinking his arm had sustained so much in
jury as it really had, she consented cheerfully
to comply with his request:
Having thus happily fulfilled the chief part of
his mission, the surgeon next proceeded to Mr.
Moreland’s, and, using Henry’s name, found no
difficulty in gaining access to him,
Albert was, as the reader will readily be
lieve, delighted to hear that Henry had es
caped with so little injury; his gloomy imagi
nation, which ever caused him to look at the
darkest side of everything, had Induced him to
think, with a feeling bordering almost on cer
tainty, that his life would fall a sacrifice to his
desire of revenging the wrong done to Rose ;
consequently, he was rejoiced, as far as it was
possible for him to be, at the fortunate result
of the duel, as far as Henry was .concerned;
still he considered he had sufficient cause to
justify him in being miserable, and for the
nonce he certainly had.
Rose, his young and lovely wifs, was stretch
ed upon a bed of sickness,from which she might
never again rise; Edward, his only sister’s hus
band was, he deemed, the whole and sole cause
of that illness, and for which he would doubt
less shortly pay the penalty of his life—events
sad Jand startling, and melancholy enough
' to plunge the gayest into gloom. No wonder,
■ then, that Albert’s brow was darkened with in
. tense sorrow; but instead of humbling himself
i before his Creator, and attributing all that had
, occurred to the wise dispensations of His om
- nipotent will, he regarded himself as a creature
I . singled out from the mass, to have all the fury
of the elements let loose upon him, to be cursed
; above his fellow-man, and never sought, as he
• might have done, to avert the storm, when he
i saw it impending over him. On the contrary,
I he rather invited its approach, and then blamed
• it all to destiny. ■.
“Yes,” he exclaimed, as he thought upon
■ the sorrow and sickness that encompassed
i those who were nearest and flearest to him,
- “ it was to be ; no power on 'earth could have
- prevented it. Fate alone can be blamed for
. all.”
■ Directly the surgeon left Albert, he has
. tened back to Henry, whom he found better
than he had dared to expect, and consequently
■ hesitated not to inform him of Edward’s dan
ger. , -
“It is entirely of his own seeking,’; said Hen
ry ; “ he well knows that I repeatedty warned
him what he might expect, if he persisted in his
endeavor to draw Rose from the path of virtue,
but he gave no heed to the warning voice,
and consequently his blood must be on his own
head.”
At a slow and gentle pace, the carriage
which contained Edward and Fairford proceed
ed along the streets of London, till it reached
his residence. The hour was yet so early that
few persons were stirring, and Fairford, enter
ing the house, summoned Effward’s own ser
vant, and with his assistance conveyed his mas
ter up stairs, and, undressing him, managed to
get him into bed. By this time Edward was
quite exhausted, and the surgeon having ar
rived, to whom Fairford had dispatched the
coachman to fetch, proceeded to examine the
wound in his side, which he immediately pro
nounced to be of so dangerous a nature as al
most entirely to preclude the hope of recovery.
Fairford received this intelligence in an adjoin
ing room, and which had the effect of so sad
dening his countenance, that for awhile he
could not again trust himself in sight of his
friend, for fear his anxious face should re
veal the truth. Still, he omit ed nothing that
could by any possibility tend to his recovery,
and to this end desired the attendance of the
highest medical skill; and, having succeeded in
partially subduing his emotion, ventured once
more into the sick room.
It was,indeed,mournful to observe the strong
man so suddenly brought low-j-he who at dawn
was all activity and vigor, whose muscles and
sinews seemed to-bid defiance! to sickness and
death, whose full and strong, manhood evidently'
promised length of days. 'Yet, here he was,
bowed down to the very verge of the grave.
The healthy color from his cheek had flown,
and a deathly paleness had usurped its place,
and the convulsive workings of his frame beto
kened intense pain.
“ How do you feel ?” said Fairford, kindly,
as he seated himself by the bedside, and took .
Edward’s hand in his. i
“Devilish bad,” he returned; “they say ;
every bullet has its billet, and the one which I 1
received this morning in ny side, plagues me '
horridly. I begin to fear,Fairford,” he added, :
after an interval of extreme pain, “ that I shall j
lose my life for the lovely Rose, without <
having the satisfactioh of knowing that I have •
won her.” )
“ Speak no more of that,” said Fairford, ear- i
nestly; “ rather think is Here anything I can s
do to add to your comfort ?’ ;
. “ No, my good fellow, you cannot relieve me i
of this abominable pain, aid there is nothing
else I desire at present; by-the-bye, I wonder f
how Melville gets'on ; I think I heard Morti
mer say he was wounded ?” i ]
“But very slightly,” returned the other, 1
“ merely a trifling wound in the arm.” <
“Ah! he is fortunate ; but! this pain terri- t
bly increases ; hand me thaj draught Dr. Wil- 1
cox“»aid I was to take, in case 1 found the pain I
become more intolerable ; and it surely cannot t
be worse than it is now.” :
Fairford poured it into a glass, and then, s
gently raising him in the bed, administered the 1
sedative. s
“ I thank you ; that will do,” said Edward, i
as he again placed him in a recumbent position; 1
“ and, now that I feel a trifle easier, I will en- i
deavor to sleep, and I may, perhaps, be better I
when I awake.”
