University of Virginia Library

THREE SCENES IN THE SOUTH.

BY C. B. PARSONS.

1. SCENE I.—THE COTTAGE.

Much has been written and said, and deservedly too, of the
beauty and gracefulness of New-England towns and villages.
The uniform white painted walls of their houses, their regular
walks and avenues, with their clean fields and nice “home
lots,” all indicative in no small degree, of intellectual training
and moral thrift, are sure to attract the attention of the traveller,
and are worthy of all praise. But this state of things is not confined
alone to the land of the Pilgrims,—the soil of chivalry,
also boasts of the beautiful and picturesque. The villas and
verandahs of the South, interspersed as they are with orange
groves and magnolia forests, though not so prim and precise,
are more gorgeous and grand; and, compared with the North,
show as the unrestricted expanse of the magnificant sun-flower,
to the trim-built and exclusive little buttercup. We remember
a cottage scene of the South; and though years have passed
since the events transpired, which we are about to record, there
are those living, in the green of whose memories they will ever
remain—so strong is the impress of woe upon the tables of the
mind.

In the lovely village of H—, where it was our good
fortune to be some time resident, in the year 184—, and just
at the turn of the Big Road, which stretches down the Bay on
towards the Gulf, stood a beautiful cottage, built after the style

of the Peninsula, in the age of Cervantes. A venerable grove
of magnolias, more gorgeous than Acedemus ever dreamed of,
spread their arms to each other above, and embracing together,
canopied the place. The broad white blossom in summer, and
the perpetual green of winter, of these monarchs of the woods,
not only filled the surrounding atmosphere with the most deli
cious odors, while they closed in the whole area above with
umbrageous and unbroken shade, but furnished the beholder,
at every elevation of the eye, a fadeless remembrance and
emblem, of the imperishable life of hope—that hope, which as
a heavenly cynosure, leads the Christian to the contemplation
of things beyond this suffering vale. In the midst of this gorgeous
clump of evergreens, and in happy contrast, rose the
white walls of the “Spanish Cottage.” It was a lovely scene
to look upon. Without, and in splendid profusion, festoonings
of running rose, eglantine and honeysuckle, sweetly intermingling
together, entwined the pillars and draped the porches;
while within, the richer elegance of intellectual culture and
moral worth, adorned the place. The fields were carpeted with
flowers of every hue, and the air rung merrily, with the songs
of birds. It was such a picture as Chateaubriand describes, as peculiar
to the great valley of the South. This was the residence
of old Mr. Wilton, who had now been dead about two years,
leaving his son William, who was his only child, the sole heir
and possessor of his sufficient fortune. The estate had formerly
belonged to the Spanish agent, Sir William Dunbar, a noble
gentleman, who was an intimate friend of Mr. Wilton, and in
honor of whom William was named. Young Wilton was a
highly educated young man, of many noble virtues—generous,
charitable and brave, and seemed to emulate the distinguished
qualities of heart and mind, of both his father and his patron.
He had been, during the years of his novitiate, a student at one
of the eastern universities, where he had graduated with the
first honors of his class; and where, as the sequel will show
the beginning of circumstances was made, which ultimately
involved much misery and more crime. In the same hour of
his high college honors, and ere he had descended from the
platform of his achievements, a letter bearing the impress of a
black seal, was handed him by the janitor. The superscription
was in a strange hand. Tremblingly, and with fearful foreboding,
he broke the envelope, and read,—his brain reeled
with the shock,—his father was dead! How strange a world is
this, where the quality of joys and sorrows are so assorted to
each other. Little joys are modified with little griefs, but great
transports must be rebuked by great suffering. Into the cup of
ecstacy, just about to be quaffed by the Roman Father, an
envious fate stood ready, to cast the life-drops of a daughter
slain in the moment of triumph, by a victorious brother's
hand.

