Huntingdon journal. (Huntingdon, Pa.) 1843-1859, February 14, 1844, Image 1

Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page. It is also available as plain text as well as XML.

DtUotai to C'entrat Kutelltgottr, abinrtioingaioUt(to,Etterature, Itloratttp, (to, *timers,( - agriculture, 3uttmentcnt, t., c.
34Zt 8 ZYca). et).
The "Joni:TAO will be published every Wed
nesday morning, at $2 00 a year, if paid in advante,
and if not paid within six months, $2 50.
No subscription received for a shorter period than
six months, nor any paper discontinued till all ar-
Peerages are paid.
Advertisements not exceeding one square, will be
inserted three times for $1 00, and for every subse
quent insertion 25 cents. If no definite orders are
given as to the time an adiertisement is to be continu
ed, it will be kept in till ordered out, and charged ac
• • Rates of Discount in Philadelphia.
• Banks in Philadelphia.
Bank of North America - -
Bank of the Northern Liberties
Bank of Penn Township -
commercial Bank of Penn'a.
Varmers' & Mechanics' bank -
Kensingtnn bank - -
Schuylkill bank - -
Mechanics' bank • - -
Philadelphia bank
Southwark bank
Western hank
Moyamensing bank - - -
Manufacturers' and Mechanics' bank
Bank of Pennsylvania . - - -
(;irard bank - - - -
Bank of the United States -
Country Banks.
Bank of Chester co. Westchester par
Bank of Delaware co. Chester par
Bank of Germantown Germantown par
Bank of Montg'ry co. Norristown par
Doylestown bank Doylestown par
Easton Bank Elston par
Farmers' bk of Bucks co. B ristol par
Bank of Northumberi'd Northumberland par
Honesdale hank Honesdale 1$
Farmers' bk of Lanc. Lancaster 1i
Lancaster bank Lancaster i
Lancaster county bank Lancaster i
Bank of Pittsburg Pittsburg i
Merch'ts' & Manuf. bk. Pittsburg i
Exchange bank Pittsburg i
Do. do. branch of Hollidaysburg i
Col'a bk & bridge co. Columbia i
Franklin bank Washington 3 i
Monongahela bk of B. Brownsville 14
Farmers' bk of Reading Reading i
Lebanon bank Lebanon 1
Bank of Middletown Middletown 1
Carlisle bank Carlisle 1
Erie batik Erie 3
. . ... .
Bank of chamberst.g
Bank of Gettysburg Gettysburg 1
York bank Yorkl
. .
IHarrisburgbank Harrisburg 1
Miners' bk of Pottsville Pottsville i
Bank of Susquehanna co. Montrose 35
Farmers' & Drovers' bk Waynesborough 3
Bank of Lewistown Lewistown 2
Wyoming bank • Wilkesbarre 2
Northampton bank Allentown no sale
Betts county bank Reading no sale
West Branch bank Williamsport 7
Towanda bank Towanda no sale
Rates of Relief Notes.
Northerrt Liberties, Delaware County, Far
mers' Bank of Bucks, Germantown par
All others 2
Huntingdon, Pennsylvania.
‘ v r OULD most respectfully inform the
•/`/ citizens of this county, the public
generally, and his old friends and customers
in particular, that he has leased for a term
of years, that large and commodious building
on the West end of the Diamond, in the bo
rough of Huntingdon, formerly kept by An
drew H. Hirst, which he has opened and
furnished as a Public House, where every
attention that will minister to the comfort
and convenience of guests will always be
aEn REP elgitiD CE)
will at all times be abundantly supplied with
the best to be had in the country.
LEM= (213.ay.
will be furnished with the best of Liquors,
is the very best hi the borough, and will
.always be attended by the most trusty, at
tentive and experienced ostlers.
Mr. Couts pledges himself to make every
exertion to render the "Franklin House" a
:home to all who may favor him with a call.
Thankful to his old custom,rs for past favors,
he respectfully solicits a continuance of their
Boarders, by the year, month, or week,
will be taken on reasonable terms.
