The Middlebury register. [volume] (Middlebury, Vt.) 1850-1882, 1850-08-27
Clara Woodville.
\ STORY OF THE REGICIDfs IN
NEW ENGLAND.
tcoNcLUDED.l


Several furlongs from the foot Of
Mount Hope, there was dreary and OBJ
scurc marsh. From the long and course
grass that fringcd the muddy pond in its
centre, the muskrat had built his pecu>
liar house for ages. Dead, soqgy tim,
bers, covered with moss and the dccayed
grass Of many years growth, ran in ir-
regular lines far away into the dark and
Shiny waters. On its eastern side, shut
ting ont all sight Of the bay and the hill
Of Mount Hope, rose a rough dcclivity,
ihlckly wooded with hcmlocks and pines.
and the ground covered with dead cones
and leaves. In the opposite direction,
the eye could only penetrate farther and
farther into the depths of the close and
level forest not even the limit of the
dull marsh could be discovered. The
thckly interviewer leaves overhead and
the massive trunks around shut in the
gloom that reigncd here perpotuaIly, and
the world abroad was totally excluded.
In an obscure nook, near the marrin
Of this marsh, stands one of the rudest
Of Indian lodges. Half score Of rounh
and irregular poles, centring atthc top.
and impeFlectly covered with mats and
skins Of divers kinds and dimensions
are all that strike the vision from with,
out Just at the entrance, with fixed
and unmeaning look, sits an elderly ln>
dian woman, with her hands folded in
the blanket that is arappcd closely about
her She sits as if the days of her toll
were almost oycr-as if her eye, turned
so yacanlly TO the door of the lodge.
were watching resignedly or slupidly for
the Last Guest of Man. No doubt She
has kept the same exact position for
houfs, and without thought, beyond
the vibrations Of sense. Opposite, rest.
ing her head against the pole Of the
lodge, sits young girl, the daughter of
the other, whose body is moiionless. and
whose mind is slraying in the land of
dreams.
And there is one besides. In cor
ner oi'he space beyond, is a sort orlow
couch, built up from the grass and the
reeds of the neighboring marsh. and
covered with the course mattings of the
Indians. In posture indicating helps
less uneaslness, aud with look of de,
spalrIng composure, the form of young
man, of paler race than the two we have
Just described, is thrown upon solitary
couch. The first glance tells US truly
that the unhappy youth is a captive. His
hands and feet are bound, and his keen.
ers have little labor in watching him .
for he knows how vain would be any at
tempt to escape, even should he be able
to steal away, unnoticed by his senti>
nels, from his miserable tent. The cap
tive IS Edward Stanley. The sun was
near his nightly rest, and in this seclu,
ded spot the blaze Of MONDAY made but
an ordinary twilight. Now it was already
dark During all these gloomy hours
the mind Of Edward was in constant &C.
ton; and these were some of his
thoughts:
"When we parted, those dear lips un-
conirollably trembled and quivered with
ioreboding. In my bosom, too, was
whispered the same dismal prophecy.
o, that had embraced her, as if il
were my last embraced That | had
gazed more earnestly on that image of
loveliness and purify That | had lru>
gally treasured up every look and every
motion in my remembrance But, no
| have forgotten ALL A dim, feature
less, swimming conception is all that |
have when think of my Clara. Even
that indescribable smile-I have tried
and tried TO recall it, but shall never
behold it or its image again can re-
call every countenauce | have ever seen
but hers. But OF Clara l have forgotten
all.
"What il she should, indeed, prove to
be my sister? | have often thought OF
that within the last few hours, and at
times ever since | saw NY FATHER. The
good people of the village esteemed him
an angel, he came so mysteriously io