With a saddened heart, young Wilton, turned his footsteps
towards his home in the South, where now his presence was
imperiously demanded. A warm welcome from the two old
domestics greeted his arrival, but a father's smile of approbation,
that boon which he had so calculated upon, and for which he
had toiled, had been stricken away. All that was now left,
was to pay the tribute of a tear at his father's grave, and look
about himself for his future course. This he speedily adjusted,
and having given a few brief orders, was soon on his way again
for the North—gossip said to select a partner for life's mazy
dance, with whom to share the joys and sorrows of his cottage
home. In this instance the old dame of many tongues told the
truth; for he soon returned again, and bearing with him his
beautiful and accomplished bride, the elegant daughter of the
Honorable Mr. B—. Rumor says the match was a rash one—

on the lady's part—that her parents were bitterly opposed to it,
on the score of prejudice against the South, and that to accomplish
their purpose the young couple were compelled to elope.
Be that as it may, it was now near two years since their settlement
in the cottage, and by common consent they were the
happiest people in all this region, especially among the poorer
classes, they have been idolized; with whom the lady is an
angel of mercy, and the gentleman a benefactor of his race.

“But come,” said our friend, “as we are so near the cottage,
let us extend our walk little, and pay them a morning
call. It will be pleasant to make the acquaintance of this interesting
family. This is the place.”

“Good morning, Mr. Wilton; a pleasant morning, sir;”
said we.

“Good morning,—good morning, sirs,” was his reply.
“Yes, sirs, a delightful Southern morning. Come, sirs, sans
ceremonie, walk in and rest you a bit; I am glad to see you
hoth, and feel no little honored by this early visit. Your
drowsy, after-dinner visiations, may do for loungers, who, overcome
with spiritual ennui, study more sedulously how to kill
time, than ever Archimedes did to solve his great problem; but
for me, there is more music in the notes of the lark than in the
song of the cricket.”

“You are right, sir,” said we; “and your taste, in this regard,
well accord with our own. But there's another to be
consulted in this matter, I think; perhaps the madam might
not fancy to see company at this early hour.”

“O, yes,' said he, smiling, “my wife is myself in that
respect; and indeed, in almost every other. Our love-path, it
is true, was not as smooth, perhaps, as it might have been, but
when it widened into wedlock, it was equal to the famous
`shell-road' When we married, we two `were no longer

twain but one flesh.' She would consider the hour a little out
of season perhaps, if she was, at her father's, in the far `down-east'
country, but with us here, in the sunny South, we shake
off many of those arbitrary notions of upper-crust-dom, (which,
by the way, are sometimes a little `done brown,' by our
baking,) and in place thereof we have untrammeled intercourse
and enjoyment with our friends at all hours. Isn't it so,
wife? I beg pardon, Alice, this is our friend, Mr. P— from
Kentucky, with Mr. — from the village; this is Mrs. Wilton,
gentlemen.”

We bowed, and he went on.

“I often thought,” said he, “while resident in the North,
in the family of Dr. Birch and Professor Hickory, that compared
with the sans-souci and wreathy ease of our Southern
homes, the image of their manners was like a figure of snow,
with icicle trimmings.”

“Come, come,” said we, “you must not be too severe
upon the manners and customs of the cold land, because you
are so snug and warm here in the South; recollect, you gathered
the loveliest flower you ever saw, in that sterile clime.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the lady, slightly coloring.

“I acknowledge the compliment,” said he, bowing, and
casting a glace of unmingled affection upon his gentle wife;
“but you see, even that blossom, so perfect and so good, had
to be transplanted to a southern soil before it could mature into
fruitfulness; don't you see,” said he, laughing, “the richness
and beauty of our southern production;” and he pointed to a
lovely babe of near a year old, who was quietly sleeping upon
its mother's lap.

“You must not mind Mr. Wilton,” said she, recovering
a little from the confusion which the last remark had occasioned,
“he don't mean half he says about the coldness of the

North, for he knows full well that some of his happiest hours
were spent there.”

“That's true, Alice,” said he; “and I will never forget
them: no—never.”

