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... than'an earthly being—something purer– -something holier –Besides, he was in a - reat measure the creature of impulse, and, : £. with sensibilities. naturally superior . . to those ordinarily characteristic of the hu. man species, why he became so easily the

o The Groomsman. . -

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Once before he attempted his life, and in or , der to prevent a result of the kind, I will

dupe of misreprésentation, is a conclusion myself volunteer to remain.” It was acnot at all difficult for us to arrive at. His cordingly agreed that Clark should stay.

fault in the present-case was the error of As the funeral left, the parent of the child

‘. . hasty judgment, acted upon by the light:aious to be buried, stood under the piazza,

ning-like feelings of a warm and youthful watching the slow and solemn train till it

heart—youth is necessarily without expedisappeared from his sight. Turning into ricace. But this only, serves in some de: the house he was followed by Clark, and

gree to palliate the circumstance—not to giving way to his dispair, called for the 1.

excuse it... Hăd he paused, as he should cup of intoxication. “Wine !' wine !” he have done, for reflection, he would have exclaimed “Give me the glass—these acted differently—his wife would not have miseries are more than I can bear !” As been obliged to leave him, as she did, nor he spoke, he pressed his hand convulsivewould he have expérienced those conflict.ly against his forehead, and his heavy ing tortures of the mind beneath the lash of breathings betokened the weight of sorwhich he was hourly writhing. . . . ... By the side of hio ed, unremittingly, tils it breathed its last tinued to repeat her name with words of and when finally convinced that the spark affection and regret. “I have lost her! of life was axtinct ñjor were his words, and deep and - oftement and even blasphemous! Topassionate the accents of his grief. “Mothis succeeded despondency. Asser the ther and child both gone—both from my storm of passion the gloom, of despair—sight—and I am left a wreck amidst the

in its repose thore aweful than in the vio-barren waste of life l’”. For a moment he'

lance of commotion, Upon the bed beside paused, subdued by the intensity of his the corpse he sat, with his eyes fixed upon'sorrow, and bursting into tears wept like the inanimate form, nor could any entrea- a child: '... A smile spread over the coun

. . . . . row under which he laboured. “My child! my child !” he bitterly exclaimed, and con

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ties prevail on him to leave the room. He tenance of Clark—the triumphat one of

was finally taken out—not exactly by successful villanyl His victim again called force, but with the utmost reluctance. Dü- for wine." Glass after glass of it he conring this scene Clark was standing in the tinued to swallow—his senses forsook chamber, a fittle apart from the group, him—he staggered—reeled—and in hyssmiling with malicious satisfaction as heterical convulsions, fell prostrate upon the ... witnessed the grief his master displayed—floor... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the whole, reminding us of a scene in... “Now—now I triumph,” cried the maShakspeare's Othello, and of Forrest and lignant Clark, who had to,

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careful to ply o

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his victim with the inebriating draughts, expecting the present result. “I triumph now! Like dark-eyed Zanga over Alonzo's prostrate body I stand—like Zanga too, I must awake my victim into horrors! What, ho! arise"—jerking the other: by the coat collar and endeavouring to rouse him from his stupor. - It is painful to speak of Mr. West in the situation he is here before the reader. But disagreeable as it is, it is unavoidably necessary. . The thread of the narrative exacts it. Intoxicated and insensible as he was, such was the vehemence of Clark's language, that it startled him; and half opening his eyes, he encountered the other's demoniacal gaze. “Your child died by poison”— “Poison " ' - “Ay, sir—poison!—and I administered the fatal drug.” “You !” “Yes—me ! Behold me !” he cried, tearing off his whiskers and false hair, displaying the light-coloured ringlets he naturally possessed, instead of the jet black curls of a wig–and revealing to the astonishment of his hearer— “Byard?” “Yes—Byard—your wife's cousin, and your own eternal enemy! 'Twas I that poisoned your child,—'twas I that murdered it, -", “You—for what 7” | “For revenge!"—thundering out his words, and forcing a laugh of fiendish exultation, whilst his mouth foamed with the excitement of his passions—“for revenge! revenge!” Here a momentary pause ensued, during which they intently and earnestly gazed at each other—the one tremulous with awe-the other scowling with the dark and vindictive spirit of wicked determination. Mr. West rose to his feet, and was for leaving the room, but Byard intercepted him, placing himself against the door, and imperatively bidding the Other to remain where he was. “Hear me,” he said, or rather vociferated. “You married my cousin—Julia Graham. I loved her! and when her preference was fixed upon you, I felt the demon rankle in my bosom—the demon that actuates me now. However, I managed to smother my feelings at the time, and even officiaas groomsman at your nuptials. ...But Your increasing happiness I could not bear