Fairford re-echoed the wish, and drawing i
the curtains round the bed, so as to exclude the 1
least ray of light, was soon thankfully con
vinced, by his breathing, that he had obtained, f
at least, a transient relief from pain; and alas !
it was doomed to be transient, for he shortly 1
awoke to renewed agony. The surgeon, who 1
was in attendance, endeavored in vain to as
suage his pain, or mitigate the unfavorable s
symptoms which manifested themselves; he i
could only have recourse to laudanum, and that
only for a short time deadened his feelings. t
“ Would you not like to see Mrs. Trevors ?” <
said Fairford, during an interval of ease. <
“ I scarcely think she would come, were 1
even to desire it,” replied Edward; “ she thinks 1
I succeeded with Rose to the extent to which s
my wishes carried me, and infidelity is a wound <
to her pride I think she will never forgive.” 1
“ Oh ! she will .surely come to you, when 1
she hears how ill you are. Let me entreat c
of you to allow me to send for her, in your e
name.” s
“ Well, .do as you wish ,” and Edward re- a
lapsed into silence, while Fairford hastened i
to write the note to Marian, which speedily
brought her once more under the roof of the t
house, which had for several years owned her i
as a mistress. The moment she arrived, Fair- i
ford hastened to acquaint her with the extreme
danger of Edward, and also the intensity i
of his sufferings. She wept, as she exclaim- 1
ed— !
“ Oh, Mr. Fairford, how much misery do our t
uncontrolled passions cause, not only to our- \
selves, but to all who are connected with us. <
My brother I have just left, sunk in the deep- n
est affliction; his wife is, I fear, stretched \
upon her death bed; little hope, you tell me is t
entertained for Edward; and all, all this raise- c
ry, is caused, merely frem Edward being una- 1
b'le to control the unfortunate passion he enter- j
tained for my brother’s wife ; and now, alas ! I
not only his own, but, most probably, the life i
also of the misguided girl, whose affections he t
has estranged from her husband, and has only I
too surely succeeded in seducing from the paths t
of virtue, must fall a sacrifice to the indulgence I
of that ill-fated passion.” I
“ Is it indeed true,” replied Fairford mourn- s
fully, “ that Mrs. Moreland is seriously ill, and s
that her illness has arisen from Mr. Trevors’ I
partiality for her ?” t
“ Perfectly ; I have told you the exact truth, ;
and it shows the sad consequences of sin.” 1
“ I think you are laboring under a mistake as
regards Mrs. Moreland,” said Fairford mildly, ,
“ for Mr. Trevors has himself frequently avow- <
ed her innocence.” <
“ Rose innocent! why, why then was Ed- ]
ward shot ? but no, it cannot be! for when in ]
my presence Mrs. Melville accused him of en- >
tertaining bad feelings towards her, he never j
attempted to deny it.” ]
“Neither, my dear madam, does he now.
On tlie contrary, 1 am compelled to acknow- i
ledge that he regrets not having succeeded to ;
the extent he desired.” <
“ Can it be possible, then, that we have '
falsely accused and wrongfully judged Mrs.
Moreland! Ajas, alas ! if it be so, we shall :
have her death to answer forand Ma- 1
rian cast a look of bewildered agony on Fair- '
ford.
“I entreat you compose yovrself,” he said ;
kindly, leading her to a spat, and pouring out
a glass of wine from the decanter which
stood on the sideboard, he respectfully handed '
it to her.
“ If I have wronged Rose,” said Marian, with
anxious countenance, “ it is my duty to repair
the error I have unintentionally committed,
and use my utmost endeavors to re-establish her
innocence. Do not, Mr. Fairford, I beg of you,
think I acted rashly in depriving her of her
good name; for never did I breathe a word
against her purity till I possessed what I deem
ed, absolute proof of her guilt. Even now, to
think her innocent, I must doubt the evidence
almost of my own senses.”
“I know too well the goodness of your heart,”
replied Fairford, to think for an instant, you
would willingly injure another. But I will ac
quaint Mr. Trevors of your arrival, and then re
turn and conduct you to him.”
Saying which he left the room, to apprise
Edward of Marian’s wish to see him. He faint
ly gave the required permission, and in another
minute Marian was by his side. At sight of his
pallid brow and countenance, which was con
tracted with bodily suffering, she was so over
come, that she conld only clasp the hand he
held out to her on her entrance, and bedewed
it in tears ; resentment against him was totally
forgotten, as with swelling bosom and agonized
heart she beheld him thus helplessly stretched
, on the bed of death. From the first moment
her eyes fell upon him, and marked the hue of
death upon his features, she felt it impossible
he could recover.
i “ I am glad you have come, Marian,” he said
i at length. “ I was afraid you would refuse me
, this last favor.”
Tears so choked. Marian’s utteranse, that
though she attempted to do so, she was unable
I to reply; but pressed the hand she held, in si-
- lence, to her lips.”
s .J'Are you still in so much pain?” said the
i surgeon, who entered at this moment,'addres
-1 ing Edward.
; “ Indeed I am, doctor: can you give me any-
s thing to afford me relief
, ! “ I am afraid not,” said the surgeon, shaking
I his head.
