fear as the thought of his situation flashed across his mind. It took him but a moment to reflect that he was wholly in the power of a desperate and fearless man, and yet he could not see how he had injured him, or what he had done to meet his displeasure. Again, looking timidly up, he said; "James, what do you mean? I have never sought to ruin you." "It's a lie,” said his companion stepping towards him, and laying his hand rudely upon the shoulder of the youth, "You have sought it every way, and that too, long enough. But it's now my time to work, and you shall pay for what you have done." His eye gleamed like the tiger's when it flashes upon its prey, and Leslie saw that there was no hope for him. Still he prayed for life. "You will not kill me James," he said. "In the face of heaven I declare it, I have never sought to injure you. How could I, when my mother always taught me to do good, instead of evil, to every one, and not to think of harming even the worm that crawled at my feet? Sure, I never harbored a single thought to do you ill, God knows." "Ask him to forgive your sins," interrupted the other with a sneer, and do not now be wasting your short remaining time in idle protestations of your innocence, as false as they are idle." William Leslie thought of his home; his widowed mother, his only sister, and once more he sought the pity of the terrible man, in whose power he felt himself entirely placed. But 'twas in vain. Wilson heard him through, and then with the quickness of thought he seized an oar which lay in the bottom of the boat and felled him, like a log, at his feet. Before he could recover, he lifted him up in his strong arms, and with a fearful oath, dropped him in the water. In a moment, what would he not have given could he have recalled the deed. At once, the whole enormity of his guilt rushed across him. He was a murderer. Conscience, that had so long slumbered, now awoke, while remorse sprang up within his breast, and seemed to be writing there his crime, in characters of living fire. All his past guilt seemed to come crowding before him, and, so plainly, that he could read with fearful distinctness the record of his life. His mind went back to the sunny days of his innocent childhood, and then he thought of his first crime; of the pain which it gave him; of the manner which he then quieted his conscience, and of the fearful steps in the path of sin, he had since trod. It was a terrible retrospect, but he had to endure it. He could not free himself from the memory of the past. He strove to drive it away, but it would return, and as the recollection of his crimes would ever and anon sweep some new pang of agony across his mind, there would rise up within him, a still small voice, whispering, "what if all my hopes are false? What if this shall last forever?" Suddenly the clouds broke over him, and a single star shot down its solitary light upon the scene. The murderer looked up and caught the ray, but as the clouds again closed beneath it, and shut it from his view, he sank down like a lifeless thing, for he felt that the light of hope had gone out from his soul for ever. cure. But he arose. There was a work for him yet to do, and he nerved himself for its accomplishment. Cutting the cable, and throwing overboard the contents of the boat, he rowed towards the shore. Having reached it, in order to prevent suspicion of the murder, he turned over the boat, and with the aid of the oars, pushed it out as far he could, into the pond. Throwing the oars after it, he turned and proceeded towards the village. He reached his home; went to his sleeping apartment without the notice of any one, and sitting down here, he thought over the deed, and for a moment fancied himself seBut he was a murderer, and in another moment he felt that there was no more security or safety for him. He threw himself upon his bed and tried to sleep, and so he did, for exhausted nature could hold out no longer. But in his sleep, wild images came crowding to his mind; now he would start up and shriek as though in the agonies of despair, and then he would sink back upon his pillow, and clenching his hands with frantic earnestness, groan for mercy; at one time he would be perfectly still, with his breath coming quick and short, and his eyes wide open, as if fixed upon some object of terrible fear; at another, he would toss about on his couch as though instead of resting on a bed of down, he was lying on a heap of thorns; as in his waking moments, so now, his soul seemed harrowed up with agony. Such was the sleep of the murderer. But the morning came, How sweet was its light. What a joy it brought to many a heart. How gladsome the bright earth looked beneath its smile. The clouds had vanished, and the dew drops studded every leaf and flower with glorious brilliancy. Who would have thought, that a world so fair and beautiful could ever be the dwelling place of sin? Alas! alas! see, in yonder rosy tint that paints itself upon the eastern sky, heaven blushes at the thought. James Wilson arose and took part in the stir that was made through the quiet village, at the disappearance of young Leslie. He was among the foremost in his efforts, and even went so far as to go to the mother and sister of his victim, and offer them his consolations. How he could have done it, I never knew, but he did, and no one seemed to suspect him. After almost the whole day had been spent in a fruitless search, the body was found by a company, who first thought of examining the pond, on seeing the upturned boat which was still floating upon the water. With sad thoughts, for they all loved the unfortunate boy, they bore the corpse to his mother's home. It was no feigned grief which made those rough but kind hearted villagers weep, when they saw the frantic sorrow of that little family, which had been bereft of its comfort and its joy. Strong men though they were, they mingled their tears with those whose heart strings were breaking, over the fate of a brother and a son. Our long sketch must now be brought summarily to a close. Wilson, though striving with all his might, found it impossible to keep up the appearances he had in the morning assumed. He struggled against his feelings, but he could not overcome them. They wou'd prevail, and he at last found himself forced to give up to them, and allow them to have their unchecked sway. The thought of his guilt, shut out all other feelings, and this alone seemed burning up his soul. Discovery of his crime, it seemed to him would give him pleasure, for would it not take off something from the burden of the knowledge he alone possessed? Losing all thoughts of the penalty, he went to a magistrate and disclosed his crime. It did relieve him to make the confession, but he repented even of this, when he found himself taken into custody, and confined by the strong arm of the law. But it was then too late, and he knew he could not change his doom. He was found one morning, suspended by his handkerchief, from the gratipg in the window of his cell, a lifeless corpse. He had committed suicide. * W. www. Modesty is like pure gold; very valuable indeed, but not half so convenient for ordinary purposes as the small change of impudence. In the journey of life, as in any other, he who starts without a good stock of the former, will not get far; but if he take that only, he will find his bullion very inconvenient at the toll-gites of society. SONNETS CONNECTED WITH ITALY. Lobdell. WRITEN IN FEBRUARY, 1848. As the shadows of almost three thousand years, In many a form of fitful grandeur cast, O'er the lone field of tombs that shrouds the Past, Seem forms of buried hopes and living fears. O Italy! what recreant son appears, Would Freedom's trumpet shiver, while its blast Slavish apostates to their country's cause! Oh! paralyze the guilty with thy frown, And give oppression, God! its death-like pauseThe circle crush of Austria's hollow crown, And on its fragments write thy sacred laws. Italia, sue! Oh! sue to Heaven alone! Great Freedom's fire, whose heat the Romans felt, Of Despotism's dark, cold arctic zone- The ship of state is locked, in which have dwelt Italians, strike! God justifies the schism, When Man usurps a power against His will, And in His name supplies, by doing ill, Though of your bosom's blood enough you spill, The text of slaves! Your blood-red swords may blot, Such lies erase, if you would change your lot; Who own a Pope's supremacy are slaves, And by their self-willed thraldom bind the curse, That blinds his mind and drains the poor man's purse, Denying him the food his nature craves! He should not live where Freedom's banner waves, Who is in thought a slave—or, what is worse Has not one feeling in his breast averse To the lithe, pliant sophistry of knaves!' Go, ask in Italy what they may know; Who filled the Spielberg prisons? Can they tell? Confined within a damp and noxious cell, Above whose outer gate the truth might show Abandon hope, ye who enter. PARTING. Calmly through pleasant years, Then how in form and face, In every act and tone, Beam forth the tenderness and grace, That charm us-and are flown. MEM. |