Vermont watchman and State journal. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1836-1883, 1847-04-22

pilgrimage. AS my father and my elder
brothers were frequently absent, and as my
mother never closed her heart or her door
on the unfortunate, "Crazy Lucy" often
spent an hour or two by our Preside. Her
appearance was very singular. Her gown
was always patched with many colors, and
her shawl, or mantle, worn and torn, until
it was all open-work and fringe. The re-
mainder of her miserable wardrobe she car
ried in bundle, on her arm, and sometimes
she had number of parcels of old rags,
herbs, &c.
In the season of flowers, her tattered bon
net was profusely decorated with those which
she gathered in the wood or by the way
side. Her love for these and her sweet
voice were all that were left her of the bloom
and music of existence. Yet no,-her meek
and childlike piety still fingered. Her God
had not forsaken her; down into the dim
chaos of her spirit, the smile of His love
yet cleaned faintly-in the waste garden of
her heart she still heard His voice at even
tide, and she was not " afraid" Her Bible
went with her everywhere, "a torn and soil
ed volume, but as holy still, and it may be
as dearly cherished, my reader, as the gor-
geous copy now lying on your table, bound
in "purple and in gold" and with the gill
ding untarnished upon its delicate leaves.
l remember to have heard my mother re-
late touching little incident connected with
one of Lucy's brief visits to u.s.
The poor creature once laid her hand on
the curly head of one of my brothers, and
ask ed of him his name William Edwin :"
ha ropIiaI with tin,;l vi
She caught away her hand, and signing heav-
lily, said, as though thinking aloud, 81 knew
an Edwin once, and he made me broken
hearted"
This was the only instance in which she
was ever known to revert to the sad event
which had so desolated her life.
Thirty years from the time of the COM
mencement of this mournful history, on a
bleak autumnal evening, a rough country
wagon drove into the village of C. 1t
stopped at the alms-house, an attenuated
form was lifted out, and carried in, and the
wagon rumbled away. Thus vas Lucy Dut-
ton brought to her native torn to die.
She had been in decline for some months,
and the miraculous strength which had so
long sustained her in her weary wanderings,
at last forsook her utterly. Her sister had
died some time before, and the widowed hus-
band had soon after removed with his family
to the far West;-so Lucy had no friends,
no home but the alms-house.
But they were very kind to her there
The matron, true woman, whose soft heart
even the hourly contemplation of human
misery could not harden, gave herself with
unwearying devotion to the care of the quiet
sufferer. With the eye Of Christian faith,
she watched the shattered bark of that life,
as borne adown the tide of time it neared
the great deep of eternity, with an interest
as intense as though it were a royal galley.
One day, about a week from the time of
her arrival, Lucy appeared to suffer greatly,
and those about her looked for her release
almost impatiently but at night she was ev-
identity better, and for the first time, slept
TRANQUILITY until morning. The matron, who
was by her bedside when she awoke, was
startled by the clear and earnest gaze which
met her own-but she smiled, and babe the
invalid Z" good morning" Lucy looked be-
wildered, but the voice seemed to re-assure
her, and she exclaimed,
Oh what a long, long night this has
been P' Then glancing around inquiringly,
she added
"Where am I?-and who are you? dc
not know you"
| A wild surmise flashed across the mind
of the matron--the long lost reason of tie
panderer had returned! But the good wo-
man replied calmly and soothingly,
why, you are among your friends, and
you will know me presently"
"Then maybe you know Edwin and e.
len," rejoined the invalid; have they come &?
Oh, had such terrible dream l dreamed
that they were married Only think, Ellen
married to Edwin its strange | should
dream that"
My poor Lucy" said the matron, with
gush of tears, that was not a dream
twas all true"
"All true p cried the invalid, then " Ed
win must be antrue-and that cannot be
for he loved me--we loved each other well
and Ellen is my sister. Let me see them
l will go to themW
She endeavored to raise herself, but fel
back fainting on the pillow.
"Why, what does this mean?" said she
"what makes me so weak 2"
" Just then, her eye fell on her own hant
that old and withered hand She gazec
on it in blank amazement.
Something is the matter with my sight,
she said, smiling family, " for my hand look
to me like an old womans."
Sand so it is" said the matron, gently
and so is mine and yet we had fair, plump
hands when we were young. Dear Lucy
do you not know me | am Maria AlleI
i was to have been your bridesmaid p
| can no more-I will not make the vain
attempt to give in detail all that mournfu
revealing--to reduce to inexpensive word
the dread sublimity of that hopeless sorrow
To the wretched Lucy the last thirty year
were all as though they had never been. o
not scene, not an incident, had she tn
slightest remembrance, since the night whel
!, the recreant lover and the traitoress siste
stood before her, and made their terrible an
nouncement.
The kind matron paused frequently in tn
sad narrative of her poor friends madnes
) and wanderings, but the invalid would sa,
with fearful calmness, $50 on, 90 on" tho
f the beaded drops of agony stood thick upol
} her forehead.
When she asked for her sister, the mat
ron replied,
"She has gone before you, and your faith