< Edward paused for a few moments, and then
i collecting his strength, said with more of ener
l gy than he had before spoken,
, “ As, on quitting this world, we all of us have
> accounts we would gladly get settled before-
■ hand, I should like to know, doctor, whether
you think my time has come ; because, if so,
there are a few things I should like to arrange
' as quickly as possible. I trust to your candor,
therefore, to answer me truly the following
question—“ Do you think it improbable that I
• shall survive the effect '>f this wound, which is
now causing me such torment?”
There was a pause of a few seconds —a
painful and a solemn pause—it was broken by
Edward, who, impatient at not receiving an an
swer, said—
“ Do not fear, doctor, to tell me the truth ;
I am fully prepared for your answer—l
know you think my present .situation a critical
one.”
Thus appealed to, the surgeon replied, “ I
am thankful that you have spared me the pain
of informing you that your wound is, certainly,
a very dangerous one.”
There was another and a longer pause, du
ring which the sobs of Marian were distinctly
audible. It was again broken by Edward;
but his voice was faint and weak, and it
seemed an effort to him to speak with a degree
of calmness.
“ I heard from your answer, doctor, as well
as my own feelings, that I shall never rise from
off this bed again ; but how long do you think I
may reasonably expect to live ?”
“ If your unfavorable symptoms do not
abate,” returned the surgeon, “ your time I fear
is short; more indeed to be numbered by hours
than days; therefore, I would advise you to
settle all your wordly affairs without delay, and
then prepare your soul for another and, 1 hope,
a better world.”
Edward made no reply, but buried his head
under the bed-clothes, in order to conceal the
emotion that evidently shook his frame ; still,
his,bodily sufferings were so great, as to drown
in a .measure, the sufferings of his "mind.
And 'when the lawyer 'whom he desired
to see had arrived, the agony he endured '
was so great, that he could not converse with
him.
“It is impossible for me to talk at pre
sent,” said Edward, addressing the surgeon ;
“ cannot you give me some opiate, to lull this
pain?”
The doctor did as he desired, and in a short
time it had the effect of causing him to sleep.
Marian and Fairford, seated on either side of
the bed, watched his slumbers, while the sur
geon took his station at the foot. For an hour,
the most profound silence prevailed, broken
only by an occasional half-suppressed burst of
"anguish from Marian. Now and then, the sur
geon felt the pulse of his patient, and number
ed its beats by his watch; and each time with
an increased anxiety of countenance, which was
noted by Fairford and Marian with inward ago
ny. At length, Edward awoke, and, gazing for
a moment vacantly around, apparently became
gradually conscious of his illness, and thejsor- '
rowful faces of his attendants. '
“Do you feel any’ easier ?” said Fairford,
gazing anxiously on him.
“ Yes, much easier—l am almost free from
pain; but where is Rose ? I thought I saw her
face bending over me, but oh! so altered, so
dreadfully changed, that I scarcely knew her ; ’
and she whispered to me that Albert and Ma- ;
rian had accused her of guilt and shame, and
then she appealed to me, that, knowing her in
nocent, I would do her justice before I died, j
and declare it; and, when I promised to do so, |
she stooped and kissed my lips—the kiss thril- (
led my whole frame aud awoke me—but now I t
see her not—l fear my sight is already failing .
me; but at any rate, guide my hand to hers .
that I may die pressing it in my own ; one .
more such kiss, sweet Rose, and I shall die .
blest.”
“ Edward,” said Marian, solemnly, “ listen to :
me, while you have the power; it is your wife
Marian that speaks.”
“ Then is not Rose here !” inquired Edward
faintly. ,
“ No, would to God she were ! but she is
like you, struck down in the bloom of youth and
health.”
“ What is it you say ?” replied Edward, ea- ’
gerly, “ Rose ill! oh tell me, tell me I have j
mistaken your words ?” 1 ]
“ I cannot, Edward; it is, alas! only too ]
true. After myself and Henry Melville had ]
discovered you together yesterday morning, 1
deemed it my duty to make Albert acquainted
with what we saw and heard, when, believing '
Rose guilty, he denounced her as such, and de- ;
sired her to leave his house; this she refused to
do, declaring herself innocent in everything but '
her appearance; he still persisted, urged, alas!
I must own, by my persuasion, in giving no
credit to her assertions, and the violence of her
emotions having brought on premature labor,
she last night gave birth to a still-born child,
and now remains in a state of insensibility and
imminent danger.
Edward heard her through without any in
terruption, save by his groans, and now, having
requested to be raised and supported in the bed
with pillows, spoke as follows:
“ I feel my life to be ebbing fast, and nothing
now could add to the bitter agony I endure, at
learning the unhappy position of the innocent
and unsuspecting Rose. God is my witness, at
this solemn moment, that 1 never breathed a
word to Rose, that could call a blush to her
cheek. I spoke to her, only as a kind brother,
and in that light she regarded me, I am certain,
with sincere affection. I do not mean
to say that my wishes or intentions went not,
on the contrary, beyond ?, brotherly regard ; I
loved her passionately, and hoped in time to
gain her to my desires, and often I longed to
break the bonds that enchained me, and tell her ]
my true feelings towards her ; but though, of- j
ten when away from her, I resolved to do this,
I never in her presence had the courage to do it; ‘
though the words were frequently op my lips; ]
I was deterred from giving utterance to them, i
by the certainty of her anger and scorn—of lo- (
sing the kindly feelings of friendship with which
she regarded me ; and never till yesterday, had j
I attempted to approach her lips; but I was ,
then carried away with the ardor of my love, .
and thought not of the consequence : although, '
had you not interrupted us at this moment, you
would, I am sure, have been witness of her se
vere displeasure. Th? only letter I ever re- ,
ceived from hqr, you will lind in my
desk, together with another I had lent her for
perusal, but which she returned me unopened,
I am too exhausted to say more now, but bear
witness, all who are present, that with my dy
ing breath I declare Rose innocent even of the
knowledge of my desires towards. her.”