Huntingdon, Nov. 8. 1843.
The subscriber is now prepared to furnish
every description of CHAIRS, from the
plain kitchen to the most splendid and fash
ionable one for the parlor. Also the
n which the feeble and afflicted invalid,
,though unable to walk even with the aid of
crutches, may with case move himself from
'room to room, through the garden and in
'the street, with great rapidity.
Those who are about going to housekeep
ing, will find it to their advantage to give
him a call, whilst the Student and Gentle
man of leisure are sure to find in his newly
invented Revolving Chair, ,that comfort
which no other article of the kind is capable
of aftortling. Country merchants and ship
pers can be supplied with any quantity at
short notice.
No. 113 South Second street, two doors
below Dock, Philadelphia,
May 3'l, 1843.---1 yr.
LE:o2m34l::§lzzaa.s„, LEN2laz:3l.,..A:axeur a.u. 9 aaEZ34lc>
Carriage 'Manufactory
WrOS respectfully informs [the citizens
al& of the borough and county of Hunting
don, the public generally, and his old friends
and customers in particular, that he still
continues the .
Coach: Making Business
in all its vrious branches, at his old stand, in
Main street in the borough of Huntingdon,
nearly opposite the 'Journal' printing office,
where he has constantly on hand every
description of
My, Coaches, carriages,
Buggies,: ; ;A:44) Sleighs
which he will sell low for cash or on reason
able terms.
All kinds of woi k in his line made to or
der, on the shortest notice, in a
And all kinds. of . repairing done v. ith neat
ness and despatch.
Country produce will be taken in exchange
or work.
Any persons wishing to pu+•chase nee re
spectfully invited to call •rud examine and
judge for themselves.
Huntingdon Nov. 29. 1843.
Cra. Lsz M
Cheap for Cash.
The subscriber has just received a large
and well ass t.ted lot of segars, which he of
fers for sale at the following prices.
Cuba segars in boxes containing 150 each,
$1 25 per box.
Half Spanish in boxes containing 150 each,
50 cents per box.
Half Spanish per thousand, $5 75
Common do. $1 50 and $1 00
irrThe above prices are so low that the
subscriber can sell for co s h on ly.
Huntingdon, Oct. 11.-11
EGS to inform the inhabitants of Hun
tingdon and its vicinity, that he ban
commenced the business of light and heavy
wagon making, and every kind of vehicle re
pairing. Having learnt his trade in England,
he is prepared to furnish either the English
or American style of wagons, and hopes by
diligence and attention to merit a share of
public patronage.
N. B. Shop near to-Mr. J. Houck's black
, smith shop.
Huntingdon, April 19,1843.,—1y.
List of Letters
Remaining in the Post Office at Alexandria,
Pa., on the Ist of January, 1844, which it
not token out within three mouths, will be
sent to the General Pust Office as dead
BINH ke Davis. Irvin James,
Bisben John, Johnston Thomas,
Butts John R. 2 Kaufman Reuben B.
Bakor John, Krule Henry.
Cresswell Nicholas, Kin ports Gideon,
Dewalt Peter, Miller Mister,
Davis Patrick, Miller Samuel D.
Deen John P. M'Dnnald John,
Drenkle Henry S. M'Clure Andrew,
Davis Elizabeth, Neff Isaac M.
Furll John, Neff John A.
Gardner James. Porter John,
Green Miles S. Stitzer William,
Householder Michr el,Walker John Esq.
Hamer Samuel, Wristar William,
Herrencane Jacob, Young Geo. B.
Alexandria Jan. 1, 1844.
- - - -
444 ESPECTFULLY informs the citizens
of Huntingdon, and the public in gen
eral, that he continues the
Tailoring Business,
at the shop lately occupied by Wm. Fahs,
now deceased, m Main street, in the bo
rough of Huntingdon, in the brick house
immediately opposite the store of Thomas
Read, where he is fully prepared and ready
to accommodate all, who may favor him
with a call.'
