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Dodge's Literary Wuseum.
} (Waitrex For Dopor's Literary Muszum.)
Ci t Banker's
Half-Crown:
A .DEATII-BED. CONFESSION.
BY JOIN COOPER
VAIL.
IN THREE PARTS.---PART FIRST.
Chapter First.
PEN the window,” said the dying
man, “and let the cool air fan my
fevered brow, while I relate my strange,
eventful story. The storms of forty winters
have chilled my blood, and the sunshine of
as many summers have given it warm
vitality again, but the die is cast: I am
weary of earth’s pilgrimage, and have suf-
fered long.
7 ‘Have. you ever heard of Torquay, the
most beautiful village in all Devonshire, in
fact, one of the most charming places in all
England, renowned in history as the spot
where William the Conqueror first planted
the Norman standard, and where the Saxon
first felt the oppressor’s iron heel? In this
romantic place, made beautiful by Nature
and Art, I—the hero of this seeming ro-
mance—was born.
“ Often, when a child, I wandered by the
sea-shore, and Jaughed to see the wild waves
writhe and struggle when they madly dash-
ed their foaming crests on the breakers,
while the demon of the storm rode on the
wings of the hurricane over the boundless
deep. And yet, in the midst of mirth, I
grew sad, for the roaring of the billows
seemed like prophetic voices of a dark fu-
ture before me—voices such as J heard last
night by my bedside, uttered by beings of
another world. You, with earthly vision,
could not see nor hear them, but to me they
were visible, and I heard them very plainly.
When the veil of your earthly gaze is taken
off, you will learn what I have—not till then.
“JT scarcely remember my father, for I
was very young when he died. Like a
66
. shadow scen in the mirror of memory, a
tall, dark. man, with an earnest brow, and
features expressive of high endeavor, has
flitted through my brain, but the vision van-
ished ere I could fix it indelibly there.
“ He was a scholar, (at least, I have heard
my mother say so,) and had toiled and
struggled on through long years of adversi-
ty, but the iron hand of poverty crushed
him down. Gold and favoritism wore the
laurels that should haye adorned the brow
of genius alone. He had won my mother’s
“Jove against a score of suitors, for hers was
the kind and gentle heart that had beat re-
sponsive to the rainbow future that he had
pictured out like a fairy dream. ‘Rank and
gold were forsaken for the poet’s rhymes
and the poet’s love.
«Twas an idle dream! They were mar-
‘ried, and the poor author gave his fertile
fancies to the world, wrapt in the elysium
of beauty and .romance, or sparkling with
the gems of history. But gold poured in
from meager streams, and scarcely an oasis
shone‘in the Sahara of poverty. Day by
day he struggled on in ‘the great battle of
life, trying to win name and fame, with a
competency for his beloved wife and child.
. My poor mother watched the strife, and
her, mild blue eyes would often fill with
tears, as she saw his hand tremble and his
cheek grow pale while he pored over his
midnight vigils, for she knew that fame
had fled like a phantom, and bread was the
prize for which he often toiled in vain.
aH Drop by drop, the @ cup of Poverty was
drained, even to the very dregs, till hope}
and ambition fled forever. I cannot tell
you how my father died; but about a mile
from my native village, there is a cross-road
where a tall cypress sheds its leafy banners
over a suicide’s grave. You must imagine
the rest. .
“My poor mother’s heart was well nigh
broken; but, with a woman’s pure endeay-
or, for my sake, (her ‘ poor, fatherless boy,’
as she often called me,) she resolved to toil
on, and combat with the world. _ She loved
me—how dearly I cannot tell—but at the
still midnight hour, I have often heard her
breathe a prayer to the Throne of Mercy
for her fatherless son, in such language as
only mothers can appeal to Heaven in.
And I loved her.. One smile of hers, a
single look of approval, was worth to my
young heart a monarch’s ransom, twice told.