“O, I don't mind him,” said I, “nor will my friend here.
We rejoice to see you so delightfully situated and so happy.
May no blighting spirit ever cross your threshold to mar your
felicity.”

“God grant it,” said Wilton; while a respondent tear glistened
in the eye of the wife, and told the deep interest she felt
in the subject.

“But come,” said Wilton, “before you go you must take
a glass of wine, or brandy if you prefer it, and pledge our young
and promising household. I suppose the Temperance folk
have not got hold of you yet?” They tried a little after
me once—it was some time since, when I was at Cincinnati—
but they soon discovered it was no go to follow that trail. That
man Gough, though, did come mighty near hooking me, at one
time, and Genl. Garey at another, but I shook them off. By
the way, these Temperance associations seem to me, to be, not
only unnecessary and unreasonable, but they strike at the most
manly prerogative of human constituency—liberty. I cannot
think with complacency, even upon the invitation, to sign
away my freedom, much less upon the act itself. As if a man
needed a conservator to keep his moral machinery checked and
balanced, lest it should run wild. The very thought is humiliating,
and unworthy the dignity of intelligent manhood. But
come, what shall it be—wine, water, brandy? What you will;
take your choice; but for my part, I like something a little
stronger.”

Water was the beverage of our pledge, of course, but he
drank brandy. We said farewell, and turned away from that

beautiful cottage and happy family; but for days and weeks,
that “something a little stronger,” haunted our mind, and
seemed to predict, that it would one day prove the “strong
man armed,” that would destroy their peace for ever. Poor
Wilton!

2. SCENE II.—THE CONTRAST.

How truly it is said, that “virtue does not always meet its
just reward in this bad world,” where the honest, the excellent
and the noble, are as likely to be made the quarry of an insidious
and subtle foe, as the base, the worthless and the vile.
Nature's universal characteristic, is mutation; change, is written
upon all things. It is a common duty therefore, dictated as well
by safety, as by happiness, to watch with exceeding carefulness,
in order that moral progress may lead from good to better,—else,
through carelessness and temptation, its tendencies may be, in
an opposite direction. About seven years after the period of the
previous chapter, it was our fortune, again to visit the sunny
land, where

Just as the sun was sinking to rest, wrapt and pillowed by one
of those red and portentous hazes, peculiar to the south in the
vernal season of the year, we found ourselves once more entering
the pleasant village of H—.

We had almost forgotten the happy family of the Wiltons,
whom we knew on our first pilgrimage south,—but as we had
several acquaintances in the village and some among them remembered
our former visit to the cottage,—especially the friend
who accompanied us on that memorable morning, it was not long
before their name was introduced. We were anxious to hear of

their welfare, and yet we knew not why, we felt a sad foreboding
that all was not right there. That “something a little
stronger,” came back again with the name, and assumed, in the
mirror of the mind, the hideous demon of the Still—glancing
and gloating upon his victims. To-morrow morning, said our
friend, we will resume again our early walk, of seven years ago,
in the direction of what was then the beautiful Spanish Cottage;
but strange changes have been rung upon the bells of life, from
that day to this. Poor Wilton!—but I will not anticipate—you
shall see and judge for yourself. “Do you remember your remark
then, about the strong man armed?” “Yes,” said we,
perfectly; the vision has been with us a hundred times. “Well,”
said he, significantly, he has been there, sure enough. How
strange is the philosophy of life. Moments, sometimes, make
impressions upon the mind which years of oblivion can never
efface or obliterate. By the dim fore-shadowings of the future,
such seemed to be the character of events, which the coming
day was to evolve.

The next morning, the sun rose murky and red, and as with
swollen face, he peeped forth from the chambers of the east,—
looked more like a drunken sluggard, forced forth from his rest
to his task, than the coming up of a cheerful bride-groom, or as
“a strong man, rejoicing to run a race.” We were soon on our
way towards the cottage. “Come said we, tell us of the ruin
which has befallen the—what's that?”