He receives, regularly, from New York,
Scott's New York, Paris and London
and he is determined to employ none but the
best and most experienced workmen ; and
he guarantees to execute all orders in his
line in the most fashionable and wot kman
like manner, or according to the wishes and
orders of customers.
By . strict attention to business, he hopes to
obtain a share of public patronage.
Jan. 17, 1844.
31A S removed to Huntingdon, with the
intention of making it the place of his future
residence, and will attend to such legal busi
ness as may he entrusted to him.
Dec. 20, 1843.
ATT61811347 /12AW,
Office in Main &reel, two doors East of
Mrs. McConnell's Temperance house.
Tune—"Hurrah, hurrah."
Come boy!, comehoys, let's have a song,
iiurrala! Cuirah ! hurrah,!
So pitch your voices deep and strong,
Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah !
We'll sing to Harry of the West,
The Statesmen freemen all love hest,
Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah !
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah !
Now shout I.ys, shout for Harry Clay !
Hurrah, &o.
Now breaks the gloom which round us lay,
Hurrah, &c.
Our country's hope ho is now boys,
His name fills sorrow's breast with joys,
Hurrah; &c.
Then cast his banner to the wind, .
Hurrah, &c.
For midst its folds in freedom twin'd,
Hurrah, &c.
We'll hail it, boys, with joyous cries,
Which ne'er shall cease till Freedom dies.
Hurrah, &e.
Come round his standard, round, boys, !build,
Hurrah, &c.
And greet it with thrice welcome sound,
Hurrah, &c. '
It calls us, boys, to stand but lirm,
And Locos soon their backs must turn.
Hurrah, &c.
With Harry, boys, upon our shield,
Hurrah, &c.
United we will clear the field,
Hurrah, &c.
And though we fight with nought but Clay,
The LOCos must and shall give way.
Hurrah, &c.
He'll lead us on triumphantly,
Hurrah, &e.
And seal our cause with victory,
Hurrah, &e.
Then to the white house, boys, we'll go,
And tell old Chapman, crow! crow! crow!
Hurrah, &c.
Then Czar our President shall be,
Hurrah, &c.
He'll ne'er turn traitor, NO, not he,
Hurrah, &c.
Then shout, toys, shout, Hurrah, Hurrah'!
For Ashland's Farmer HENRY CLAY.
Hurrah, Ste.
Oh what a look !
Oh what a rueful steadfast look methought .
He fixed upon my faco !—My dying hour
Must pass ere I forget Play.
The following narrative of crime and retribution,
strange as the declaration may appear, is is strictly'
true, and many now in exii,tence Now it to be so.--
It is given in the words of the miserable writer, who
left this written memorial of his guilt and sufferings
in the hands of his executor, who had been his tutor
and was his only friend; by this gentleman it was
,communicated to the Rev. author of a work which
it is impossible to read without delight and edifica
tion, " The Living and the Dead." No confidence
is violated by the disclosuse, as it was intended for
the world. The name of Moyston is, for obvious
reasons, a substituted one.
Surrounded with every blessing which existence
can afford—possessing prospects of a brilliant, nay,
almost unrivalled nature—few entered this chequer
ed scene of being with greater advantages titan my
self. It is true that the lapse of a few short years
made me an unconscious orphan. Bulb)* a kind and
watchful guardian and his sister, who had been my
mother's early friends, their place was moat affec
tionately supplied; and of such a brother as I pos
sessed few could boast. He was eighteen months
older than myself, and though in our pursuits and
tastes, and turns of thought, an essential diffonence
was preceptibld, we were warmly and devoutly at
tached. Alone in the world, we clung to each other
with an intensity of affection which orphans only
can feel. I will describe him—though it cost me
a bitter pang. More sedate, more reflecting, more
refined and highly cultivated than myslf, with a
mind slightly tinged with melancholy, and deeply
but unaffectedly impressed by the groat truths of re
ligion, he exhibited a character remarkable for men
tal energy, when excited, but which took rare and
sparing interest in ordinary occurrences. But in
spite of an air of pensive gravity and reserve, unu
sual in ono so happily circumstanced, there were
few who were more generally and deservedly be
loved than the young Sir Walter Moyston, of
My brother was about twenty, and I had just
quitted Oxford, when an addition was made to our
neigborhood in the person of a Mrs. Do Courcey.
