IffUNTINGDON J.I-lii4
I
WHOLE No. ISO.]
TERMS
OF TUE
77.1711TINGDON :01711.1\7.A.L.
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THE GARLAND.
-"With sweetest flowers enrich'd
From various gardens cull'd with care."
THE FR ATRICIDE
BY T. G. WHITTIEE
Li the recently published 'History of
Wyoming'—a valley rendered classic ground
by the poetry of L. ampbell—in an account
of the attack of Brandt and Butler on the
settlements in 1778, a fearful circumstance
is mentioned. A tory who had joined the
Indians and British, discovered his own
brother, whle pursuing the Americans, and
deaf to his entreaties, deliberately presented
his rifle and shot him dead en the spot.—
The murderer fled to Canada,
He stood on thebrow of the well known hill
Its few gray oaks mated over him still—
The last of that forest which cast the gloom,
Of its shathlow at eye o'er his childhood's
home;
And the beautiful valley beneath him lay
'With its quivering leaven, and its streams
at play,
And the sunshine over it nll the while
Like the golden shower of the Eastern Isle,
He knew the rock with its clinging vine,
And its gray top touch'd by the slant sun-
shine;
And the delicate stream which crept beneath
Soft as the flow of an infant's breath;
And the flowers which lean'd to the %Vest
wind's sigh,
Kissing each ripple which glided by,
And he knew every valley and wooded swell
Fur the visions of childhood are treasured
well.
Why shook the old man as his eye glanc'd
down
That narrow ravine where the rude cliffs
frown,
With their shaggy brows and their teeth of
stone,
And their grim shade hack from the sun
light thrown,
What saw he there save the dreary glen,
Where the shy fox crept from the eye of
men,
And the great owl sat in the leafy limb
That the hateful sun might not look on him?
Fix'd glassy, and strenge was that old man's
eye,
As if a spectre were stealing by,
And glared it still on that narrow dell
Where thicker and browner the twilight
fell;
Yet at every sigh of the fitful wind,
Or stirring of leaves in the wood behind,
His wild glance wander'd the landscape o'e r
Then fix'd on that desolate dell once more,
Oh, who shall tell of the thoughts which ran
Through the dizzied brain of that gray old
man?
His childhood's home—and his father's toil:
And his sister's kiss—and his mother's smile:
And his brother's laughter and gamesome
mirth,
At the villiage school and the winter hearth
The beautiful thoughts of his early time,
Ere his heart grew dark with its later crime.
And darker and wilder his visions came
Of the deadly feud and the midnight flame,
Of the Indian's knife with its slaughter red,
Of the ghastly forms of the scalpless dead,
Of his own fierce deeds in that fearful hou r
When the terrible Brandt was forth in pow-
er,
And he clasp'd his hands o'er his burning
eye,
To shaddow the vision which glided by.
It came with the rush of the battle storm.
With a brother's shaken and kneeling form
And his prayer for life when a brother's arm
Was lifted above him for mortal harm,
And the fiendish curse, and the groan of
- .
death.
And the welling of blood, and the gurgling
breath,
And the scalp torn off while each nerve
could feel
The wrenching hand and the jagged steel!
And the old man groan'd—for he saw, again,
The mangled corpse of his kinsman slain,
✓fs it lay where his hand had hurl'd it then,
At the shadow'd foot of that fearful glen !
And it rose erect, with the death pang grim
And pointed its blooded finger at him !
And his heart grew cold—and the curse of
Gain
Burn'd like a fire in the old man's brain.
Oh. had he not seen that spectre rise
On the blue of the cold Canadian skies?
From the lakes which slept in the ancient
wood,
It had risen to whisper its tale of blood,
And followd'd his bark to the somber shore,
And glared by night through the wigwam
door;
.4nd here: on his own familiar hill•
It rose on his haunted vission sail!
Whose course was that which the morrow's
sun.
'through the opening boughs look'd calmly on
f here were those who bent o'er that rigid
face
Who well in its darken'd lines might trace
'L he features of him who, a traitor, fled
From a brother whose blood himself had
shed,'
4nd there: on the spot where he strangly
died!
They made the grave of the Fratricide!
sbetect rate.