“O nothing,” said he “but the distant croaking of a
family of Ravens, which have singularly enough taken up their
abode among the magnolias at the cottage. Their hoarse notes
have filled the air of late, to the no little annoyance of the
neighbors; many of whom are superstitious enough to think it
ominous of evil. They say the croaking of the raven, indicates
the shedding of blood; but I have no belief for such things.”

“You remember the time when Wilton made us drink with
him, and pledge his family, when we drank water, and he
“liked something a little stronger?”

“Yes; I remember it as a thing of yesterday.”

“Well, that `liking' never left him, but grew upon him,
without abatement, until, as with bands of iron, it bound him
an abject slave, and it is Forever. He soon became a confirmed
drunkard; though for a year or two, while his fortune
held up his wild-orgies, his debauches and his abuses were
chiefly confined to his own cottage, where, as far as possible,
they were concealed by his amiable wife from the public view.
But as his means became scant, his vice grew bold; every sense
of shame was at length banished, and the once elegant and accomplished
William Wilton was lost. He has for years been
the common tavern-loafer, and pot-house sot. One circumstance,
however, in his miserable career, more than anything
else, removed from him the last vestige of sympathy, and fixed
him in the eye of the community as a loathsome and repulsive
moral offence. There were two aged servants, whom you may
remember, that were left by his father as a part of his estate, a
male and female; whether they were man and wife, or not, I
do not remember. The woman—and probably the very nurse
of his infancy—he sold to a trader for a barrel of whiskey (she
was redeemed, however, by one of the neighbors who would
not see the horrid sacrilege, but He knew nothing of it) and
the other, an old man, he tied up and beat, in a drunken fit, for
some imaginary insult, so severely, that he soon died of his
wounds. It was with great difficulty that the public was restrained
from taking popular vengeance on him for these acts;
but on account of his family they spared him, and partly in the
hope also, I suppose, that he would finish himself with his barrel
of whiskey (so they said). But in this last they were disappointed;

like a monster, as he is, he lived through it, and he
still lives on.”

From the accomplished gentleman you knew him, he has
become an incarnate fiend, and to such an extent does he demonstrate
his nature, that the neighbors often tremble for the
safety of his wife and child. The little girl, you remember,
was an infant when you were here; she is now near eight years
old, and a most intelligent and interesting child. Poor Mrs.
Wilton, she bears it all with meek patience, and much submission,
but every one can see that she is a broken-hearted
woman.

“And all this misery,” said we, “is the fruit of that one
error,—the liking of `something a little stronger.”'

“Well, here we are, in sight of the place,” said our
friend. Mark the contrast of seven years. One thing you will
note, and that is, a strict harmony has been preserved betwixt
the moral and the physical of the scene; the outer change is as
great as that of the inner man.”

“Yes, and all this,” said we, “is the work of the bottle.
Where, now, is the `dignity of intelligent manhood'—the
`freedom,' of which he spoke so eloquently? The dog at his
vomit; the sow in the wallow; or the man with his bottle;
which of these three hath most of the beast?”

There stood the shattered and decayed cottage, it is true,
—like a tomb ruin—a gloomy remembrance of other days; and
there, too, what remained of the splendid Magnolia grove—
time and abuse had done their work on both. The axe had
leveled most of the beautiful trees for firewood, while those that
remained, seemed to stand silent and sad in their dark fol age,
as if sensible of the dishonor that had befallen them. The
largest and noblest of the grove had been ruined by the lightning,

during a severe thunder-storm, and hung in halves, sustained
by the adjacent trees, which seemed in this, as dutiful
children, amidst the desolation, holding up a stricken sire. The
very thunderer had spoken in threatening and in wrath. The
grounds had been let go to waste; briars had usurped the fence
corners, and thistles covered the fields. Since the murder
of the old servant man there was no one left to till the soil,
which, like the moral waste of Wilton's mind, seemed as if a
simoom had passed over it; and was not such the fact? More
blasting than the “Zamiel,” is the fire breath of the Still.
With the cottage itself, the contrast was greater, if possible, than
with the grove. Doorless openings, and sashless windows, with
furniture broken and destroyed, told of times of violence. Desolation
and misery, had been lighted to their possession of the
beautiful cottage, by the spirit-lamp of hell, where now, hand
in hand, they stalked and ruled supreme. A Satan, in the
Garden of Eden, is that “something a little stronger,” in the
house of the happy.