She was a widow of a very gallant officer; and the
bravery of her husband, and tho circumstance of his
loss reducing her from comfort and independence to
the lowest retirement and the scantiest pittance,
added to her own noble descent and very superior
manners, excited a very powerful interest in her fa
vor, and she was generally caurted on her appear
ance amongst us. Yet, amidst all, she was a cold,
calculating, mercenary being—an adept in intrigue,
and a heartless mancuuverer.
In a word, she WOO a woman of Me world, and
could contrive, at will, to snake vice appear virtue,
and art seem innocence. She was accompanied by
her daughter, whom to see and love—to love against
hope, against reason—to love with all the jealousy
and despondency of a youthful heart—with all the
intensity and devotion of a first affection—was very
speedily mine. I say to love against hope, against
reason, for I discovered but too soon that Adela's
beauty, her innocence, her misfortunes, and the air
of cheerful resignation with which she submitte4 to
their pressure, had made a powerful and permanent
impression on my brother's heart. I saw that I had
no chance. And yet Adela's return to her lover'.
passion was cold and faint in the ',attune. 'Living
in his immediate neighborhood--hearing, hour by
houn6of his unbounded benevolence, his unaffected
piety, his humility, his disintorestedness—she re
spected, she esteemed--but no, she never loved him.
To her mother, his wealth, his rank, his generous,
easy temper, were irresistable. Mrs. DeCourcey
stniled upon his suit. I was a bankrupt in affection
from t'.at very hour ! For the first time I now felt
that I was a younger brother--for the first time my
heart swelled with envy and animosity towards the
unsuspecting Walter—for the first time I regarded,
with feelings of satisfaction, his slender form and
&kitty' habit, treasured up the passing indications of
delicacy of constitution, and calculated, yea, actu
ally osculated whether it ivas not possible I might
survive him. And then better feelings would return,
and I would oppose to those baneful, but evanescent
emotions, my own purity of intention and rectitude
of head!
Preparations for the marriage were in progress.
Instructions had been issued for the settlements—
and the ceremony stood fixed for the day on which
m' brother should attain his majority. The feel
ings of my mind strangely harmonized with the
season of the year. It was far advanced in autumn,
the tries were almost stripped of their foliage, the
dew lay thick upon the grass, the landscape was en
tirely shrouded with vapor, excepting where a soli
tary sunbeam seemed to struggle with the mist—
the woods were silent, and not a. single sign of life
enlivened the monotomy of the scene, save where
the dusky livery of a huge old fir was contrasted by
the brilliant berries of the mountain ash. It was
nature in her sepulchre.
My brother challenged me to walk, on a morning
cheerless and gloomy as that which I have been de
scribing; I was sure the invitation contemplated
some particular object. Nor was .I mistaken. He
announced to me, in form, his intended marriage—
spoke to me most confidentially, most unreservedly
—unfolded all his plans for the present, his pros
pectsfpr the future—apprised me in the most deli
.... terMS Ur 41.. cultllutvill V. 111,4 taati Z.
right to make to a younger brother's portion—and
again and again assured me that neither time nor
eircurnstances_could effect the slightest diminution
in his love.
Engaged in earnest conversation, we had reached
a ravine in the grounds. It was a spot sad and sol
itary, but wild and picturesque in the extreme. Ivy
mantled its aides in some places, and in others oaks
and holly-bushes, whose roots found nourishment
in the crevises of the rock, excluding the light of the
day and half concealed the torrent which foamed
below. The weeping willow and the mournful cy
press waved over the waters. At a little distance
lower down the stream—now brawling and foming
in !lastly current, now whirling in deep and circular
eddies—was joined by a sluggish and slumbering
rivulet, and became a very considerable sheet of wa
ter. Its depth even at the side, was upwards of
fifteen feet.
