Literary cadet, and Saturday evening bulletin. [volume] (Providence, R.I.) 1826-1827, 1826-11-11

Mr.. Raimonde then pulled the trigger
the weapon discharged its direfui en-
trails Dearden sprung from the earth
with loud shrek, and then fell lifeless
corpse The hapless father tore off the
lace frill from the neck of the dead man,
dipped it in the oozing blood, and placed
it in his own vest. He then slowly left the
fatal place, and turned his steps towards
the Governors mansion.
He strobe past the attendants, and,
without ceremony, opened the door lead
ing into the officers library.
Welcome RaImonde," said the Go
vernon. 81 feel for your sad looks, but
should you not be joyful Has not the
fair flower escaped the caterpillar Nay,
look not So wildly rest on this couch ;
come, your hand, my noble friend"-
"Governor Averdo, touch me not.
I am no longer your friend, but your pri-
soner the hearts blood Of the seducer is
on my person, and human law must be sa-
tisfed. come for the purpose Of giving
myself up to justice, and bring with me a
convincing proof ofmy guilt of my rash
ness.' Here he drew from his breast the
bloody frill, and flung it OH the floor at the
feet of his friend.
The chief officer, at first, knew not what
to do. He could and he did feel like q
man and father, but he was aware he held
an important office, and that his honor de-
pended on the proper fulilmcnt of it. =
Dearden's body would be soon discover
ed. He saw no other course--he called
a guard Of soldiers, and with tears in his
honest eyes, resigned Mr. Raimonde into
their hands, as prisoner.
The law soon gave its dreadful SEN
tence, but the Corregidor knew ,the con-
victed father had welded his sword IN his
country's battles, and commanded that q
soldiers death should await him.
The awful hour came-the file of mus
kets were ready. Mr.. Raimonde did not
avoid their aim, or shrink one hairs
breadth. "My wife, my sainted wife,
come l come ~ he cred--the deadly
tubes did their work, and the form which
the moment before knew living princi-
pie, fell upon the verdure thing ol
nought.
And did not death stop here ? Had moi
misery sufficiently filled her urn No,
the insatiate archer" sometimes knows
not when he is glutted, and misery always
likes to make her gleanings perfect.
Where is poor Rose Ramonde, once the
pride and ornament ofthe vale Of vines?
She found, sad girl, how true it is, that
"The once fallen woman must forever fall -
Those who formerly courtcd now avoided
her. A woman never iorgves woman's
shame. Rose Raimonde found she could
only bury her griefs in her own desolate
the vines. 1t was in the latter place she
suffered a premature illness, (caused by
her grief of fnind, and when she was aware
that the fruit of her unhappy intercourse
with Dearden had died before its birth, Ga
spotless child of SIM" she felt the clrcum-
stance as blessing from heaven. With
her own hands she formed its little grave,
and (whilst her tears fell on the sunken
face of the innocent as she looked upon it
extended in its black cot) she covered the
spot with the brightest sods she could
find beneath the pomegranite tree.
After this miserable time, Roses mind,
that greatest treasure and beauty Of the
body, appeared, at times, to have left its
mdTSlOn OlteH was Snc SecIl moving Td-
pidly amongs the vineyards, even when
"the sentinel stars kept their watch in the
sky" often heard to strike q sweet prelude
on her fageolet, and to sing the song
which the Spanish lady had taught her in
happier hours. The unfortunate fair one
was the very prototype of Sterne's "Poor
Nara"
One day, when winter had tipped the
tops of the mountains with glttering snow
vine-dresser, passing near the pomegra.
mite tree, saw the form of Rose Raimonde
extended beneath its branches lie ap-
preached her face wore deaths livery,
and thin crimson line stained her blanch-
ed lips her hands grasped lock hair,
which was tied with silken snooze, and
had worked upon it the word "ARrHUR )"
and by her side was a scrap Of paper, up
on which the hapless maiden had in
scribed these lines
"Do not bury me in tho same grave with Arthur
Dearden."
Idare not sleep in tho tomb of my father"
"My child will not shudder if his poor mother be
laid beside him, in the vale of the vines"
A BORDER TRADITION.