Having with muqh difficulty and frequent in
terruptions, from pain and shortness of breath,
given. utterance to these sentences, Edward
sunk back exhausted, and remained for some
time motionless. Atlength, whisperingFairlbrd
he called in the lawyer, andgave him thefew di
rections that were required as to the dispensation
of his property. Thisdone, he gradually dozed
off again to sleep. It was now night; and he
who lay dying there, and one who watched in
anguish by his side, had spent the previous
evening in rude mirth and drunken hilarity.
Oh ! it was an awful thought, and came with
deep and solemn feeling on the mind of Fair
ford, forcing teays from his eyes that had not
been wet since early youth. Oh! it is a solemn
and a holy task to watch by the dying bed, to
know, as the minutes fleet quickly on, they
bring the departing spirit closer and closer to
the confines of another world; that the life
breath is quivering the frame, threatening each
moment to desert it for ever, and yet lingering
a few more seconds ere the immortal spirit is
let loose, free to take its flight to worlds un
known, to wander we know not where. This
is, as we have said, a solemn task, and calcula
ted to fill our minds'with awe, especially when
we remember that a few more fleeting years at
most, and we shall be compelled, prepared or
otherwise, to lay down this mortal life, while
our disembodied spirits waft away to scenes and
realms unknown, where we are assured, we
must give an account of the actions, be they
good or ill, that we have performed while so
journing here. It was these thoughts and feel
ings that weighed down and oppressed the
trio, who were now gathered round Edward’s
couch. When they spoke, it was iu whispers,
as though dreading to trust their voices to the
stillness of that chamber. Edward suddenly
opened his eyes, and, with an almost superna
tural strength, raised himself, without the
slightest assistance, upright in bed; and, ga
; zing round the room, while his sunken eyes,
and the cold, damp sweat upon his brow, gave
■ tokens that his dissolution was close at hand,
exclaiming, in broken sentences, —“ I was
I wrong—l feel it now—Melville, Rose—forgive-
> ness!” sunk back again for the last time upon his
pillow, and, making an effort to smile as Ma-
t rian pressed her lips to his bloodless cheek,
e which faded for an instant into one of pain, and
- next stiffened into the fixed look of death, and all
was over. Yes! his spirit had flown to the foot
e stool of his Maker, there to render an account
-of the sins done in the body. Marian’s an
guish was beyond description; borne from the
- room in a faintingfit, in the arms of Fairford,
it was long before she gave any signs of return-
; ing life. When she did so, it was to an agony
so dreadful, that few could bear to witness it.
i “Oh, Edward, Edward!” she exclaimed,
■ “ wretch that I am !' it was I who caused your
death. Had I not been mad enough to take
! Melville to my brother’s house to witness the
■ interview I was aware you intended seeking
' with Rose; oh, had I been content to have har
, bored suspicious feelings in my own breast—
: this, this would not have happened But no ;
wretch that I am, this was not enough ! I must
' communicate all I suspected to Melville; had
it been otherwise, Edward would have been
still.living! but now cut off in tie prime of
manhood, and I, I alone answerable for it allI”
In vain Fairford essayed to comfort her; it
but increased the anguish of her mind till he
accidentally made some allusion to her brother
—this recalled her wandering thoughts, and,
demanding pen and paper, she traced the fol
lowing lines •
“ Dearest Albert—Rose is innocent, en
tirely so, and we have done her grievous wrong
in suspecting her for a moment to be otherwise
than affectitmate and true to you. Edward is
no more ; but with his dying breath he called
God to witness the truth of what I now tell
you. I can write no more, my very brain seems
on fire.—Your heartbroken sister,
‘ Marias Trevors.”
“ This,” she said, giving what she had writ
ten open into the hands of Fairford, “ this may
perhaps, be the means of preventing another
life from being sacrificed; at any rate, it is an
act of justice, that cannot be too speedily ac
complished, and, though it is now night,” yet,
undoubtedly, there are persons up at my bro
ther’s residence; will you entrust this to some
one you feel assured will safely deliver it ?”
“ I will,’’replied Fairford,affixingto it aseal,
and, leaving the room', he gave it in charge
of Edward’s valet, and hade him go with it at
once.
Mrs. Sommerville had, as we have recorded,
refreshed her worn out frame with that repose
which is so needful to the body, and afterwards
heard from Lucy the sad cause of her daugh
ter’s illness, and they were now, at the dawn
ing of another day, .watching over the uncon
scious Rose.
