A revulsion of feeling instantly followed. All the love of former years—all the tender passages of our boyhood—rushed through my brain in an instant. I flew to him and raised him from the earth. At sight of his pale face, beautiful in death, of his long bright locks dabbled in warm blood, I shrieked in despair. A mother bewailing her first born could not have felt her loss more keenly, or mourned it more wildly. Two or three woodmen rushed to the spot. They saw, as they supposed, the story at a glance. One of those accidents so common to the careless use of firearms—and I was proverbially unacquainted with their use—had produced the catastrophe. We were borne home, for I had fainted, and was as cold and lifeless as my victim. What passed during a day or two I scarcely remember. Something of strange people in the house—of disconnected words of sympathy—of a coffin—a funeral—a pilgrimage to the woodland cemetery, where my parents and my wife slept—are all the memory records of those days.
Then I resumed the full possession of my senses. Amy's pale face and shadowy form were all that were left of her—my brother's seat at the table and the fireside were empty. But his clothes, his picture, his riding cap and spurs, a thousand trifles scattered round, called up his dread image every day to the fratricide. His dog left the house every morning, and came not back till evening. One day he was found dead in the graveyard where his master had been laid.
Amy clung to me with despairing love. She would talk of the lost one. She would find every day in me some resemblance to him. Perhaps she would even have wedded in me the memory of the departed. But that thought was too horrible. I loved her no longer.
Friends came to condole with me. Every word of sympathy was a barbed arrow. I could bear it no longer. Conscience stung me not to madness, but confession. I repelled sympathy—I solicited denunciation. I told them I was my brother's murderer. I forced my confession on every one who would hear it. Then it became rumored about that my "fine mind," so they phrased it, had given way beneath the weight of sorrow. I was regarded with fear. A physician of my acquaintance made me a friendly visit, and shook his head when he heard my story. One day this gentleman invited me to ride in his carriage. He left me here. Society believes me mad—that I am not, is to me a miracle.
O ye wise ones of the earth,—legislators of the land,—would ye avenge the blood that has been spilt by violence on the ruthless murderer, would ye inflict punishment upon him, spare and slay him not. Take down the gallows, and in its place erect your prisons doubly strong, for there, within their ever-during walls of granite, lies the hell of the villain who has robbed his brother of his life.
THE WATER CURE.
Since the introduction of the limpid waters of Lake Cochituate into the goodly city of Boston, the water commissioners have had their hands full of business, for the various accidents incidental to the commencement of the service, the bursting of pipes, the demands for payments of damages, applications for accommodations, &c., have rendered the offices no sinecures.
The other day, a poorly but decently-dressed Irish woman entered the office of the commissioners on Washington Street, and walked up to the head clerk.