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The Last Man.
By Thomas Campbell.
Miscellaneous.
ADELINE
OR,
The Two Suitors.
It was on a beautiful evening in summer, when, as the evening sun was hiding his red disk behind the distant mountains, and nature seemed sinking to a sweet repose, a horseman was jogging at a gentle pace down a lane, which led to the quiet village of E____. He was a young man of about two and twenty, and with the ladies, might have passed for a tolerably handsome man. By the appearance of his horse he had been riding fast, which was pretty clearly accounted for in the following exclamation, which fell from him as he slackened his pace:
"To-morrow, then," cried he, joyfully, "to-morrow shall I be united to the lovely being, in whose hands now rests my future happiness — to-morrow!"
But here his musings were interrupted by the clatter of horse's hoofs, approaching at a swift pace behind him, and the next moment a horseman, muffled in a large cloak, reined up his steed, with a powerful jerk, at his side. They rode on for some distance in silence, until Henry, for that was our hero's name, addressed him with —
"A fine evening, sir!"
"It is," answered the stranger — whose features and accent denoted him to be a foreigner — "It is very fine." Then, after a pause he continued: "Being a stranger in this country, I should feel obliged, sir, if you would direct me to the village of E___."
"Willingly," replied Henry; "it is to E___ that I am going, and, if I shall not intrude, shall be happy to accompany you."
The stranger expressed his thanks, and, after a short time resumed:
"I suppose you reside in E___, sir?"
"Why, not exactly a resident, but rather a frequent visitor, as you may suppose," answered the light-hearted Henry, "when I tell you that the magnet which attracts me is a lady."
"And by such a magnet," replied the stranger, with a sigh, "I have been drawn from the sunny shores of Italy; attend awhile, and, in return for your confidence, you shall hear my story, and during its relation, our horses will cool:
About a year ago, there came to Naples an old gentleman with his wife, who was an invalid, and a lovely daughter. They engaged a villa near the one in which I resided; I thereby became acquainted with the gentleman, who invited me to his house; but as his daughter was constantly in attendance on her mother, I never could meet her. I called again and again for the same purpose, but was as often disappointed, until shortly after, the old lady dying, I, with some other neighbors, was invited to the funeral. I saw her then in all the lovliness of woman's sorrow, bending over her mother's grave, and thought that I had never beheld a being so beautiful. — From that moment I loved her, and resolved to solicit her hand. After waiting to allow her grief to subside, I called, and finding her alone, at once told her the state of my feelings regarding her; but she, with apparent grief for my disappointment, firmly rejected my advances. They quitted Naples suddenly, and I have not seen them since, but have followed them hither with the intention of again perferring my suit."
"And if, when you have found her, she is engaged to another?"
The stranger's brow darkened, and his eyes flashed fiercely, as he exclaimed, "It should not be! This hand would deprive him of the happiness denied to me."
"What! would you reduce the woman you loved to misery?" "Young man, you know not the fiery pangs of rejected love; or, at least, we, sons of the South, are warmer in such matters than you of this colder clime."
"Well, well! I wish you success, and will, if you allow me, mention your case to a friend at E___, in whose house I shall sleep; probably he will be able to assist you in your search; by-the-bye, De Moncey has been in Italy, so I have no doubt will be delighted to have you for his guest; but here is the village. I will conduct you to the inn, as I intend leaving my horse there."
The start given by the stranger, together with the ashy paleness which overspread his features, at the mention of the name of "De Moncey," were unnoticed by the gas and unsuspecting Henry, who spurring his horse, cantered gaily on to the inn.
"De Moncey!" ejaculated the stranger. "Ha! this is well, my search is ended — but can it be De Moncey's daughter to whom this gallant speeds? For his sake, I hope not; that, however. I must ascertain."
They had now arrived at the inn, when Henry, having alighted, walked on to the house of De Moncey, promising to call on the stranger early the next morning.
The road to the mansion lay up an avenue of nearly a mile in length, and shaded on each side by a thick row of tall pines. He had now reached the house, and was proceeding to the door, when the tinkling of a guitar, in the garden, caught his ear. Guessing who was the musician, he entered the garden, and stealing behind a bower, he beheld, through the leaves, his beloved Aldeline seated with her guitar — He could refrain no longer, but rushing into the bower, clasped her to his breast. The blush which overspread her face being thus caught, was dispelled by the joy of beholding him in whom her earthly happiness was centered.
"Now, I declare," said Adeline, playfully tapping his shoulders, "that you have become quite a truant! I have not seen you for more than a whole day."