THE MAIDSCHENSTEIN.
A TEAUITION OF THE SIMON SWUM
(CoNTnruED.)
CHAPTER H.
The scene is shifted, and my reader is
introduced into the interior of an apart
ment, beside an open lattice in which two
female; are sitting. One of the two is
very young, very lair, very fragile; with a
pale cheek, into which the vermillion
rarely comes, except when exercise or
excitement may have called it up. Her
hair is of the clearest and glossiest brown;
her eyes, blue, soft, and gentle—sunny in
their 'glances, even when those glances
are sad, and overshadowed by brows of
the nicest and most, perfect penciling.--
The other, though past the morning of life,
has the traces of much former beau
ty; for Nature haa given to her that spe
cies of visible charms over which time it
self exercises no unkindly influence.—
There are in every line of her counte
nance, and, above all, in her dark blue
eye, marks of the most confiding, and
generous, and womanly feeling. Anxiety
has, indeed, for the present, deepened
that expression into melancholy, so that
the glance which from time to time, she
turns upon her companion, is very sorrow
ful; yet her sorrow itself, as it appears to
take its rise from considerations more ele
vated than appertain to things of earth, so
is it restrained and chastened, doubtless,
by the reflection that our very trials come
upon us for good. Such, at least, are the
ideas called forth by a contemplation of
the respective attitudes and bearings of
those two persons. The younger is rest
less; her cheek alternately flushes and
grows pale; her little hands are now clas
ped together over her bosom; now dropped
in manifest despair, upon her lap; while
the elder watches every movement with a
gaze so tender, so touching, so affection
ate, as to announce at once the tie that
links them together, and the perfect disin
terestedness of love which binds her
heart to that of her daughter,
"Oh, mother, mother!" the girl at
length exclaimed, after,a long and anxi,
look towards the rustic bridge, whi eh,
crossini , the Kirnitach, connects the r ,ath
beyond with the open meadow in w' Lich
the miller's dwelling is planted, "I see
hint not. The night iscoming fast, / and
the shadows are deepening in the gle t nt he
will not come now, and I am utter!: ' r de
serted!"
“Not utterly, mine own Louis( ij,” re
plied the mother, after she had kis: led her
daughter's cheek; "there is one abo ye who
never deserts those who put their t rust in,
him. Look thou to that scource f( or sue
/
cm. in thine hour of need, and it 1' , rill not
be refused thee."
"Have I not done so ever--r av er —at
least since Franz taught us how to wor
ship him aright; but now am I tot forsa
ken?' I
"ONE COUNTRY, ONE CONSTITUTION, ONE DESTINY."
A. W. BENEDICT PUBLASHER AND PROPRIETOR.
IItiNTINGDON, PENNSYLVANIA, WEDNESDAY, MARCH 27, 1839
"Not yet, not now, nor wilt thou ever
the. Call back the energies of thy falling
raiSh, and we will pray for his guidance,
of h, in truth, we stand sorely in
need, and without which, all mortal aid
were profitless."
Thejr knelt down as this was said, and
poured out together an entreaty for pro
tection ,so deep, so fervent, so earnest,
that the very act brought with it its own
rewari I, by lighting up the flame of hope
in the:Or bosoms. Moreover, the amen
was still upon their lips, when the same
burst: of thunder which had registered, as
it wine, Franz's vow, echoed through the
glen,. the Minutest object in which, became
for ati instant visible in the brightness of
the flosh that immediately preceded it.
"Hark! God has heard our prayer!" l
exclaimed Louise, springing to her feet
with an. air of one inspired. "There is
salvati on for us yet, and he in whom we
repose our trust will raise for us a delive
' rer."
", /lay God grant it, my child!" replied
her mother, rising also. "And now, I
pray thee, loose not thy hold upon that
firm a saurance; for thy lather's step is al
ready at the door, and a severe trial, it
may be, awaits thee."
Th e elder of the two females had spo
ken t ;he truth. Through the the thicke
ning gloom, two figures were seen to pass
the b 'ridge, which her quick and anxious
eye immediately recognized to be the
miller and his friend, Carl, the forester—
the ,latter the affianced husband of one to
whA pm death had no terrors, in comparison
to *the fate to which a father's will had
mmed her.