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to witness, and so departed for Europe. There I planned the scheme I have since executed. After the absence of a year I returned to the United States—intent upon one thing—the destruction of your felicity. In the first place, to arouse your suspicions, I loitered about these premises, night after night, with the flute and guitar, playing, and at times accompanying the instrument with my voice. In your Spanish servant, Manuel Garcia, I found a ready abettor for the gold I supplied him with; and at my desire, he whispered in your ears the lying tale that so easily fired your breast with jealousy.”

At this barefaced confession, it may readily be supposed, Mr. West was thunderstruck. He was so ; and with speechless amazement and impatience awaited while Byard continued as follows. “Worm out as it were by your harsh treatment, her affection for you seemed to be suspended, and to leave you became the prevailing desire of your wife's bosom. Manuel discovered it—disclosed to me the secret, and at my bidding, proffered his assistance, which she unhesitatingly accept

|ed of. A plan for her escape was then

agreed upon, and a night not far distant
appointed to put it into effect. She was
to be rowed across the river, there to take
a carriage, which was to be in waiting.
The night settled upon arrived. I had a
schooner I hired, ready at anchor in the
stream, a mile below, and dressed in the
garb of a sailor, I waited with a boat at
the designated spot. She came down with
Manuel, entered the boat, and was entrap-
ped on board of the vessel. We got un-
der weigh, sailed immediately from the
river, and as soon as we were out at sea,
I attempted—”
“Impossible
“Yes—I did—but own that I found her
virtue impregnable. My endeavours she
resisted—it enraged me—and rather than
that she should ever get again to your
arms, I determined to-ay!—and now she
sleeps beneath a watery grave" -
“Dead '' . -
“She is—she is 1–murdered"
At the announcement of this, an excla-
mation of horror escaped from the lips of
Theodore, and his uplifted hands were
clasped with the energy of despail. His
wife's innocence was now declared beyond
a doubt, and as he thought over the wrongs

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she had received—of the sorrows he had
himself been the cause of he groaned
with remorse ! Remorse !, remorse ! and
his groans were music to the exulting vil-
lany of Byard. But at this crisis—in the
very midst of his triumph, the door of the
room was burst open, and Garcia, with
several police officers, entered.
he is—seize him—” . -

“Ha! traitor's" cried Byard. Drawing a loaded pistol from his breast-pocket, he levelled it at Garcia and fired, who instantly fell upon the floor, drenched in blood The officers secured the perpet trator of the deed, who made no resistance, as he knew well enough it would be fruitless to do so. . . . . . - .

“Hear me,”—gasped the dying Spaniard faintly, at the moment recovering sufficient strength to raise himself on one hand—“I am the murderer of the tavern keeper—killed—Baltimore—-year—eighteen—twenty-five—” uttering which, he sunk back and expired.

Byard was conveyed to prison. The coroner was sent for, and a verdict given over the corpse of Manuel, which was then taken to the city for burial. - To be continued.

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It was a stormy night in December: the wind blew furiously against a little hut, which from its decayed state and its approximation to the sea, whose waves.al. most washed it, appeared unfit for the habitation of any human being. Yet there one poor melanchóly.creature lived. The hovel was into two rooms, Qne of which was quite empty, and the other contained two chairs, a low stool, and a table of the very meanest appearance. Although intensely cold, there were but a few dying embers in the grate, opposite to which was seated the living inhabitant—an old woman; very old and poor. . Still, bowed down as she was by age, and want and

“Theme

of friends.

Old Mary. - . . . ...'. ...,’ indica. . tion of inward gentility which prosperity cannot give, nor misfortune take away. .. She was a strange, wayward being, and would wander sometimes for days together, without regard to season or weather, upon the rocks, and take no notice of any . thing that might be said to her; and at . other times, she would sit rocking herself ... on the low wooden seat, gazing upon wa

sorrow, there was about her that

cancy, and muttering at intervals a few

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low indistinct' words. . Her appearance. heightened her singularity; she had been tall and beautiful, but her features: now." had a hard, harsh outline, and except in

was no trace of beauty. tagers dwelling near her with a degree of

addressed her. She shunned them all, and .
the name of “Old Mary,” was sufficient
to terrify the children into good behavior: .
there was no cause for this fear, for she

sharply. “Only me, only Rose,” was the

answer, and the girl entered. “It is a "dreadful stormy night; and I thought you would feel lonely, so I have come, to sit with you,” she continued, as she took her

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did speak to her; but she was unfortsnåte, which is a sufficient reason for her want : She had lately, however, been . |whom she had known in infancy; she had". returned to it a blooming girl.'. Almost

when she came, received her with a wel.

feel that they are deserted and dreaded by !all beside. - . .... " " " . "

she heard a gentle tap at her door; she was unaccustomed to visitors, and her.