“ After my father’s death, some kind
friends came forward and offered to pro-
cure her a little shop in the suburbs of the
village. This she gratefully accepted. Ma-
ny donations flowed in from hearts that had
beat with pity before. My father’s name
had gone abroad, and they who might have
made him famous appreciated too late the
works of the dead—but such is the world’s
judgment!
“A London publisher came down to our
village to bargain for a manuscript volume
of poems, for which he paid my mother the
sum of two hundred pounds, as there were
several competitors in the field. ’Tis a
strange thing—my father had offered this
same publisher the manuscript a few months
before, for a tenth part of the sum, and was
scornfully refused. Why should the volume
bound with death be sold the highest ?
“ The shop throve bravely. My mother
was so kind and gentle, ever wearing a pen-
sive yet swect smile, that every customer
was sure to come again. She was beautiful,
too, (as I remember still,) and her dark
auburn hair and marble brow might have
rivalled the Madonna of Raphael. She was
very, skillful in. embroidery, and many of
the rich and noble-born would visit our shop
to procure the most brilliant patterns the
place could afford. -
“ All loved and spoke well of the Widow
Grey, and when I trudged to school, people
would stop me with pleasant words of in-
quiry about her health, and Emile, and pat
my head, and say,
“6 Willie will be a great man yet, won’t
you, Willie?’ and then they would pass on,
saying, ‘ Poor boy—what a pity!’
“ Even the teacher, who was a cross, hard
master to all the rest, was ever kind to me.
Every childish misconduct on my part was
forgiven with a gentle word. Why did all
seem to love and pity me, when to my
young heart all was sunshine and joy? I
knew not then of the dark clouds that had
eclipsed the horizon before; I knew not
that the tree of happiness was planted on a
suicide’s grave, and that suicide my father!
Chapter Secona.
aes years rolled on in the same
quiet and peaceful manner. ‘I at-
tended school 1 daily, and was considered the
best scholar in my class. I had learned the
sad history of my father’s death from my
mother’s own lips.
“Boys are inquisitive, and some words
dropped by my school-fellows in the hours
of recreation, taught mea portion of the
fearful story I would know; the rest my
gentle mother told me—the fate of him she
had loved nearer and dearer than all else on
earth. When she had told me all, she said,
“ «Willie, do not speak of this again, er
you will break your mother’s heart.”
“The tears were coursing down her pale
cheeks, while I gave her my fervent - prom-
ise. never to revert to it again in her pres-
ence.
“Tt is a sad lot to be left fatherless when
a child, and mine was a harder fate than
usual. But I was young, and the clouds of
sorrow seldom hang heavily over the brow
of youth. I little knew of the futuré in
store forme. . Would .to God I had died
then! 2 oe
“There was one in our village I had
learned to love with the full fervor of my
childish heart. She was the most beautiful
gitl lever saw. Her name was Mary Wal-
ton. Her mother was a sea-captain’s wid-
ow, her father having been lost on the coast
of Africa, leaving Mary the only child and
comfort of her mother’s declining years.
They were in middling circumstances, for
her father had amassed some property in
the ivory trade at Sierra’ Leone, conse-
quently they were above the reach of want,
though far from being wealthy.
“Through the clover-fields, by the brook-
side, in. play or at study, I was always the
companion of Mary. She loved me as a
brother, and I thought of her more dearly
than I ever could of a sister. She seems
now to me as she appeared then, like a
bright angel, pure from Heaven. Ter form
was graceful asa Peri’s, and her dark hair
fell in beautiful curls down a neck as white
as snow while it yet floats between carth
and sky, at mid-winter. Iler voice was the
sweetest I ever heard, and the dreamy gaze
of her large blue eyes pictured the world as
bright as Eden ere the serpent entered its
bowers.
“Time passed on, and I ‘bad reached the
age of eighteen—that bright period between
youth and manhood, when we cast off the
shadows of the past and look forward toa
brilliant future. Mary was some months
younger than myself. She was the belle of
the village,and many a despairing youth
envied William Grey, for the gossips knew
that we had pledged our hearts to each
other. . My mother, thought of her asa
daughter, and the Widow Walton loved me
as a son.