"I will not stay to receive them now,"
cri ed Louise, shrinking in dismay from
the ,open casement. "No human being
has a ,right to exact this sacrifice from me.
I will go to my chamber; and do thou, oh,
my n 'other, say that I am sick and ill, as
inde •ed I am— sick, sick at heart, even
unto. death!"
"G '9, then, my child," replied her mo
ther, Or a mournful tone; "go and hide
thee wht we thou canst, and I will use my
best . effo its to shield thee, at least, from
this' out' :age; though even in this I may be
powerless, as in other things."
Theri. : was no time for further confer
ence, to the tread of heavy feet was. al
ready i ill the porch; and Louise had bare
ly time ; to escape out of one door from
the ap; trtment, when her father and the
foreste r entered by the other. The fur
mer w; es the first to speak.
"NV hat! all in the (lark, dame! .moping,
as usua 1? Nay, nay, fetch us a light, and
I pray thee, disperse this gloom. 'We
will be 'merry for an hour or two, at all
events. It becomes us to be merry en the
eve of ou ,r daughtor's wedding."
His wif le, without speaking, proceeded
to comply). with his wishes, and her silence
at once w tortifi2d and chafed him.
"Look , you, Carl," addressing himself
to the fort aster, "you must not regard these
fits of vat 'oDur at such a moment: I can
tell thee, from experience, that women
are never so lachrymose as just before
they enter into the engagement which is
to dry up t . ‘ heir tears forever. Hang it! a
'sighing bride makes a merry wife, you
know; and the bride's mother sigh too,
why then th, \ere will be more fun after the
priest shall h \ave given his blessing. Nev
er mind them , neighbour; 'twill be quite
a different afre it by this time to-morrow.,
The fore ; sttsr answered only with a I
laugh, setnth::: ii it were forced;
upon wh • .Lch the miller resumed.
"Cr( ,dit me, Carl, all is as you and I
could rivish it to be. The girl is very
youn Ig, and very shy; and the anticipa
tions of what the morrow may bring forth
alari n her. But ere a week passes by,
you , will find her as docile as you could
de , sire; and her mother just as much sat
fie d with the match as I mi. Prithee,
di swiss these foolish fantasies from thy
In rain, and be a man again, as thou usedst
x he when first thou and I talked upon
I ,his subject."
"But she has an insupperable dislike to
me, Gaspar," sighed the forester, "and it
is no use fur you to deny it. Can I not
see how she avoids me; and, even now,
where is she?"
The two friends were alone all this
while, and the apartment was profoundly
dark; for Madam Housman, having gone I
forth to procure a lamp, had not yet re
turned. The miller, therefore, strove to
deal with this question by treating it as a
subject for drollery; but Carl fell not into
his humor.
"Nay, nay, Gaspar Housman," said he,
sternly, "this is not a time for raillery.
I tell thee, thy daughter loves me not;
and, fair as she is. I would scarce thank
thee for a hand which brought not a heart
along with it."
&Chou wouldst, then, give her up to
Franz, wouldst thou!" demanded the mil.
ler, with a devilish sneer. "Carl, the
forester, is content to be thwarted in his
wishes by a poor student of Leipzig, eh!"
"The Leipzig student is thine own
nephew, friend Gaspar," replied the fin ,
ester; "but were he nephew of the elector
himself, he should not live to boast that
he had thwarted me in aught."
"Nat, nay, do the young man no
wrong, answered the miller. "1 believe,
indeed, that he has been stealing like a
snake, between thee and the accomplish
ment of thy wishes; and, by the Virgin,
my suspicions are strong, that, having
himself imbibed the ciirsed heresy of the
Hussitcs, he has striven to poison the
minds of toy wife and daughter with his
sophistries. Yet I would nut have thee
do the young man wrong. In spite of his
gross ingratitude, I cannot forget that he
was once very dear to me; albeit, not one
drop of my blood flows in his veins, so,
then, friend forester, thou art mistaken."
"Blistered he the tongue that speaks
his name:" cried the forester in a rage.
