“Friends!—ha, ha, ha! Who talks of friends? Ah! yes; you that are a real one, and never felt the venomed tooth of a smiling hypocrite in your flesh. No, I will speak; bear with me a while. Think, only! he was my chum at college, the companion of my youth, the friend of my more matured age, and we lived in the hope of ending our days beneath the same roof; but now the broad canopy of heaven cannot shelter both of us alive. One or the other should—must die, and fate accords it to me.”
“You distress yourself. Do not speak of these things.”
“I speak of them, my dear sir, to drive away the curse of recollection. Left alone to dwell upon them, I would go mad. I will relate to you something of my short but eventful history. It is simple; there is no romance in it: it is one of those incidents which occur in every life among men of the world. I was not suited for the world: it has crushed me. Amelia has wounded the heart that loved her. But no more of that. We were cousins, destined at an early age by our parents for each other. We grew up in the perfect knowledge of the happiness which awaited us: we were young, we were lovers. There is not a stream, there is not a mountain of our native home, but could tell a tale of our early loves. We have wandered over the one and sat beside the other, when the moon shed her pale and silvery light upon its waters. There nature smiled upon us, and we in return rejoiced that she was so good. Pardon my folly, sir; but those were moments of pure, unalloyed bliss. There came one among us, who, in my dreams and my waking hours of madness, I have cursed. It was Sinclair, my friend. I will not enter further into the details of my history. I will not relate to you the causes which induced me to quit home: suffice it, however, to say that I was unfortunate. I wrote to Amelia. The fatal answer and the result of it you are already acquainted with, and it is to your kindness that I am indebted for those few days added to a life of insupportable wretchedness. My nervous system, susceptible of the slightest shock, my mind weakened by the hereditary disease of our family, consumption, could not battle against the accumulation of domestic misfortunes, and a jealous feeling which I harbored of Amelia. I left home: my misery is now complete; my former suspicions have proved true. She is faithless! This, sir, is all: bear with me but a short time, and then I will tell you the rest. I feel myself sinking; listen. Oh, God! oh, God!—I—I——” He gasped for breath; the muscles of his face worked as if struggling to retain life; his eyes became fixed; his lips muttered sounds,—they were unmeaning. I took his hand: it was cold and stiff. I gazed upon his face: Death’s seal was set forever!
*******
In the Episcopal churchyard, near C—— Street, is to be seen a neat marble slab, with the following inscription:—
Sacred
to the
Memory of
HENRY MIDDLETON,
aged 24 years.
Sic transit gloria mundi.
THE WIDOWED MOTHER.
“Though grief may blight, or sin deface
Our youth’s fair promise, or disgrace
May brand with infamy and shame.