Some one comes; it is the little daughter, and followed to
the door by her ruffian father, who, with threatening and abuse
is sending her upon some errand. He seems even now, at this
early time in the day, to be under the influence of the demon.
See, he is standing and staggering in the door-way still, and
with bloated face and blood-shot eyes, is muttering something
hetwixt his teeth, in reference to that little girl. Alas, for
the fate of a drunkard's daughter!

“And is that man Wilton? The man we knew? the gentleman
and the scholar? Merciful heaven, what a metamorphosis!”

“Did you observe,” said our friend, “that the little girl
had a jug in her hand as she left the house? He is still under

the maddening influence of the last night's drunken brawl, and
has doubtless sent his child to the grocery in the village for
more whiskey to cool off upon. Woe betide that little innocent
if she fail in her degrading mission.”

“Come,” said we, “let us go; we have seen enough. O
it harrows up the very soul. What talents; what usefulness;
what respectability; what everything, indeed, might have been
his; but all—all, are sacrificed to that prince of evils, strong
drink. Why don't Mrs. Wilton take her little daughter and
return to her father's house? he would receive her kindly, we
doubt not.”

“Well, that has been spoken of,” said he, “but when
Wilton is sober, as he sometimes is, his former good nature returns
again; he is kind then, and promises amendment. And
though every body else has lost all confidence in his pledges,
his wife has not, but hopes still. A woman's heart is slow to
give up the object of its early affections; a woman's love never
forsakes. Besides, the match at first, was consummated by an
elopement, and a sense of pride, perhaps, forbids the idea of
such an event as her return. I think, however, that some of
the friends (unknown to her) have written to the old gentleman,
and if I mistake not, he is expected here about this time.”

“I am glad of it, may God speed his journey. I would he
was here now; for O I fear—I fear! Let us return to our
lodgings. Our walk has produced a melancholy upon my
mind which I cannot shake off. If I was superstitious, I should
think there was some fearful calamity at hand. Poor Wilton,
what a terrible contrast has the progress of seven years drawn
upon the tables of his life, and how fearfully has his own hand
guided the pencil. Is there hope? O God! is there hope? let
us think.”

3. SCENE III.—THE CATASTROPHE.

An hour, it may be, had elapsed, after the morning ramble
of the last scene, during the interview of which we had sought
the retirement of our chamber and communion with God.
“He is our refuge,” and always “a present help in trouble.”
Such was our condition and though we had no adequate conception
of what the cause should be, a trouble seemed ready to
settle down upon our mind. From this we sought relief, only
where relief can be found for an oppressed spirit, at the throne
of grace. Suddenly a busy hum in the street below, fell upon
our ear. On approaching the window to ascertain the cause,
we observed a crowd about the door and a fainting female just
being borne within the house. Almost immediately, as if
moved by a common impulse, the whole village—men, women,
and children—were seen hurriedly crossing the lawn, in the
direction of the cottage.

“What has happened? Some dire event has transpired
to cause this rush of excitement. We will follow, also, and
learn the cause.”

Just then our door opened, and our friend of the morning,
pale and agitated, entered the room.

“What is the matter?” said we. “What has occurred?
For heaven's sake, speak!”

“I am come,” said he, “to ask you, once more, to accompany
me to the cottage. The dreadful drama is near the close,
the bloody denouement of which is terrible to behold.”

“Bloody! do you say? What has happened?”