"I hate him so cordially, that, rather than
spare his feelings in any way, 1 would ac
cept thy slaughter's hand, didst thou
thrust it into mine with a gauntlet of iron.
But, where is she? Whither hath this
pretty bride of mine betaken herself?"
"That we shall ascertain when my old
woman fetches her light," replied the
miller; "and methinks she takes her own
time in doing so."
Just at this moment, the flame of a
lamp streamed through from the r assa g e
beyond, and Madam Housman entered
with the lamp itself in her hand.
"Where is Louise?" demanded Gaspar,
with a tone of forced indifference,
"She is ill, very ill, and gone to bed."
"She is not ill," replied the miller fier
cly. "This is not a time for illness. Tell
her she is wanted; that I want her, and
she must come."
"I am sure that ourkind neighbour here
would not do such violence to Louise's
feelings as drag her from a sick bed, eith
er now or at any other season," answered
Maclain Housman, mildly.
"Our kind neighbour has no voice in the.
matter, woman," replied Gaspar, more
and more inflamed with anger. "Our
kind neighbor may deal with Louise as
he chooses, after the priest shall have
made over my authority in due form; but
for the present she is my child, and as
such is bound to obey me. I tell thee to
go and fetch her, or, by St. John of Jeru
salem, I will go and fetch her myself, and
then it will be the worse for her."
"Host thou not one word to say in this
case, Carl?" demanded the mother, as
she turned a half imploring, half reproach
ful. glance upon the suitor. "Louise is
ill; is it thy pleasure, too, that she be
brought forth from her sick chamber?"
'Fhe person to whom this appeal was
directed, though not absolutely savage in
his demeanor, did not present the exter •
nal bearing of one over whom the senti
ments of generosity and disinterestedness
were wont to exercise a control. fits
broad and stalwart frame, encased in a
sort of livery or uniform—a green frock
and hosen, with untaned boots that reach
ed to the calf of his leg—was, indeed,
well calculated to strike dismay into the
bosom of the innovator t n the forest laws;
for there were in his ample chest and enor
mons feet and hands marked indications
of more than ordinary share of bodily
strength. But, then, his countenance;
it might speak of courage, but it spoke
also of ferocity; while the low forehead,
the twinkling eye, and, still more, the
mouth, with its thick lips, and most re
pulsive snide—all bore testimony to the
Influence of strong animal passions, alike
unsoftened and undignified by the smal
lest admixture of mind or sentiment.
No wonder that a girl so gentle, and
for, age and station in life so refined,
as Louise, should look upon him with an
eye of absolute loathing; or that the com
mand from her father to receive him as
her future husband should have sounded
in her ear more dissonatly than a death
knell. Still, in counting upon his forbear
ance on the present occasion, it seemed
as if Madam Housman had done but jus
tice to his heart. He answered her ap
peal by begging that Louise might not be
disturbed; and then seati,r beside
the window, endeav:ured to throw into
his manner as mud, of lightness as was
compatible it. But the miller's good
humour w.as not to be restored. lie cal
led 1::r beer, and drank it: he ordered
schnaps, and swollowed several large
raouthfuls, each of which served but to In
flame the moi e his ungoverned anger.
"Look ye, dame," exclaimed he at last;
"this illness may serve your purpose for
to-night, but to-morrow she shall go to
church—ay, if she be carried thither on a
litter. What! are these the lessons that
Frantz has taught you? Ay, ay, I might
have seen through it all. It was net for
the sake of my society, no, for yours, mo
ther, that the scorpion came so often to
the mill, and lingered so long among us.
Fool that I was not to discover it long a•
go! And your rosary, dame where is
lINAL.
that, too; and Saint Agatha? I have no
seen her at the head of the bed these two
months past. Hast become a Hussite in
to the bargain"'
Friend Gaspe;, moderate thine anger,'
whispered Carl. .31adain Housman is
no Hussite; neither is Louise, and as to
Frantz, let Ihim adopt what opinions he
may, his views of such matters can never
have weight either in your family or mine.
But what will father Ambrose say to this
heresy of one whom he used to favor so
highly?'
