The home journal. (Winchester, Tenn.) 1858-188?, 1859-07-28

On the next day | was called way
on business TO a distant city, and !
left without bidding Elite farewell.
During my absence wrote sever
al letters to her, but received no reply.
This increased my displeasure, and
though | suffered the tortures of the
doomed ] resolved TO continue, Cat
least for some time) in my un-
natural course.
At the end ol,hrcc months return.
ed, and Immediately sought the resi-.
dcncc OF Etlie Wakerton.
IL was wild Autumn night, with
out moon or star. The winds mourn.
ed through the lcaness arms of the
trees, and thundered against the house.
Not a light cleaned from the win
dows-not a sign Of life was visible.
knocked loud and long at the door.
and E,lic's aunt met me, shading a
smoky lamp with her skinny hand.
"Whcrc is Shc?' | asked hurriedly,
Slowly she turned her head and
wcpt-"Dcad-long dcad.'
Mcrci,ul Heaven ! | had killed her
and @ God had all the time
bcea writing chlding letters to the
dead. There was crashing in my
broin-my blood 'eapcd through my
veins like liquid frc-a deadly sick
ness came over me, and fell insensi.
bic in the han.
In the morning, when recovered.
| listened with a forced calmness.
while the aunt told me, how on that
fatal niyht, Elite came into the house
faint and palIjd, and sank upon her
couch from which she never arose
And how in her last hours she had lhc
little presents, which had given her,
brought to her bed side, and handled
each article over and over, till she
grew too weak to cXerl herself longer.
She uttered moi a single word Of re-
proac'-no complaint escaped her
,ipS-but with her latest breath mur-
muriny my namc--she died.
Thn aunt then hanlrd me Il letter.
The writing was tremuIous. and the
paper tear stained:
HARRY MoRroN.-Erc you receive
this, the hand that pens these lines
will be cold forever. | am d;ing.
llarry-dying broken-hcartcd. lmay
not rcproach you for your dcsertion.
did not mean to offend but oh, lIar-
ry! why did you not bear with ne
was 50 young and weak, aad loved
you 50! Oh ! how | have mourncd
tor yen, and waited wcariIy for You
10 return; hut you 90 not come, and
now feel that | shall die without
seeing you, May God forgive you as
forgive. Forget me, and be happy.
is the prayer OF Erie.
Years have passed, and am now
siIver,haircd but have never known
a happy hour since her death. have
been lawned upon. and courtcd by
sycophanS; and for me bright eyes
have flashed, ond lips have smiled.
Bat have turned from festive scenes,
aud my heart has Travelled back to that
green little nook, to those happy
dreams OF love, when a child.likc,
b!Uc.cycd, goIlcn.h haired saint nestled
IondIy to M bosom, and the star of
hope burned brightly in the sky of an,
ticipation.
At times a whirlwind of despair
sweeps along my soul, and n dread
cry Of agony rises up in my throat,
when realize how in my accursed
pride | cast from me the only one
who ever loved me--wcaving for her
a grave shroud, and for MYSELF a robe
of sackclOth and ashes.
Even now, while write, her slight
form seems to dance on the wall-her
voice calls upon my name; but know
that it is only the nickering Of the
freight within, the moaning Of the
Winter wind without. Lost Elite will
come no more.
Her aunt died long while ago.
The old house is now a mass of ru-
/ in. Birds build their nests in the at
tics, serpcnis hiss from the crevices,
and rats squeak from the cellars. !
visited the place short time since.
The sky, from zenith to horizon, was
of leaden hue, the ycw'twigs
twanged sharply in the itlnl blasts,
and a shutter shrieked on its rusty