Heedlessly loitering on the brink, and pointing
to some recent improvements, my brother faltered
and fell into the flood. The slightest motion on my
part would have saved him—the least effort, with
out incurring any danger to myself, would have
been sufficient to avert his fate—the very sapling
which lay on the grass beside me, had it been guided
to his grasp, would have drawn him to the brink. I
stood motionless ! The feelings of a fiend rushed
upon me and prevailed. Twice he rose and strug
gled manfully with the torrent. I saw his face al
most black with agony. I caught his eyes fixed full
upon me with an express:m of anxiety, of entreaty,
of reproach, and despair, which impending dissolu
tion only could convey. A convulsive cry escaped
him. It was repeated in a deeper, wilder tone. A
sudden plunge was heard, there was stillness around
me—it was the stillness of death.
• I returned to tho house by a long and circuitous
route, and immediately on reaching it gave the
alarm. His body was found an hour afterwards. I
did not see it. I was pressed to do so, but replied--
they wore the only words of truth that passad my
lips for many years—that "my feelings would not
allow me."
Within two years Adele was mine.
I had now realized the wildest wish of my heart.
Sin I had committed—aggravated—hienous—over
whelming. I had earned, fairly earned its wages.
Fortune was mine. Rank was !Mile. The being I
had so long and so hopelessly loved was mine.—
There was no living creature to dispute my will or
control my wishes. Perhaps it may be asked, was I
happy I Happy! From the very day my brother
died, I never knew the meaning of the term. Soon,
very soon, retribution overtook me. The Almighty
visited me early with his chastisement. I was pas
sionately fond of children. There were other reasons
which rendered me earnest and importune in this
petition. I was the last of my race. The name of
Moyston so nobly descended—the title of no went
creation—would die with me. The extensive do
mains would, in that case, enrich a family who had
already aggrandized themselves at our expense, and
whom very mention was hateful to me. For these
powerful reasons, independent of my passionate at-
tachment to infancy. I was anxious beyond des
cription for a living, representative. Years rolled
on. I was childless !
Conscience gradually resumed her sway. The
figure of my drowning , brother pursued me like a I
shadow. Night and day, at home and abroad, in
society and solitude, his image stood before me. My
health began to show symptoms of decay. Medical
science was resorted to. My attendants pronounced
me nervous--hypocondrical--recommentled change
of air, of scene—hurried sac off to Brighton, to
Cheltenham—and prescribed "tonic medicine and
nutritious diet !"
Pshaw ! I despised their prognostics. I laughed
to scorn their self•suficient ignorance, and the con
fidence with which they tMasted of their ability to
cure. My malady was beyond their art, and I knew
it. My symptoms were a wounded conscience—
my sufferings arose from the anguish of remorse—
my feverish days and restless nights had their origin
in those bitter feelings of self-reproach, which like
the vulture of Prometheus, prayed unceasing upon
my vitals, and were but too lively an emblem of the
worm that never dies.
After a melancholy sojourn at Malvern, Harrow
gate, Buxton, and half a dozen other places sacred
to folly and fashion, I returned to Mountsfield, with
a decided increase of malady. It bad now reached
such a height that I was unable to encounter a hu
man eye. Sleep forsook me. That clear, sweet,
soft voice forever rung in my ears. I heard it above
the swell of the pealing organ—above the waves of
the ocean, as they rolled in thunder on the shore--
in the silence of midnight—in the glare of noonday
—in the song—in the dance; go where I would, still
an invisible monitor sounded in my ears, ' , Henry,
dear Henry, save me, save me!"
endeavored to soothe my wounded spirits by
acts of unbounded charity. I would fain have bri
bed Heaven by acts of the most extensive benevo
lence. To the needy, the suffering, the aged, and
the deceased, I dispensed my wealth liberally,
largely. Alas! light where it would, it seemed
followed by a curse ! The_ objects of my bounty
proved unworthy or ungrateful, or imposters or im
portunate. Few, very few, appeared on examina
tion, deserving or necessitous. And the blessings
which these invoked on.. my head seemed, to my
distempered imagination, expressions of the bitter
est derision, and the heartfelt aspirations which
they uttered, " that I might never know what sor
row was," seemed the exultation of a fiend that
mocked at my calamity, ana iaugoca as my uesinur.