"Sweetest," replied Henry, embracing her, "you must forgive me; I staid but to settle some affairs now, that I might not again be torn from you — though I must confess that I should have been here earlier but for a companion I picked up on the road; nay, look not so hardly, Adeline, it was a man, and if you heard his story, you would, I have no doubt, forgive him the delay he caused me — but you shall hear it some other time."
Adeline, however, would rather hear it then. Henry, therefore, related the story of the stranger, and looking at Adeline, as he concluded, was surprised to find her in tears.
"Dearest Adeline," exclaimed he, taking her hand, "let it not affect you thus; he will, I dare say, be made happy, as you will make me to-morrow."
Henry," replied Adeline, with a deep sigh, "I am more concerned in this unhappy tale than you imagine; I have reason for supposing that I am the female of whom he is in search."
"You! Adeline?"
"I have not mentioned this before, lest you should think me vain, but I will tell you now, You already know, my dear Henry, that my mother, being in a bad state of health, by the physician's advice, we went to reside at Naples. When we had been there but a short time, my father formed an acquaintance with an Italian nobleman, who, on the death of my mother, me me an offer in marriage; but, notwithstanding his wealth and handsome person, I felt that I could not love him, even if you had not already possessed my affections. On my rejection of his offer, he left the house in anger, and I did not see him again."
"'Tis strange — so exactly does it coincide — yet, Adeline, this may not be."
"I hope not; still, I cannot but think it is."
"And if it is," said Henry, fixing his eyes searchingly upon her, "and he should repeat his offers?"
The eyes of Adeline, beaming with an expression of confidence, innocence and love, replied — "Yours till death."
He would have clasped her in his arms; but, at the instant, a rustling in the bushes near them caused them both to start from their seats. Adeline, greatly terrified, clung to her lover; who, after a time, hearing nothing else, attempted, though vainly, to calm her fears; but she begged him to conduct her into the house, which request he very reluctantly complied with.
Passing through one of the rooms, they encountered the father of Adeline, who, having a pretty shrewd guess at the locality of Henry during the preceding hour, at least, did not think it necessary to inquire the cause of his late arrival. Before they entered the drawing-room, where the guests who had been invited to the wedding were assembled, Adeline begged Henry to acquaint her father with the story of the stranger. The old man appeared as much struck with the coincidence as his daughter had been; but seeing its effect upon her, promised to visit E___ in the morning, and if the stranger should prove to be the Italian, spare her the pain of an interview. — This arranged, they entered the drawing-room, where, in the pleasure of the evening the melancholy of Adeline was dispelled, and the stranger and his story alike forgotten.
- * * * *
When Henry awoke the next morning, the sun was shining brightly into his chamber, and the wild little vocalists without, chirping their merry songs of greeting to the day. He arose with the fondest anticipations of happiness; and hastily dressing, descended to the garden, where he found De Moncey already awaiting him. Thinking it the best time for their visit to E___, they set out for that place, and were much surprised on arriving to learn that the stranger had already departed, whither they could not learn; but the man who had taken his horse on the preceding evening, informed them that, on Henry's departure from the inn, "the strange gentleman had been moighty 'quisitive zurely; for," said he, "he axed me all about yer honor and miss, and whether or noa there war'nt nobody as paid his 'dresses to her; so I uo un told him that as how I b'lieved so, and that there was a weddin up there this morning. Lord love you, sir, he look'd the colour o' old white Peggy there, till I thought the mon war gone crazy; but he starts off all at once towards yer honer's house; so I thought, maybe, he was an old friend, and war in order 'cause yer honer didn't ax him to the wedding."
"Well, my good fellow, did he not say anything at starting, this morning?"
"Oh, he war as grumpy as may be, an' only ax'd the nearest way to the sea, so I told un the nearest, which yer honor knows, lays clean over the cliff,"
De Moncey could not help smiling at the oddity of the direction; and, rewarding the man for his information, they returned home.
"I have nolonger any doubt, Henry, by the inquiries that he made, that it was my Italian friend, who, on finding the hopelessness of the case, and moreover that you, to whom he seems to have taken a liking, were his rival, has departed in despair."
They had now reached the house where Henry, espying his beloved in the garden, ran to acquaint her with the result of their walk. She was greatly relieved by the news; and, with light hearts, they entered the break-fast room. The breakfast was soon dispatched, and the joyous party set out on their journey to the church, which was situate at one end of the park, through which, as the cavalcade passed, it was saluted — by the glad shouts of the assembled tenantry, whose merry faces bore witness of the general joy, and added additional pleasure to the good De Moncey.