“Murder has happened,” said he. “Murder, not only
most `foul and unnatural,' but of circumstances so horrible that
the mind trembles to know and think upon them.”

“Who is murdered?” said we; “and who is the murderer?”

“They have just borne the fainting form of Mrs. Wilton
into the house below, but little Alice and the wretched father—
come put on your hat, and let us visit the scene; I came for
you on purpose, because I saw you were so interested in the
welfare of the family. As we go, I will tell you what has come
to pass.”

We immediately started for the cottage.

“The state of the case appears to be about this,” said he,
“as near as we could ascertain, from the incoherent and anguished
speech of poor Mrs. Wilton: the fiend of a father, as
we learn, who was still under the influence of last night's
drunkenness, had sent the little girl to the grocery for more
whiskey; just as we supposed was the case, when we saw her
pass us with the jug in her hand.”

“Where,” said one, “could he have gotten the means to
purchase the poison? would they trust him?”

“O no,” said he. “It appears that on yesterday, while
the miserable drunkard, and more wretched husband and father
was absent at his tavern orgies, Mrs. Wilton, driven to her last
extremity, in order to purchase food for herself and daughter,
sold to a pedlar who passed through the Village, her wedding
ring. This was the last article of any value that remained, and
even this brought but a trifle. Still, it would buy a little bread
—and though she had clung to it, as a remembrance of faded
joys, and wept upon it as a witness of untold sorrows,—the
pressing demands of hunger were not to be resisted, and the
ring, which was placed upon her finger with solemn oaths, now
left it, midst bitter sighs. This transaction, by some means Wilton
found out, and demanded the money. This she refused.
With threats and imprecations, he persisted, and even went so
far as to fetch the axe from the yard, and raise it menacingly
over her head, threatening her life if she continued to refuse.

Alarmed for her safety, at length she yielded, and gave him the
money. Immediately the scanty product of the sacrifice, which
was intended to purchase bread to sustain life, was on the way
to the Grocery, for “more whiskey,” to produce death. On her
return, it seems, the little girl stumbled against some obstacle in
the path, and unfortunately fell. In her fall, the jug was broken,
and the whiskey spilled. Sensible of the extent of her misfortune,
and the violent wrath which awaited her, little Alice, gathered
up the fragments of the broken jug, in token of her mishap,
and weeping bitterly, made her way, fearful and trembling, into
the presence of her unnatural parent. In a moment he saw the
truth, and maddened into a paroxysm of rage, at his disappointment,
he bounded like a tiger from his seat, and scizing the axe,
with a savage yell swore instant vengeance. Against the child,
his first fury was levelled, who fled out at the back door, pursued
by her father, while the mother, who was equally the
object of his hellish design, escaped through the front of the
house. It is likely the fleetness of little Alice would have
baffled the pursuit of the monster father which she had often
done before, had not her feet become entangled in some brushwood
about the door, which had been placed there for purposes
of fuel. This proved fatal to her life—the murderous axe came
down, and poor little Alice was dead.—A single horrid scream
from the child, reached the fleeing mother's ear, who with a
groan, sank senseless by the road side;—whence she was borne
to the house we left. One stroke of the axe did the deed, and
almost cleft the child in twain. The descending blow struck
her, in a falling condition as it would seem, just at the back of
the head, and passed quite through the neck and breast, dividing
them entirely asunder. Poor child, it was a sight horrible to behold.
No sooner had this fiend in human shape accomplished
this part of his design, than he rushed back into the house
again, to finish his work upon his abused and devoted wife,
—Fortunately she was not there. Disappointed of the chosen
subject of his vengeance, his next purpose seemed to be to select
some object, animate or inanimate, upon which to wreak his
fury. A portrait of Mrs. Wilton, painted by Inman—a beautiful
picture, hung upon the wall of the apartment,—against this
he now launched his wildest and most frantic madness. It is said
that the frenzied soul, which under the influence of alcoholic
madness steeps itself in murder, knows neither mercy nor remorse.
One broad cut appeared in the face of the portrait, but
in the effort to inflict a second blow, the head of the axe struck
the ceiling of the room,—being lifted too high,—and glancing
struck deep into the side of his own head and neck, severing
the main artery, and producing instant death.

