Litchfield enquirer. [volume] (Litchfield, Conn.) 1829-current, 1836-01-07

conduct was the cause. She even depicted
the suferings which she had experienced /:
but c"nclnded BY, saying. Thai she could not
die in peace, until she had sent him her
forgiveness and her blessing.
BY degrees her strength decHBed, So that
she could no longer leave the cottage
She could only totier TO the window, where.
propped up in her chair, il was her enjoy
ment TO sit all day and look out upon The
landscape. Still she uttered no complaint,
nor impaired 70 any one the malady which
was preying upon her heart. She never
even mentioned her lovers name but
would lay her head ON her mothers bosom
and weep in silence. Her poor parents
hung IN mute anxiety over this fading blos-
som OF their hopes, still Aattering tbesn-.
serves mat It might again revive to fresh
ness, and that the bright unearthly bloom
winch sometimes flashed her cheek, might
be the promise of returning health,
In this way she was seated between them
one Sunday afternoon, her hands clasped
III theirs. the lattice was thrown open, aud
the soft air that stole in brought with it the
fragrance Of the honeysuckle which her
own hands had trained round the window.
Her father had Just been reading clap-
ter in the Bible it spoke of the vanity Of
worldly things and Of the joys Of heaven
1t seemed to have diff1sed comfort and se-
renity through her bosom. Her eye was
fixed on the distant village church; the
bell tolled for evening service; the last
villsger was tagging into the porch and
every thing had sunk into that hallowed
stiffness peculiar to the day Of rest. Her
parents were gazing on her with yearning
hearts. Sickness aud sorrow, which pass
so roughly over some faces. had given hers
the expression of seraph's. "A tear trenl.
bled in her soft blue eye. Was she think
ing Of her faithless lover1 or were her
thoughts wandering to that distant church
yard, into whose bosom she might soon be
gathered?
Suddenly the clang ofhoofs was heard.
a horseman galloped to the cottage-he
dsmonnted before the window-the poor
girl gave faint exclamation, and sunk
back into her chair it was her repentant
lover! He pushed into tho house, and few
to clasp her to his bosom; but her wasted
form-her death like countenance-so
wan, yet so lovely in its desolation smoto>
him to the soul, and he threw himself in
agony at her feet. She was too faint TO
rise-she attempted to extend her trem-
bling hand--i,er lips moved as ifshe spoke.
but no word was articulated-she looked
down upon him with look Of unutterablo
tenderness--and closed her eyes forever
Such are the particulars which gather
cd from this village story. They are but
scanty, and am conscious have little nOv-
city to recommend them. In the present
rage, also, for strange incident and highly
seasoned narrative, they may appear trite
and Insignificant, but they interested me
strongly at the time; and taken in connex-
ion with the affecting ceremony which J.
had Just witnessed, left deeper impress
sion on my mind than many circumstances
Of "a more striking nature. have passed
through the place since, and visited the
church again, from better motive than
mere curiosity. 1t was wintry evening :
the trees were stripped Of their foliage
the church yard looked naked and monrn-
fuI, and the wind rus,led coldly through ahe-
dry grass. Evergreens, howeyery had been
planted about tho grave of the village fa-.
yorite, and osiers were bent over tito keep
the turf uninjured.
The church door was opened, and I
stepped in. There hung the chaplet Of
flowers, and the gloves as on the day Of
funeral: the flowers were withered, il 10
true, but care seemed to have been taken
that no dust should soil their wilderness. ]
have seen many monuments, where art has
exhausted its powers TO awaken the sympa-
thies Of the spectator; but I have met none
which speak more touchingly 10 my heart,
than this simple but delicate memento Of
departed innocence.
now SCHOLARS ARE MADE.