The doctor we have mentioned, who was in
attendance upon Melville, had obtained an in
terview with Albert, and made him acquaint
ed with Henry’s wound; hut of this, and, in
deed, of the duel altogether, they were happily
unconscious. Day was just struggling to obtain
the victory over night, and, casting its pale
beams through the window, began to make the
lamp that was burning unnecessary, when a
light tap at the dooi- was answered by Lucy,
who received a message from the servant to the
purport that Mr. Moreland wished to speak to '
her immediately in the room above. Trein- ;
blingly she obeyed the summons, with a sort of ,
ominous fear that some fresh calamity was
about to break over her devoted head. Albert 1
was pacing the floor with those rapid strides
that characterized him when any unusual emo- i
tion painfully effected him; he stopped abrupt- ■
ly in his hurried walk as she entered, and, lor- ,
getful that she was yet unacquainted with the '
duel, said, pointing tothe letter he had just re- 1
ceived from Marian, and which was lying open
on the table, “ Read that.” Lucy complied, ,
and as she did so, he watched her countenance.
At the commencement, “ My dear brother,” it ’
wore a puzzled expression, as she was not
aware Marian had left the house. At the next ,
sentense, “ Rose is innocent!” it was radiant
with a smile of joy, but as she proceeded an uni- '
versal trembling seized upon her frame, the 1
letter yet gave token that it was capable of j
being blanched even more, for every vestige of <
blood now forsook it, leaving her countenance
of a deadly hue. She strove to speak—it was 1
useless; she could not give utterance to even 1
the slightest sound, and she would have sunk to
the floor had not Albert caught her in his arms.
To call the servant, without disturbing Rose, 1
was impossible ; therefore, conveying her to a '
sofa, he sought the only remedy that was at s
hand —cold water, with which he plentifully (
bedewed her face. Lucy was not a girl easily
overcome, but when the reader remembers that '
she had for many long and weary hours been in
close attendance upon Rose, without even once j
closing her eyes-in sleep, he will not be sur- .
prised that the shock she now received on
hearing thus suddenly, without one word of 1
preparation, of the death of Edward—of one I
to whom she had once been fondly attached— ;
to whom her heart had beat responsive to that ]
first warm love which neither years nor es
trangement can make a woman entirely forget, 1
—we say, we think it not astonishing that the :
surprise at thus unexpectedly hearing of his ’
death, acting upon an already weakened frame, ,
should have caused the fainting we have alrea
dy described. '
[To be continued.} i
' !
GENTLE WORDS.
Ayoung rose in the summer time
fs beautiful to me, i
And glorious are the many stars
That glimmer on the sea;
But gentle words and loving hearts,
And hands io clasp my own,
Are bettor than the finest flowers,
Or stars that ever shone.
The sun may warm the grass to life,
The dew the drippling flower;
And eyes grow bright and watch the light ,
Ot Autumn’s opening hour,
But words that breathe of tenderness
And smiles we know are true.
Are warmer than the summer time, 1
And lighter than the dew.
It is not much the world can give,
With all its subtle art, i
And gold and gems are not the things
To satisfy the heart;
But. oh, if those who cluster round
The altar and the hearth, ,
Have gentle words and loving smiles,
How beautjful is earth ! <
patriotic Sentiments.
The annexed spirited remarks, from the
New Orleans Delta, will find a ready response '
in the bosom of every true American—of every '
lover of his country’s honor. They will dis
please those pin-headed creatures only who '
think more of the “ almighty dollar” than they
do of the success and glory of our arms.
The voice of New Orleans has gone forth. It 1
proclaims the vigorous, united and unceasing
prosecution of the war to a satisfactory and '
glorious termination. It proclaims more, that
“ the war is -just and necessary for the present
vation of the rights and the assertion ef the
honor of our country.” This is now the voice
of all parties, even of those who at the begin
ning were opposed to the war.
New Orleans has in times past taken a promi
nent and leading position on all questions in
volving the honor and character of our Repub
lic. Here the spirit of patriotism has ever
prevailed over all party, sectional and local
considerations. Here no narrow, illiberal and
unloyal sentiments have ever found favor or
countenance from any of the various population
of our city. The spirit of Jackson—the in
fluence of his mighty heart has abided with
our people since the glorious days of the Decem
ber of 1814, and the January of 1815. The
rays of glory which ascended from the bloody
field of Chalmette still linger over our city,
and the deeds of the patriot-heroes who made
this consecrated ground in American history,
are ever present to cheer and unite us to like
heroism and patriotism.
Truly, such reminiscences are priceless—
such examples and such associations are worth
to a people more than all the wealth of Tyre,
or the grandeur of Thebes. They constitute a
wall of defence more impregnable than the
seven-fold wall of Troy, or the wooden walls
of Old England. There is no sword or buckler
like a heritage of glory.
The mixed and various character of our
population has had the wholesome effect of cor
recting and modifying many of the prejudices
and peculiar notions of individual classes and
character. Thus it 1 is that in New Orleans
there is less of that carping prejudice, besotted
bigotry, narrow-minded, sectional feeling, and
more homogeneity of patriotism and nationali
ty, than any other population of the same ex
tent throughout our wide-spread Union. Thus
it is that no appeal to sentiments of national
duty and patriotism is ever made in vain in
New Orleans. But will the war-cry which
night-before-last, by one spontaneous move
ment of all classes, was made to resound
through the vast Hall of our City Exchange,
die away as it leaves the limits of the Crescent
City, and find no response—no echo in other
towns and communities of our wide-spread
country ? IVe trust not —we believe not.