“This is the apartment,” said our friend,—“and there you
see he lies, in the centre of the floor weltering in his blood,—
with the fatal axe still in his grasp;—and just over him the indentation
in the ceiling.—And there too they have laid the body
of little Alice.—Great God, what a sight is here?—This also is
the work of the bottle,—the legitimate fruits of `something a
little stronger.' ”

Let us turn aside from this place of terrors. Horrors thicken
fast,—they rise like the whelming tide, and mock at rest.—
The very currents of the heart curdle and chill, and the pulses
pause in fear, among scenes like these. And this is the end of
that beginning, which was so bright and joyful, and so full of
promise. Like the coiled adder at the bottom of a lucid fountain,
poisoning its sweet waters with the virus of death, is the
spirit of the still, midst the springs of life. Who would have
said seven years ago, that this would be the end of William
Wilton,—the accomplished, the generous and the just.—But so

it is—the tempter was busy—and the fire streams were full,—
they roll unresisted, and have borne to hell their victim.

It were idle to attempt a description of the scene, which communicated
to the bereaved and distracted wife, the terrible
events that had taken place. Scream answered to swoon,—and
swoon succeeded scream,—following close upon each other, and
in such rapid succession, that fears were entertained that her reason
would perish, if her life was not also added to the list. But
kind heaven directed otherwise,—her time was not yet. The
next day at an early hour, was the appointed time for the funeral,
which was to take place near the cottage, where the grave
had been already prepared.—Sorrow and gloom held vigil together
that night, in the village of H—.

“John;” said a voice to a servant man, as he was hurrying
through the hall of the Hotel early in the morning,—“who
was that tall old gentleman, that came in the stage last night?”

“I don't know, sir,” said John, “he is the strangest old man
that I ever saw, that's certain. He seems almost like he was
a lunatic.”

“Why so, John?”

“Why sir,” said the servant, “though he had been riding in
the stage for two days without rest or sleep, he did not he
down nor ask for a bed at all, but wandered about the village
all night like a ghost. He asked about the murder down at the
cottage, and while they told him the story, he shook and groaned
as if he had been in an ague fit.—Two or three times he
started off to go down there, and then turned suddenly back
again, afraid I reckon, that he would see the spirit of Wilton.”

“It is certainly he,” said the voice, and the door closed.

“He,” said John, looking for a moment at the closed door,
—yes, it is HE,—and a singular HE he is. I think he is mad.

The assembled village stood round the grave. A large plain
coffin had been provided, which contained the bodies of both
father and daughter—the murderer and the murdered. This, it
is likely would not have been the arrangement, but a sympathetic
commisseration, had suddenly sprung up in the popular mind
on behalf of the wretched murderer, ascribing the horrid deed
rather to madness, than to premeditation. This, without doubt,
was a right view of the subject. It was madness, and of the
worst and most fatal type. A madness, full of horrors, and fit
exponant of the condition of the damned,—the madness of the
Still.

Upon the coffin, in gorey state, lay the fatal axe. The instrument
of the murder, was to be buried with the murderer
and the murdered. A strange “hatchment,” truly, but in strict
keeping with the nature of the scene. The services were short,
solemn and impressive, and as the coffin was lowered to its last
resting-place, the widow sunk upon her knees, and remained
in that situation until the friends had filled the grave. The
tall grey-headed stranger stood unnoticed by her side. As the
crowd was about to disperse, he turned to the mourner, and
with tremulous emotion said, “Alice.” It was like the shock
of a Galvanic battery. She threw back her veil at the sound
of his voice; started to her feet, and with a long, piercing, unearthly
shriek, fell senseless into his arms.

A moment more, and the story was told;—he was her
father, She was dead!