The daily dispatch. [volume] (Richmond [Va.]) 1850-1884, 1853-05-02
From Chambers Edinburgh Journal.
AND THENe
ICoSCLUDED.l

altogether bad fellow, though he is consid
cred Bit reckless and wild. But he has
heard OF Clara Harwel's beauty and goodness
| from his cousin, Lady Ponsonby (she's
Clara's cousin too, you know;) and he is real
| ly quite sorry to think that such lovely
creature should be turned oul Of The old Hal
| TO make room for him. He wants to know
| what will become of her when old Harwell
dies, for all the world knows he's ruined, lis q
| pretty pluce this old Ambermead-a paradise,
| | should say. | know what I'D do, if | was
ever lucky enough TO call it mine. The youth
rubbed his hands gleefully. i should be a
happy dog tn NJ
'And then?' said MIR. Canute smiling.
why. then, I'd pull down the rickety old
| house up there, and build a palace fit for a
prince; d keep nothing but the old wine; I'd
have lots of prime fellows to stay with me-
and should sport the finest horses and dogs
in the county, The speaker paused, out o.
| breath.
And then? said Mr.. Canute quietly.
'Why then, I'd hunt, shoot, and de, and
| drink. and smoke, md dance, and keep open
| house, and enjoy life to the full-feastng from
| years end to years end-ihe feast of reason
| and the flow of SOUL you know, in old Am.
btrmeadn
'Apd then7'
why, Their, suppose, that in time, should
grow old, like other people, and cease TO care
for all these things, so much as did when
strength and youth were mine.'
And then?' said MIR. Canute more slowly.
'Why, then'-andth the stranger hesitated-
'then 1 suppose, like other people in the course
of nature, should have TO leave all the plea.
sures of this lie, and, like other people-die.
sAnd then?' said hir. Canute, fixing his eyes
glitlerng like diamonds, on the young man 8
face, which flushed up, as he exclaimed with
some irritation:
Oh, hang you sand thens!" But the moon
| is we'll up, | see, so I'm off. Goodnight, and
| thank YOU And without further parley, he
| started off on his walk over the hills; and Mr..
| Canute silently watched his guests retreatng
| figure till, in the deep shadows OF the sur
| rounding groves, he was lost to view. In the
| moonlight in the darkness, in the valley, and
| on the hillside, these words haunted the way
| tarer and he kept repeating TO himself, 'And
| then? Thoughts took possession of his taind
| that never before had gained entrance there,
| or at least they arranged themselves in Sc
guence which gave them quite a new sgnIh
cEnce. His past life prese eIted itself 10 him
for the first time as coherent chain OF events,
exemplifying cause and effect; and it his plans
| for the future did not at that moment receive
any determnate change, he still kept repeat
| ing, anxiOusly and lnqulriDgly, as he wandered
| on in the moonlight, the two strangely sug'
gSStif6 "OTOS. Anu tuCU! IL pIOVcu d lung
| and tOilsome nights Journey for that belated
traveller; for he had lett Mr.. Canute's cottage
SO hastily, inat he had omitted TO ask for
| certain landmarks Oh the hills leading to
The place whthe7 he was bound. In cOnse
| quence, the stars faded in the sky, and the
| rosy morn broke through the eastern mists,
| ere the weary man, from the summit of a
| high hill which he had tortuously ascended,
behed afar off, down in the valley, the shin.
ing river, the bridge, and the cnurch-tower OF
| the town where his friend, in some anxiety,
| awaited his reappearance.
During all his atter-life, that young man
never forgot the solitary night walk when he
lost his way beneath beautiful spangled
| summer sky; the stars seemed TO form the let.
ters, And ttenP the soft night breeze seemed
| to whisper in his ear: And thenT
Ii is true, he had not gained the intelligence
he sought respecting the inmates OF Amber
mead Hall; but he had laid bare his own fol
| ly for the inspection of Mr. Canute; and in re
turn, he had listened to no reproof-no tire
| some lecture voschsated from prosy age TO ar
dent youth, but simply two words had pene.
| trated his heart, and set him thinking seri.
| ously. Mystic little words And then?'
| For nearly three years after MIR. HarwelP 8
decease, the old Hall, contrary to general an
| ticipa,ion, remained untenanted, save by do
mestics lef; in charge. Miss Clura had found
shelter with her ralative, Lady Ponsonby
though her memory was still fresh and warm
| ly cherished among the humble friends in heI
beautiful native village. tlr. Cauute, if pos.
sibIe, more silent than ever, still remained the
village oracle, perhaps more cherished Than o
| yore, inasmuch as he was the only nemento
remaining of the beloved Harwels-lhe old
familiar faces now seen no more. He would
listen, and they would talk, of days gone by;
he felt the loss even more than Others, for he
mourned compsnion and friend in Mr.. Har.
we'll, and Clara had been 10 the good Two
Words as an adopted daughter. AtleEgth il
was rumoured that Mr. Seiby, the new pro
prietor, was soon expected to take possession
of his property in due form; moreover, that he
was on the point OF marriage, and that hi,
young brie would accompany him. Ill re
ports fy quickly; and il mad been circulated
in former iimts that MIR. Selby was wild anl
exiravagant, careless of others, selfish ane
profgate. Indeed, Mr.. Canute had not con
tradicted such reports, SO il was general
opined they were TOO true, and had a leg
foundation. With heavy hearts, the inhabi
tants OF Ambsrmead commsnced their rura
preparations Tor the reception Of che squir,