'Would to Goil Father Ambrose were
here?' cried Gaspar,-becoming all at once
more calm and collected. 'lf ever there
lived a saint upon earth, Father Ambrose
is one; and as he has all along been your
friend. Carl, as well as Frantz's, who
knows but that his counsel might avail us,
somewhat in this our crowding perplexity?,
Father Ambrose is a holy man, and brings!
a blessing in his train whatever he may go'',
'Father Ambrose may be all that you
describe,' answered Carl' sneeringly; 'but
for my part, 1 have no great opinion of
your anchorites. What good to man or
glory to Goil can arise from his residence,
for example, on that rock; or from all the
austerities which he inflicts or is said to
inflict, upon himself?'
'A truce to idle talking, Carl,' answer
ed the miller, grwing every moment
more grave in his deportment. 'Father
Ambrose is no fit subject on whom to
crack jokes, as thou wouldet confess, were
his history as familiar to thee as it is to me.
would gladly bear it, "good neighbor,'
answered Carl, tilling his glars.
'Nay, I !cannot enter into details—for
these, probably, are known only to God &
himself; but the outlines of the story, as
told to me long, long ago, by one now no
more, who knew the anchorite well, and
in joy and sorrow served him faithfully,
are these. Father Ambrose is a noble of
the highest rank; where born 1 was not in
formed, but in some land far distant from
Saxony, Hi 3 wza!th, too, was. coalmen
surateil with his station; and lie had ear
ned a proud name in war. Of his person
al advantages no mention need be made
in the presence of any one that has ever
seen hint. Such a wreck could not have
been otherwise in its pride of might than
magnificent. Carl, Father Ambrose loved
where he ought not to have loved. 'Twas
a fierce and unconti °liable passion; and it
led to broken vows, to sacrilege, to misery
to madness, to death, There is blood up
on the old man's hand—the blood of his
near kindred; and the bones of the lady
are immured in the dreary niche which
formed her living tomb. What brain
could bear up against such shocks,
yet re
tain its self possession? Reason forsook
hint, and he continued as one possessed,
till the Virgin appeared to him, and said,
that she whom his devotion had tempted to
her sin and her ruin, was happy in heaven
Nay, it is not quite certain whether it
were the Virgin that spake, or the unhap
py lady herself; but the result was, that
his ,senses returned, and that he devoted
himself to a life of pentience and seclu
sion, such as for well nigh fifty years lie
has spent in this wilderness. Its lordly
possessions have all been made over to
charitable purposes; a thousand masses
yearly] are said for the repose ,of the de
parted soul; and a hundred paupers are
daily led at a table which his bounty has
set forth. So at least said my informant,
while at the same time he spoke to me of
the hermit's austere life; of his hair shirt;
of his pulse and water, and his couch of
roughly hewn branches—too short to per
mit his lying upon it at length, and aban
doned four times every night, that beads
may be told, and the penitential service
gone through. Is it surprising that such a
man should earn a large share of Heaven's
favour? I tell thee, Carl, that I [llse' r:
have known the paralytic cured at l,s in
tercession. Over the devils exercises
supreme control; and theia thyself canst
testify, that even the outlaws an d b an dit s
that used to haul - i t the forest hive grown
tame and
.peueable at his bidding. So,
prith - ee, never sneer or speak lightly when
Father Ambrose forms the topic of thy
converse. I would he were here, seeing
that he has all along favoured thy suit, and
possesses great influence with both moth
ertand daughter, methinks that his coun
sel might have weight in regulating the
wishes, as I ant sure his prayers would
avail to restore her health.'
'lf such would be the certain !result of
his visit, replied Carl, am sure that I
should wish him here as !leanly as yon do
but I repeat, that I have my doubts of that
man.. It is true that you have known him
longer and more intimately; still, when 1
see hint making friends of the outlaws, 4.
[ moulding them to his own purposes, so
that I am threatened, for lac k!ol occupation
with a removal from my office; truly friend
Gaspar; you must excuse me if I suspect
tint he is not altogether such as you im
agine. Besides the very people in the
town are all changed since he took to vis—
iting
the place so frequently. 'I he priest
[VOL. IV, No. 24
complains that the wakes and fairs are
des'rted; and as to processions, nobody
thinks of attending them now, except the
vergers and beadles.'