They had now arrived at the church; and the happy bridesgroom handing out his blushing bride, they proceeded gaily up the little path which led to the door. In passing through the porch, Adeline slightly trembled. Henry stopped to kiss her hand; and, in an instant, a dagger from behind pierced him to the heart. He fell, and murmering "Adeline," expired. The bereaved one, uttering a piercing shriek, fell senseless on the body of her beloved. The spectators, horror-struck, stood gazing at each other, until they were aroused by a voice in the crowd, crying "Seize him, seize him!" Turning, they beheld a figure rush along the path; and springing on a horse tied up near the gate, dash off at full speed. Every one rushed simultaneously out, and mounting every horse they could find, started in pursuit. They pursued for some time, gaining rapidly on the fugitive, until he turned up a short lane, which terminated in a terrific precipice.
"Hold! hold!" shouted the foremost of the pursuers, as they turned into the lane. "Would you follow him over the cliff?" "He must be dashed over before he can stop his horse." A sharp cry of terror announced the truth of the prediction, and all was silent.
In deep silence, each meditating on the events of the morning, they returned to the church, where they had left De Moncey and his daughter. The scene which presented itself was heart-rending in the extreme. The bereaved bride, not yet recovered from her swoon, was still extended on the lifeless body of Henry; the old man bending over this wreck of his fond hopes, absorbed in a sorrow too deep for tears.
They bore with them the body of Henry back to the mansion of De Moncey, where, after a time, Adeline recovered. But to what did she recover? Better, far better, had she have died. It was too evident that, with the spirit of her lover, her reason had fled forever. Her father was, from that hour, never seen to smile. The cup of happiness, so cruelly snatched from his lips, had left him a heart-broken man.
The Sick Chamber. — Health and the Sun have been always sung and praised; I will now celebrate sickness and shade. I will celebrate thee, bodily sickness, when thou layest thy hand on the head and heart of man, and sayest to the sufferings of his spiritm 'Enough!' Thou art called on earth an evil; oh! how often art thou a good, a healing balsam, under whose benign influence the soul rests after its hard struggles, and its wild storms are still! More than once hast thou prevented suicide, and preserved from madness. The terrible, the bitter words which destroy the heart, are by degrees obliterated during the feverish dreams of illness; the terrors which lately seemed so near us are drawn away into the distance; we forget — God be thanked — we forget! and when at last we arise with exhausted strength from the sick-bed, our souls often awake as out of a long night into a new morning. — So many things, during the illness of the body, conspire to soften the feelings; the still room; the mild twilight voices; and then, more than all else, kind words of those who surround us; their attention, their solicitude, perhaps a tear in their eyes; all this does us good; and when the wise Solomon enumerated all the good things which have their time upon the earth, he dorgot to celebrate sickness among the rest.
"Better laugh than cry." — So say we. It's no use rubbing one's eyes, abd blubbering over all "the ills that flesh is heir to." Red eyes caused by anything but grief or its kindred are scandalous looking affairs. The best way is to "stand up to the rack," and take the good things and the evil as they come along, without repining; and always cheering yourself with that philosophical ejaculation, "better luck next time."
Is dame fortune as shy as a weasel? Tell her to go to thunder, and laugh her in the face. The happiest fellow we ever saw, slept upon a plank — and hadn't a shilling in his pocket, nor a coat to his back.
Do you find "disappointment lurking in many a prize?" Then throw it away, and laugh at your own folly for pursuing it.
Does fame elude your grasp? Then laugh at the fools that are so often her favorites. She's of no consequence any how, and never buttered a piece of bread or furnished a man a clean dickey.
Is your heart broken by
"Some maiden fair,
Of bright blue eyes and auburn hair?"
Then thank your stars that you have escaped with your neck, and make the welkin ring with a hearty laugh. It lightens the weight of one's heart amaxingly.
Take our advice under all circumstances; "drive dull care away." Don't be in a hurry to get out of the world, considering the creatures who inhabit it, and it is just about as full of fun as it can be. You never saw a man cut his throat with a broad grin on his face; it's a grand preventative of suicide. There's philosophy and religion too, in laughing; it shows a clear conscience and gratitude for the good things of life, and elevates us above the bruit creation. So here goes for fun — and we'll put in for our share while the ball is rolling, ha! ha!!
We give place this week to the following Preamble, Resolutions and Affidavits, of the Seceders from the Church at Nauvoo. — The request is complied with on account of their deeming it very important that the public should know the true cause of their dissenting, as all manner of falsehood is spread abroad in relation to the schism in the Church. In our subsequent numbers several affidavits will be published, to substantiate the facts alleged. Hereafter, no further Church proceedings will appear in our columns, except in the form of brief communications. — ED.
PREAMBLE.