Months I had continued in this feverish state of
being, when an incident occurred which diverted
the current of my thoughts, and had afterwards a
very meterial influence upon my destiny. In one of
my solitary rambles through the Park, I found a lit
tle boy, cold, hungry, almost destitute of clothing,
watching, with the most affectionate solitude, and
Weeping over a dying mother. Site was a soldier's
wife, who, having lost her husband, was returning
to her native village, when disease and want had
arrested her progress. She wasindeed hastening to
her final home. Her little companion—l may say
comforter—was a manly looking boy of five years
old, with a face which had, without exception, the
finest, the softest, sweetest expression I ever saw.—
He was sitting by her side with a look of childish,
helpless anguish, and the tone is which his little
clear voice murmured. • Don't cry, mother, don't
cry,' us lie wiped the damps of death from her brow,
touched a heart cold, churlish, and insensible as
She was carefully removed to the house. Every
remedy that expense could suggest, every comfort
that wealth could procure, was afforded her. It
availed but little. Death would not be cheated of
his prey, and his approach became hourly more per
ceptible. The little mourner watched every turn of
her disorder with a glistening eye and quivering lip,
sat hour after hour with his little hands clasped in
her's; and when the last struggle came on, and we
forcibly excluded him from the chamber, he fixed
himself on the step outside the door, inquiring in
faltering accents of all who entered or acquitted the
apartment, and as each reply became more and more
hopeless than the fernier, wept in silence. When
we told him of his poor mother's death, he refused
food. No delicacy we could offer could tempt his
appetite. He sat by the coffin in his childish sor
row, and mourned as one that would not be com
Our limits here oblige us to give the substance of
some pages of the narrative instead of following the
original. The friendless orphan of the widow is
reared with the fondest care, and the holy work of
charity for a time beguiles the suarings of the un
happy man ; the yoOth, however, is removed for the
purpose of education, and they return with aim
mutated violence. He trod hitherto found comfort
and even consolation in the midst of his wretched
ness, in his attendance at divine worship: this last
solace was about to be wrested from him. The
narrative proceeds:—
The interval of enjoyment was not long permit
ted me. One Easter Sunday—l have a vivid re
collection of the time and place and circumstances,
as though it had been an affair of yesterday—l chan
ced to catch Mr. Alloyne's eye resting upon me es
he slowly read in Iris deep solemn tone. u Thou
dual do no murder." I was in , tently unnerved.
I could detect a deeper, graver modulation—could
trace in his penetrating eye a peculiar expression—
a point and severity in his generally mild and gentle,
manner. He suspected me ! Did he dare 1 I
E URraiICIDUCS) 173 ®o 4tISQUO
'Maid brave him! I could not. I was at church
for the last time,
My malady now, returned with tenfold violence,.,
was : unable to hear the presence even of my own
ervants. I insisted upon their never presuming to
ook at me as they waited at dinner—upon their eye
constantly and invariably shunning mine. I will
not,' said I, with the tone and gesture of a madman,
be bearded by menials in my own hall.' ' But
consider, my love,' said Lady Moyston, the end-
less and unaccountable constructions which such a
command would bear.' 'No matter, eaiB I, with
increasing vehemence, 'I will be obeyed.' Cer
tainly, Henry,'' was Adela's mild reply. Certain
ly—your will, you know, is ever mine. Suppose,
then, we dispense with their attendance altogether;
I, myself,' said she, with her own sweet smite,
wait upon you. Will you accept of me for s cup
bearer I"l'he idea pleased one. I adopted it. But
after a while I bad the misery of perceiving that
even Adcla's presence was a painful restraint upon
me. I proposed dining alone. She struggled with
her tears and acquiesced.