Throughout our Union the same bugle-notes
will stir up the soils of men and fire their
hearts with patriotic valor.
How to be Harpy.—A genius in the West,
gives the following as his opinion of what con
stitutes perfect bliss;
Be content as long as your mouth is full and
1 your body warm—remember the poor —kiss the
' pretty girls—don’t rob your neighbor’s hen
> roost —never pick an editor’s pocket, nor enter
l tain an idea that he is going to treat—kick dull
1 care to the deuce—black your own boots—sew
- on your own buttons, and be sure to take a
t [ paper.
GOLD CANNOTZPURCHASE ALL!
> On a downy bed, where falls around
Rich massive curtains, a child reposes—
> Silence reigns in that room profound.
For his heavy eyes the sufferer closes;
And the tired watchers, weary and worn,
Await the event oi the coming morn.
Hush the door opens ! A lady clad
, In the rich array of a Noble’s‘wife,
. Comes gently in; but her face is sad,
Though she is of lofty rank in life.
• She bends o’er the gilt and curtain’d bed.
, And deeply sighs as she hides her head !
; She was wedded in youth to a wealthy Lord,
Haughty and stern, as the rich can be—
Not a kindly tone had that lady heard.
Not a loving glance did she ever sec,
Like a barter’d jewel, she was sold
For the world’s vain idol—for wealth, for gold ’.
Hush ! there’s a movement, a low. faint moan—
With hurried step does that lady glide;
Oh ! it was the last, the expiring groan
She heard, and she stands by her dead child’s side!
What bitter tears did that laay shed
In the stillness of night at that gUded'bcd! ’ A.
walls are'eover’d with picturcsßrare—T* a
The step is not heard on the carpeted floor—
Attendants arc waiting with zealous care—
What can be coveted, wished-for more f
But Death from the winding-sheet and pall
Murmurs “ Gold cannot purchase all!”
[Original.]
Htligions nf tljc Worlb.
NUMBER THIRTY SIX.
Deism.
Deism and Deity are from the Latin word
which signifies God ; as Theism, Theist, The
ology, etc., are from the Greek.
A Deist, or Theist, therefore, is one who be
lieves in, and consequently, adores God. In a
"wide sense, almost all men, therefore, are
Deists; but the word is commonly used in its
more confined sense, as meaning one who be
lieves in God, but rejects any thing purporting
to be a revealed religion.
Thus Voltaire, who had a profound belief in,
and veneration for God, and who erected a
temple to his honor, was a Deist, as he did not
believe in the inspiration of the scriptures, or
in the mission of Jesus Christ.
The Deist believes in a sublime Intelligence,
the presiding soul of the vast universe around
him; but he does notbelieve in Joshua,Moses,
Jesus or Mohammed, as the revelators of his
will, unless in a very restricted sense.
Looking upon the suns and systems of the
revolving in sublime order and har
mony, and the developments of life upon this
globe—upon all the laws and operations of
nature as so many expressions and records of
Divine wisdom, power, and goodness, the Deist
denies the necessity of any. other revelation, '
and rejects all that have thus far been present- ,
ed, as quite unworthy of his conception of i
God.
Thus the Deist holds, that the. only' revela- j
tion, worthy of God, is found in his works. I
These, he contends, form an everlasting, change- >
less, and sublime volume, which cannot be mis- '
taken—whose pages are open to all mankind. ‘
A book, pretending to be a revelation of God, <
which corresponds with the teachings of nature, 1
is useless—if it contradicts them, it is false.
Thus Deists, like all religionists, claim that j
their own belief is the purest and the best; the ’
one most worthy of God, and best adapted to 1
the dignity of human reason. When the Deist ‘
is called an infidel; he denies the accusation. 1
“ Instead of believing less,” he says “ I believe 1
more than others. I entertain a higher and ■
nobler view of the nature and attributes of the j
Divine Being—l do not degrade him with hu-» ;
man. passions, and petty interests, nor imagine 1
that this little planet has been favored with his '
special revelation. The God I adore is worthy j
of the universe—such a being as all the laws <
of nature bespeak him.” s
The ancient philosophers were for the most ,
part Deists., It is evident that they paid little <
attention to the forms of worship, observed by I
the common people. There is reason to sup- !
pose that a vast number of men of all educated ,
and enlightened nations, Chinese, Hindoos, i
Persians, and of Mahommedan, and Christian
nations, are, strictly speaking, Deists. Such to I
a great extent are the sect of Unitarians. A ‘
vast number of them, believing in the unity of i
God, look upon Christ only as a man of extra- !
ordinary excellence—one of the world’s reform- '
ers—and upon the Bible as a collection of his- '
torical and poetical books, of no great authori
ty. It is supposed that there are a great many,
united with all Christian sects, who really be
lieve nothing beyond the existence ol God; .
but who from habit and convenience, conform '
to various modes of worship.
Thus, though there is no formal association ■
of professed Deists—unless a portion of the
Unitarians and Quakers may be so considered, ;
there is no doubt thot there are really more !
persons who are Deists, than of any other i
belief.