It is with the greatest solicitude for the salvation of the Human Family, and of our own souls, that we have this day assembled. Feign would we have slumbered, and "like the Dove that covers and conceals the arrow that is preying upon its vitals," for the sake of avoiding the furious and turbulent storm of persecution which will gather, soon to burst upon our heads, have covered and concealed that which, for a season, has been brooding among the ruins of our peace: but we rely upon the arm of Jehovah, the Supreme Arbiter of the world, to whom we this day, and upon this occasion, appeal for the rectitude of our intentions.
If that God who gave bounds to the mighty deep, and bade the ocean cease — if that God who organized the physical world, and gave infinity to space, be our front guard and our rear ward, it is futile and vain for man to raise his puny arm against us. God will inspire his ministers with courage and with understanding to consummate his purposes, and if it is necessary, he can snatch them from the fiery furnace, or the Lion's den as he did anciently the three Hebrews from the former, and Daniel from the latter.
As for our acquaintance with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, we know, no man or set of men can be more thoroughly acquainted with its rise, its organization, and its history, than we have every reason to believe we are. We all verily believe, and many of us know of a surety, that the religion of the Latter Day Saints, as originally taught by Joseph Smith, which is contained in the Old and New Testaments, Book of Covenants, and Book of Mormon, is verily true; and that the pure principles set forth in those books, are the immutable and eternal principles of Heaven, and speaks a language which, when spoken in truth and virtue, sinks deep into the heart of every honest man. — Its precepts are invigorating, and in every sense of the word, tend to dignify and ennoble man's conceptions of God and his atributes. It speaks a language which is heard amidst the roar of Artillery, as well as in the silence of midnight: it speaks a language understood by the incarcerated spirit, as well as he who is unfettered and free; yet to those who will not see, it is dark, mysterious, and secret as the grave.
We believe that all men, professing to be the ministers of God, should keep steadily in view, the honor and glory of God, the salvation of souls and the amelioration of man's condition: and among their cardinal virtues ought to be found those of faith, hope, virtue and charity; but with Joseph Smith, and many other official characters in the Church, they are words without any meanings attached — words as ornaments; exotics nurtured for display; virtues which, throwing aside the existence of a God, the peace, happiness, welfare, and good order of society, require that they should be preserved pure, immaculate and uncorroded.
We most solemnly and sincerely declare, God this day being witness of the truth and sincerity of our designs and statements, that happy will it be with those who examine and scan Joseph Smith's pretensions to righteousness; and take counsel of human affairs, and of the experience of times gone by. Do not yield up tranquilly a superiority to that man which the reasonableness of past events, and the laws of our country declare to be pernicious and diabolical. We hope many items of doctrine, as now taught, some of which, however, are taught secretly, and denied openly, (which we know positively is the case,) and others publicly, considerate men will treat with contempt; for we declare them heretical and damnable in their influence, though they find many devotees. How shall he, who has drank of the poisonous draft, teach virtue? In the stead thereof, when the criminal ought to plead guilty to the court, the court is obliged to plead guilty to the criminal. We appeal to humanity and ask, what shall we do? Shall we lie supinely and suffer ourselves to be metamorphosed into beasts by the Syren tongue? We answer that our country and our God require that we should rectify the tree. We have called upon him to repent, and as soon as he shewed fruits meet for repentance, we stood ready to seize him by the hand of fellowship, and throw around him the mantle of protection; for it is the salvation of souls we desire, and not our own aggrandizement.
We are earnestly seeking to explode the vicious principles of Joseph Smith, and those who practice the same abominations and whoredoms; which we verily know are not accordant and consonant with the principles of Jesus Christ and the Apostles; and for that purpose, and with that end in view, with an eye single to the glory of God, we have dared to gird on the armor, and with god at our head, we most solemnly and sincerely declare that the sword of truth shall not depart from the thigh, nor the buckler from the arm, until we can enjoy those glorious privileges which nature's God and our country's laws have guarantied to us — freedom of speech, the liberty of the press, and the right to worship God as seemeth us good. —We are aware, however, that we are hazarding every earthly blessing, particularly property, and probably life itself, in striking this blow at tyranny and oppression: yet notwithstanding, we most solemnly declare that no man, or set of men combined, shall, with impunity, violate obligations as sacred as many which have been violated, unless reason, justice and virtue have become ashamed and sought the haunts of the grave, though our lives be the forfeiture.
Many of us have sought a reformation in the church, without a public exposition of the enormities of crimes practiced by its leaders, thinking that if they would hearken to counsel, and shew fruit meet for repentance, it would be as acceptable with God, as though they were exposed to public gaze,
"For the private path, the secret acts of men, If noble, far the noblest of their lives." but our petitions were treated with contempt; and in many cases the petitioner spurned from their presence, and particularly by Joseph, who would state that if he had sinned, and was guilty of the charges we would charge