Malvin% for so I had named the little orphan, was
now eighteen. In him I fancied I should find an
ample recompense for the bitter disappointment,
vexation and chagrin, which had attended all ray
schemes of benevolence. Oh he did promise fair
In attainments, in disposition, in person, and ii
manner, he was all that I could wish. Hourly did
I congratulate myself upon the incident which had
enabled me to foster such generosity of character,
such originality of mind. I was anxious lie should
be near me. I urged him to direct his thoughGE, to
wards the church. In him I felt assumed my fancy
portrait of the country clergyman would find a liv
ing illustration. 'Twas not to be! The 'plumed
troop and spirit-stirring drum' had captivated his
young and ardent temperament, and I, unwilling to
thwart bia choice, interested myself in procuring
him a commission. I was successful. The con
scientious, but not slavish adherence with which our
family load for years supported government meas
ures, was admitted and acknowledged; and, after a
little delay, I received a letter acquainting me that
an ensigncy in the foot was at my service.
As early in the morning as I felt myself equalto
the interview, I summoned Marcius to hear the grat
ifying intelligence. He came not. Another mes
senger was despatched. There was au unusual
delay—a hesitation—an embarrassment I could
neither understood nor tolerate. I got irritated. 1
was then told that Mr. Breeden' was now here to
franol. tfiee an interval. learnt that he had
quitted Mountefield immediately after breakfast.—
and, at last, that Lady Moyston heed accompanied
him ! My cup of Borrow was now filled to the brim.
The curse of a justly offended God was tracking my
footsteps. His wrath had overruled my darling
project--cruelled my prudent hopes. The only be
ings that loved me, that eared for me, had abandon
ed me to my fate. I was now to struggle alone,
unpitied and unheeded, into my grave.
She leftMe ; but I will not Lame her. Kind,
light-hearted, affectionate being, how could I expect
she would love one so gloomy, so churlish, so selfish
and misanthropic as myself? No, no, I will not
blame her. I deserved her not. Standing on the
brink of eternity. I will permit no unkind feeling
to mingle with my last recollection of one who was
for many years so very dear to me. Thou wilt find,
Adele, that in my testamentary dispositions thou
art not forgotten ; and may'st thou be forgiven at
the bar of Heaven as fully as I forgive thee now!
I copy her last letter. It reached me a few hours
after her departure. It is but justice to herself that
I should give it.
I have left you forever. For years I harebeen
laboring under the agonizing conviction that In*
longer possessed your confidence. In vain have I
scrutinized my conduct to ace whether I had failed
in duty or affection. I cannot discover, and you
will not point out, how have I forfeited your esteem.
I can struggle with it no longer. Your coldness,
you indifference, your cruel neglect, have cut me to
the soul. But farewell I I have taken nothing with
me but what was strictly my own. The pittance
which I inherited from my poor mother, and a few
articles of personal property, dear to me as having
been once hers, are ell I have appropriated to my
self. My jewels, my wardrobe, my valuables of
every description, I have left behind. To them I
felt T tool no claim. May the future years of your
life make amends for the misery which has embit
tered the past. Yet remember, when left at liberty
by divorce to make another choice, that domestie
happiness must be found in domestic confidence.
I • ADEL,'
I could not sleep alone. Wake when I would it
was in agony, The silent and gloomy ravine was
continually before me. I heard the roar of the tor
rent at a distance—the sullen splash of the water as
he sunk forever—saw the supplicating agony of hie
countenance as he struggled with his fate—caught
the echo of his last convulsive shriek of '
could count the bubbles as the air escaped from his
lungs, and rose to the surface of the water.
Hubert, my own valet. occupied my dressing.
room. I must, in my sleep, hare betrayed my 'se
cret, and he, waked by my agony, overheard and
understood me ! Be that no it may, speedily an d
bitterly did he make me feel his power. Not a evi
-1 labia escaped him; he was silent asthe grave; but
I his insolent air, his'arrogara manner, soon gave me
I to understand the knowledge ha hod acquired ; and
from that hour he never ceased to exercise a thral.
dam over me which has ern .hc:l me to the duet. I
r 5