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...' fear; gentle one, you are quite safe.” Awhile he slept, till I have fancied him an pâtise ensued. Mary gazed upon the beau-langel. With difficulty have I restrained tiful face of the maiden, and broke the myself from straining him to my heart, sileice by saying, “You have often askedlest the bright spirit should take wing even ... me to tell you my tale, Rose, and you while I gazed and folded him in my em‘... shall now be gratified...'Tis a tale fit to brace. . But in this I sinned, and for this . to be told only on a night like this.” There also have I suffered. Even a mother's ... was another pause of a moment, and the fondness must have bounds; but mine had * old woman resumed:. . . . . . . . . none; it was the one only feeling in my o "I was but a child when I was marriedheart, and it grew to idolatry. o to—no matter whom, suffice it, we irre- “My Henry grew to manhood. At . * vocably offended our friends on both sides.|three and twenty he was betrothed to a * Most severely was I punished for my dis-maided in our village, three years younger obedienéé. } had been a wife, but two than himself, and it was settled that she years, when the playmate of my infancy; was to become his wife in a twelvemonth. the object of my girl-hood's dreams, the H tried hard to love her for his sake, but— husband of my youth, was snatched from God forgive me ! I had much to school me in the flush of youth, and health and my heart to, to prevent its hating her, pride! To be called away so soon bough Henry never guessed it. About . Imust not think of it;-he died, and with this time a stranger came from — to him all my happiness—even the wish solo for a short time in the village. My it... My life was despaired of; I cared notboy soon found or fancied a degree of for life, but hoped, and prayed for death;coolness on the part of his betrothed... I but it mooked ne—death is only for the remember well his words one evening on . happy and the gay; he is not satisfied to his return home, after fruitlessly watching * visit those who daily—hourly long for his for her. ‘It is the second time she has approach. "Twas a sinful wish—and great broken her engagement with me this week, has been my punishment! . . . . |and I have reason to believe in favor of ..." After a time my grief became less this stranger. : Mother, if Ellen Thornton "violent, but not less sincere. ..I had now play me false, I— he stopped, hesitated, a motiveló induce me to be more careful and turned away. The time of my miso of my health—I fouñd that I was to be-ery drew near, Ellen was to be seen daily come a mother...Here, then, was some-walking with the stranger, who, not conthing for which to live; my existence tented with his victory, sought every opwould not now be a blank, a monotonous portunity to quarrel with the man he had ... sorrow. The time came at last when Išo grossly wronged. !' could take my baby to my bosom, and feel “It was a night like this—the rain pourthat I was not alone. Oh, the wild ecstasyed in torrents and the thunder reverberatof that moment! I, could have knelt toed through the cottage, but what are the in; usiconscious infant and blesséd him for convisions of nature in all her terrors the joyl felt. I was then but a mére girl; compared to the angry passions of men? friends had for ever forsaken ope fortune. But as murmuring fills to the stormy had hone; I was surrounded by perils ocean. It was past his usual hour for re: and temptations, but my child was the turning, and I became uneasy. Fears the '..countérospell to all of them, and .I loved most improbable run across my mind. ... him dearer and better, the more I endured The lightning might have struck him ; he for him... . . . •. - * . . might have ventured too near the edge of ... "We must, we are compelled to love the rocks and ‘have fallen into the sea; ... those who depend on us for protection, be every thing in short but the truth found *"...it ever so trifling, how much then must Ipace in my imagination. Another hour

have loved my child '. passed away. I could bear it no longer. . o: “I left my home and struggled for years Regardless of the weather, I rushed out, I

...with poverty that he might want for do wandered in every direction, but met him : o sing: wě, were all in all to each other. not. At last it struck me that he might

He grew in beauty as well as in years; it have returned home, and be uneasy at my :: *ight be that I saw him in too fond alabsence; I almost kept pace with the light

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lig # but I have sat and gazed upon him ning's swiftness, and was soon within

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