Vermont watchman and State journal. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1836-1883, 1848-12-14

ana succeeded At lenGtl. hCeIlng ike q
drunken man, he crossed the cabin to the
water-gourd, and taking il up with both
hands, guided it with diffcu ty to his lips,
and drank till it was more than half empty
Then reeled back to the bed of skins again
and throwing himself down, commenced
singing in voice which, always good, was
now uncommonly clear, an old mountain
song, but before he had finished the first
verse, he paused, with an oath, cursing his
throat, which was again parched with the
raging fever that now had possessiom'of him
Black, who had lain silently during all this,
now came to his side, and also took a seat
on the bear skin which covered his bed
Ben, you're sick, do you know it?'
said Black.
Yes, yes, Black, Pm used up.
thought it would come TO this at last. Ev-
cry dog has his day, and I've had mine"
90 Keep quiet, Ben, and we'll put you all
right in day"
Don't you believe it, W; don't you
believe it. I've had my last spree, and now
comes the finishing"
fancied heard him muttering to him
self something like a quotation from Scrip
II
long looked with great interest upon Ben,
for he had noble soul. had met no less
than three men in the forest, who had been
elegantly educated, and doubtless were valu-
able members of society, who from some
strange within or misanthropy had taken to
the wild life of the woods, and | was fully
prepared to find that Ben was just such a
man. | was, therefore, not surprised when
he looked up to me and said
" Mr.. W, what do you think my old
Father would say, if he should sec me dying
here! The old man thought me always a
wild boy, and l have proved myself one,
havn't :"
"You're a long way off from dying, Ben"
" Not so long as you fancy. Pve felt this
day coming, and | remember when was a
boy, ! used to dream of Just such death as
this will be-my father, he was a good old
minister, used to say to me, 'mend your
ways, boy, mend your ways or you'll repent
some day in sorrow but always laughed
after he left me- sober as | was when | was
with him; | couldn't bear to grieve him, for
L did love him." pause, and he continued
in low tone, eyes; ! loved him and my
mother. l remember now more than | ev-
err thought l should. This life has pretty
now. The old parsonage 1t wanted paint
more than the church did Old Deacon
-, curse him, could have spared paint
from his hypocritical face, enough to cover
the church too. Ha, ha; the deacon had
the worst of it that morning. wish could
have seen the old man in his coffin though
/ didn't think that he'd die so very soon, or
i might have staid longer"
And so he continued muttering scnten-
ces, by which gathered, he had been the
unruly son of country pastor, educated
with the usual care of clergymans chill
dren, but that one day after he had quar-
rel with one of the officers of the church,
his father had punished him severely, aud
he left home, and began the wandering life
which ended in this cabin
In the course of the next three days, in
the delirum of fever, he spoke of scenes in
many lands, which convinced me he had
been traveller, aud gathered too, that he
had not always been without company; but
whether the Lizzie of his dreams had been
his wife or not, | could not determine. He
spoke of her in tones of very deep affec.
ton, but as if he had wronged her and she
had died. | do not wish to be understood
as saying that he spoke of these touching
memories, in the way which would have
been most fitting On the contrary, he us
ed the toughest language, not unirequcntl,
coupling the name of father and mother ant
Lizzie, with oaths too shocking to be re-
peated. Yet there was burst of agony oc
casionally, which recalled the long conceal
ed emotions of the heart, in language sucl
as he might have used in his better and more
refined boyhood.
AT the close of the third day, he was
speeches. and evidently dying. His gian
form was stretched on the black skins, coy
cred with blankets, and the long separated
heavings of his massive chest, indicated
that the breath fife came heavily and Will
pain. His large and muscular arms lay
outside of the blanket the hands wer'
clasped together as if the dying forester
were praying. | imagined him, however
then perfectly senseless. No prayer passet
his lips, unless for an instant his eyes open
ed, and a faint motion indicated some unex
pressed wish, The fire fickered on TIN
hearth, and cast red glare on his marbin.
feature. A cold, calm smile, more as O
contented scorn than anything else, sceme'
to be settling on his face, but changed sud
denly again to look of relief from pain
wonder if phantom had passed befor,
his vision then! Those frequent changes o
countenance continued for long time, ant
l was watching them with anxiety, when h,
suddenly raised his right arm with clench
ed fist and held it for a moment in the air
dropped it on the blanket, rigid and motion
less, then shudder as Of remorse or hor
ror passed through his frame, his lips quiz
cred an instant, and then the freight flick
cred on changeless face. Willis, who ha,
been standing at the foot of the pallet, witt
folded arms and fixed gaze, interrupted tn
solemn silence in the cabin, with his dee
toned recitation, " Requiem Eternam dom
els Dominic"
We buried the woodman on the bank c
the river, and carved stone rudely wit
the sign of salvation, which, as you hear
me say before, appears to me the most fl
ting mark for the resting place of clay
whose only hope is in the cross.
do not pretend to say, what mercy tn
apostate boy found in his extremity, yet,
humbly hoped that the prayers of iathe
and mother, and mayhap of dearer on
than father or mother miuht have hee