We are not considering any form of faith as
good or bad—or as better or worse than an- ,
other. There is however this to be said of ,
Deism. It it the foundation of all other beliefs. ;
We . must first of all believe in a God, before
we can receive any faith, doctrine, or revelation
concerning him. Thus all religions have Deism
for their base, whatever superstructure of in
spirations, prophecies, miracles or mysteries
are raised upon it. Thus the Jew must be
lieve in God, before he could recognise the
authority of Moses ; the Mahomedan, before he
could receive the Koran ; the Christian, before
he could believe in Christ and his gospel; so
that, whatever be the true religion, Deism, or
a recognition of a Divine Being, is its founda
tion and stepping stone.
A pure Deism is the simplest of all reli
gions ; and simplicity is an element of the sub
lime; so that this very simplicity may have
made Deism attractive, to severe and philoso
phic minds.
It has but two elements—God and nature;
nature being looked upon as the material ex
pression or manifestation of God. So nature,
the Deist contends, is the direct, visible, and
eternal revelation of God—the only one that is
or can be, by which our ideas of him are not
degraded. The illimitable vastness of the
universe speaks his power—its order, harmony
and perfect laws, his wisdom; its beautiful
adaptations to the use and happiness of all his
creatures, his goodness. Such a Being, so in
finitely great, wise and good, the Deist con
tends, must, without any other revelation, be
adored by every intelligent being in the uni
verse.
Deists, guided by nature, recognise the re
ligious sentiment in mam—they see it develop
ed in every form of faith and worship, but as
they contend, developed imperfectly and im
purely ; degraded with puerile conceits, low
ideas, and vulgar superstitions. In this the
Deist is doubtless very sincere; and’he finds
fault with every other belief, as those of every
other do with his.
Thus, to the Jew, he says—you degrade God,
by attributing to him jealousy, revenge, and
other human passions, and by supposing that he
would select one nation of this earth as his
peculiar people, to the neglect of all mankind,
as well as of the whole universe; to the Chris
tian, he says—you destroy the sublime unity of
God, you make him a man, and you seem to
think that the human race alone is worthy of
his protection ; while, addressing the Mahome
dan, he says —you are better than the others,
and but for your absurd belief in your prophet
and his Alkoran, you would be quite right.
Deism, then, whatever its merits or demerits,
does not differ from other isms in this respect.
The Deist thinks that every body is wrong,
just in proportion as he differs from his own
, belief.
I (XJ- The friends of the late President Hairi
' son in Cincinnati, are taking measures for the
i erection of a monument in honor ef his memory
at North Bend.
PRICE. THREE CENTS.
horrors of Emigration.
Some time since, we gave an account of the
manner in which poor emigrants from Ireland
have been murdered, in the passage to Canada.
We copy the following, on the same subject,
from the London Times. “It is a picture,”
says the jVafion, “ to make men mad, or stern
as death in their hatred of the system that
makes them slaves
“ The great Irish famine and pestilence will
have a place in that melancholy series of similar
calamities to which historians and poets have
contributed sd many harrowing details and
touching expressions. Did Ireland possess a
writer endued with the laborious truth of Thu
cydides, the graceful felicity of Virgil, or the
happy invention of De Foe, the events of this
miserable year might be quoted by the scholars
for ages to come together with the sufferings of
the pent-up multitudes of Athens, the distem
pered plains of northern Italy, or the hideous
ravages of our own great plague. But Time is
ever improving on the past. There is one hor
rible feature of the recent, not to say the pre
sent visitation, which is entirely new. The
fact of more than a. hundred thousand souls fly
ing from the very midst of a calamity across a
great ocean to a new world, crowding into in
sufficient vessels, Scrambling for a footing on a
deck and a berth in a hold, committing them
selves to these worse than prisons, while their
frames were wasted with ill fare and their blood
infected with disease, fighting for months of un
utterable wretchedness against the elements
without and pestilence within, giving almost,
hourly victims to the deep.landingat length on
shores already terrified and diseased, consigned
to encampments of the dying and of the dead,
spreading death wherever they roam, and hav
ing no other prospect before them than a long
continuance of these horrors in a still farther
flight across forests and lakes under a Canadian
sun and a Canadian frost —all these are circum
stances beyond the experience of the Greek his
torian or the Latin poet, and such as an Irish
pestilence alone could produce.
“ By the end of the season there is little doubt
that.the emigration into Canada alone will have
amounted to 100,000; nearly all from Ireland.