“T was employed as a clerk in in one of the
most flourishing establishments in the place,
under a good “and permanent salary, and
Mary -and myself looked forward to the
time when I, as a partner in the business,
could give her all the comforts of a home;
and then we were to be married, And now
comes a darker thread to my story—would
that fate had rayeled it from my web of life,
and all would have been a dream of joy in-
stead of madness and despair.
“ About this time, Edward De Percy
came from London to Torquay. . Ile was
just onc-and-twenty years of age, and Na-
ture had bestowed on him every charm to
win a woman’s heart. ‘Tall and graceful as
the ‘admirable Crichton,’ the most accom-
plished scholar at Eton—where he had fin-
ished his education—a skillful musician, a
splendid vocalist, the son of a London bank-
en with ten thousand a a year what wonder
Tah mz
if I trembled when I found he was endeay-
oring to supplant me in Mary’s heart ?
“He was introduced to her, how I know
not, nor by whom, for I would as soon have
thrown myself into the volcano, as have
done it myself; and though she told me she
had received him coldly, and that I need
not fear to trust her, I felt an undefined
sensation of dread I could not account for
at the time. Alas! I know too well now
the secret warning.
“ They met again, and I saw, with a loy-
er’s instinct, that his burning eloquence had
made an impression on her heart. She did
not seem the same pure and confiding Mary
Walton as of old tome. I appealed to her
honor, and requested her not to sce De
Percy again. She said it would be uncivil
to refuse him, that he was teaching her some
beautiful , melodies; and she could see no
harm in’receiving him as a friend. ‘I spoke
harshly at. this, when; bursting into tears,
she exclaimed, .
“¢William, I did not think this of you Y
“My heart was touched. I took ber
hand, and imprinting a -kiss on her pale
forehead, said,?
“«Forgive me, Mary! I will not’ chide
you again, but you know not how dearly I
love you. You are dearer to me than light
or life, and when others fawn on and flatter
you, I feel like going mad. For your sake,
dearest, I would encounter toil and. priva-
tion, while my motto would still be Perse-
vere! For your sake I would walk a beg-
gar and an outcast through the world—ay,
become a vagabond and Pariah to save thine
eyes from a single tear, or thy bosom from
a single pang!’ . ,
“She looked up in my face with her
large, dreamy eyes brimming over with truth
and love, and said,
“¢ William, I will see him no more’
“God bless you, dearest, for that swect
promise!’ I exclaimed, ‘for it has sent a
thrill of joy to my heart.’ :
“T embraced her again, and we parted
with promises of affection and love—those
angel tokens of innocence and virtue.
66 A FEW weeks elapsed, and Mary’s
manner towards me had become
cold and changed. She had seen Edward
De Percy again, in spite of her mother’s
remonstrances and my express wishes. . She
had told me an untruth, and I could never
trust her more. *
“ She never’ “appeared so happy as when
leaning on De Percy’s arm, though her check
would “flash and her bosom heave when I
Chapter Third. *
met them, while he would address’ me with,
mock civility, or treat’ me with supercilious
contempt, by affecting not to notice my
presence. “
“ The gossips of the village said that Wil-
liam Grey had been ‘cut out’ by Edward
De Perey, the rich London banker’s son ;
and those who had envied me jeered at my
wrongs. I sought a reconciliation with
Mary. Itold her De Perey was seeking
her ruin, that he did not seek her for his
bride, that he never could love her so fer-
ventlyasI did. Everything that man could
do, or that a soul rent with anguish could
suggest, I proffered; but she did not weep
now—her words were cold and equivocal,
and as she stood before me in all the glory
of her pristine beauty, I thought she resem-
bled Eve, devil- -tempted and driven from
the garden of Eden. We parted i in anger,
never to meet as lovers again.
“The next day De Percy came into our.
\oflice to receive apackage he expected from
Ne pg nr —