'Well, well, friend Carl,' was the reply;
have heard all this before; yet I am well
assured that Father Ambrose has more in
fluence both with the Virgin and St. John
than all the priests, ay, bishops too, in the
electorate. Therefore is he ever a wel
come guest at the mill; and right glad
should 1 be were ho to make his appear—
ance here this moment.'
The words had scarce passed from the
miller's lips, when the tread of a solitary
passenger sounded beneath the window
sill, and in a few seconds a rap struck up.
on the door. The command to enter was
obeyed, and Father Ambrose himself, ar
rayed as I have described in the previous
chapter, stood upqn the threshold of
the chamber. Ms salutation was brief.
'Peace be to this house!' and the welcome
offered to him by both host and hostess at
once kind and profoundly respectful; but
he refused to be seated.
'Gaspar Houseman,' said he, .1 have
somewhat to say to thee alone'
The miller instantly took the lamp, and
conducted the anchorite into a seperate
chamber, left his wife and future son-in
law to amuse themselves as they best
might, by gazing abroad upon the moon
light, He was absent nearly half an h our
and when returned he came an altered
man. His eye had lost its fever; thellush
on his cheek was gone; and his temper;
previous!y so irritable, and even austere,
seemed gentle as that of an infant. But
father A mbrose was not with him.
• 'Carl Forester,' said he in a low tone,
'my daughter is indeed sick with a very
serious malady. The wedding may not
take place on the morrow. I pray thee
pardon me in this thing, but it is irreme
diable. Hie thee. therefore to the town,
and warn both minstrels and bridesmaids
that the ceremony is deferred. Give this
purse, also to the priest, and beseech him
to offer masses for a mind that is sore dis
eased; for without his prayers and those
of the church, greater evil may yet befall.
I commend thee to the keeping of all the
saints; and now, good night'
'What means this?' exclaimed the for
ester, as he sprung to his feet. 'What
change has come over thy dream now,
friend Gaspar? Are such the result from
a visit from Father Ambrose? By heavens,
I will not endure it! Louise is not ill ;
thou saidst thyself bat a moment ago; and
mine shall she be mine on the morrow,
or-'
'Carl;' replied the miller, with marked
solemnity, 'thou knowest that to see Leui
se thy wife is the solitary object for which
I have lived these six months back. Give
Ire credit fora firmness that is not easily
shaken; trust me for a resolution v hick
can never be overcome I speaks not of
withdrawino• ' my pledge; I ask but a brief
delay ere it be redeemed; and itis for thy
sake, not less than for my own, that I do
so. Depart in peace, and execute my
wishes, In seven days' time, at the fur
thest, thou shalt here further of this mat
ter.'
There was an earnestness in the. mil
ler': appeal which was not without its ef
fect, even on the coarse and dogged na
ture of the man to whom it was addres
sed. He stifled the rage which could net
be entirely overcome, and even wrung the
hand of Gaspar Hausman when they par
ted; but the squeeze resembled more the
grasp which a fueman interchanges with
his enemy, than the greeting of friends.
'1 obey thee, Father Gaspar,' said he;
'but mark me well. Eyes will be upon
thee and thine when thou ileast suspect
it. Notword shall be spoken within or
without thy dwelling that shall not be
overheard; and ifought of foul play be in
tended, thou canst pess'the rest. Carl
Forester never sustained wrong without
avenging it,—never uttered a threat that
was nosooner or later accomplished,'
So saying, the forester hurried out of
the house, of which the inmates were left
to their own reflections.
(TO DE CONTINUED.)
TRIAL BY JURY IN CORNWALL.—At .a
Quarter sessions lately held in the west
of Cornwall, (Eng) a person stood indic.
ted for felony. The defence was ably
conducted by a professional gentleman of
the town, who clearly established the in
nocence of his client; but considerable
hesitation was observed on the part of one
of the jurors in consenting to a verdict of
acquits'. Another .juror remonstrated
with 'him on his obstinacy, when he said,
"Why should I give a verdict for Mr.--
(the'prisoner's advocate;) he's no custom
er of mine?" ,however, rather than be
locked up yielded, ard the man was acquit
ted.