We know the condition in which these poor
creatures embarked on their perilous adven
ture. They were only flying from one form of
death. On the authority of the Montreal Board
of Health we are enabled to state that they were
allowed to ship in numbers two or three times
greater than the same vessels would have pre
sumed to carry to a United States port. The
worst horrors of that slave trade which it is the
boast or the ambition of this empire to suppress,
at any cost, have been re-enacted in the flight
of British subjects from their native shores. In
only ten of the vessels that arrived at Montreal
in-luly-fotn-lYom Voiffand six from Liverpool,
out of 4,427 passengers, 804 had died on the pas
sage, and 847 were sick on their arrival; that
is, 847 were visibly diseased, for the result
proves that a far larger number had in them
the seeds of disease. ‘ The Larch,’ says the
Board of Health on August 12, ‘ reported this
morning from Sligo, sailed with 440 passengers,
of whom 108 died on the passage, and 150 were
sick. The Virginius sailed with 596—158 died
on the passage, 186 were sick, and the remain
der landed feeble and tottering—the captain,
mates, and crew, were all sick. The blackhole
of Calcutta was a mercy compared to the holds
of those vessels. Yet simultaneously, as if in
reproof of those on whom the blame of all this
wretchedness must fall, foreigners, Germans
from Hamburgh and Bremen, are daily arriving,
all healthy, robust, and cheerful.’ This vast
unmanageable tide of population thus thrown
upon Montreal, like the fugitives from some
bloody defeat, or devastated country, has been
greatly augmented by the prudent, and, we
must add, most necessary precautions adopted
in time by the United States, where most strin
gent sanitary regulations, enforced by severe
penalties, have been adopted to save the ports
of the Union from those very horrors which a
paternal government has suffered to fall upon
Montreal. Many of these pest ships have been
obliged to alter their destination, even while at
sea, for the St. Lawrence.
At Montreal a large proportion of these out
casts have lingered from sheer inability to pro
ceed. The inhabitants, of course, havebeen in
fected. From the official returns of burials at
Montreal, for the nine weeks ending August 7,
it appears that in the city there died during
that period 924 residents, and 806 emigrants,
making a total of 1,730 deaths. Besides these,
1,510 emigrants died at the sheds, making a
grand total of 3,240 in the city of Montreal and
its extempore Lazaretto; against only 488, in
cluding residents and emigrants, for the corres
ponding week last year. A still more horrible
sequel is to come. The survivors have to wan
der forth and find homes. Who can say how
Many will perish on the way, or the masses of
houseless, famished, and half-naked wretches
that will be strewed on the inhospitable snow
when a Canadian winter once sets in ?
“ Of these awful occurrences some account
must be given. Historians and politicians will
some day sift and weigh the conflicting narra
tions and documents of this lamentable year,
and pronounce, with or without affectation,how
much is due to the inclemency of heaven, and
how much to the cruelty, heartlessness, or im
providence of man. The boasted institutions
and spirit of the empire, are on trial. They
are weighed in the balance. Famine and pesti
lence are at the gates, and the conscience
stricken nation will almost fear to see the ‘wri
ting on the wall.’ We are forced to confess
that, whether it be the fault of our laws or our
men, this new act in the terrible drama has not
been met as humanity and common sense would
enjoin. The result was quite within the
SCORE OF CALCULATION, AND EVEN OF CARE.”
U. 5.
BRIG. GEN. FRANKLIN PIERCE.
Franklin Pierce, who took a conspicuous part
under Gen. Scott, in the recently severe battles
in Mexico, is one of the most prominent men
of his age in this country. He is the youngest,
son of the late Gov. Pierce, of New-Hampshire,
and although not more than forty-two or three
years of age has seen much of political and mi
litary life. He has been a member of both
branches of the legislature of his native State,
and, we believe of both branches of Congress.
When in the United States Senate, during Ty
ler’s administration, he was the youngest mem
ber of that distinguished body, and sustained a
high rank as a ready debater. A Democrat in
principle, and a lawyer by profession, Presi
dent Polk some time since, tendered him the
office of Attorney General, which he declined.
Subsequently, he accepted the appointment of
Brigadier General in the army, and immediate
ly proceeded to join Gen. Scott in Mexico,
where he has seen much hard fighting. On his
march from Vera Cruz he drove a large body
of Mexicans from astrong position near Na
tional Bridge, and a short time after he joined
Scott; he was in the thickest of the two great
and sanguinary battles which took place before
the city of Mexico, and which terminated so
gloriously for the American arms. The returns
of killed and wounded show that his commahd
suffered very severely.
Irish Feeling.
The Nation makes the following emphatic
declaration in regard to the present state of
feeling inlreland. We give it as a portent of the
future
“ Y’es: all Ireland is at last almost nnani
mous, if Irishmen would but confess it to one
another. There is ‘ nowhere’ any longer an af
fection and heartfelt loyalty to British rule ;
nowhere does willing obedience to its authority
reach one hair’s breadth beyond the points of
its bayonets and the gangrene of its bribes.—
Wherever now there is a genuine Imperialist,
be sure there is a bribe in his hand, or a bay
onet at his throat. In their secret hearts aIL
our countrymen feel that the time has nearly
come. The plundered, scorned, and threaten
ed landlords; the beggared, rate-oppressed te
nants; the starved and surplus laborers, hunted
for their lives like noxious vermin; the insult
ed, discarded Protestants—England’s Old Guard.
—discarded and disgraced; the sorely outraged
Catholics, with the deep wrongs of seven hun
dred years burning in their breasts, awaiting,
with pent-up curses, the holy day of triumph,
over England; on which of these classes will
the Government now rely! Where, now, have
we an enemy within our borders—alwajs ex
cepting England’s own servants and stipendiaries
‘ that will turn upon his brethren at her bidding?
Not one; not one. This day Ireland is ready
to grasp her freedom—this day, if we would all
■ but own it boldlv. Irishmen are longing every
! where to clasp one another by the hand, and to
t vow before Heaven that no stranger shall
henceforth give law here ”

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