Fact and fiction!
page: (TitlePage) [View Page (TitlePage) ]Fact and Fiction! flaihflENgTI I: LVE, A& sTcXOwEs DRAWN FROM INCIDENTS IN THE LIVES OF Miss CLARA C. COCHRAN and Miss CATHARINE B. COTTON, WHO COMMTTED SUICIDE, BY DROWNING, IN THE CANAL AT MANCHESTER, N. H., AUGUST 14, 1853. MANCHESTER, N. H. FROM THE DAILY AND WEEKLY MRROR STEAM PRINTING WORK. 1853. page: [View Page ] D I S L 1A C?eAo IX ID . is0 E3. FACT AND FICTION CHAPTER 1. "Every roof is agreeableto the eye until it is lifted, and then we find tragedy, and mourning women, and hard-eyed husbands, and deluges of Lethe."-Emerson, The above is true to life, and es- pecially commends itself to our attention when first taking pen in hand to give to the public, by the aid of a few hastily collected facts, a tragical romance, founded on one of the most remarkable events ever recorded in this or any other country; an event crowning reality, as surpassing in wonder all the past records of fiction; finding not even its equal in Don Quixote or the Arabian Nights. Within the circle of every fireside, strange as it may appear, some romance is at work-smiling in plenty or sorrow- ing in poverty, dwelling in halls of sci- ence or staying in haunts of ignorance, the heart-history is still being written. Lay bare the heart which pulsates in every bosom, and we shall find each has its own tale of romance woven from life's mingled threads of grief, of love, of happiness,-perhaps of shame. Whenever any incident occurs in the sober quiet of a New England commu- nity calculated to claim large tribute of our wonder, to say nothing of other emotions awakened, if the propelling force be a profound secret, there will always be manifested, after a partial suspension of surprise, an itching desire to know the cause; to trace out the his- tory of the actors and too often this desire will become so morbid as to make many forget to analyze the act; which, if found calculated to contaminate public sentiment and weaken public morals, should be strenuously condemned. While, therefore, we now write for the public ear, and to satisfy in a meas- ure a thirsting after the cause of a strange incident which has moved society to the centre, in our midst, we shall also con- demn every wrong act or impure motive, and inculcate at every step, with the threads of our story, such a moral bear- ing as, that while it may satisfy every commendable desire, shall leave no stain behind to infect the popular heart, or cast a reflection which may cause new griefs to present sadness. "The mystery of life Its many hopes, its many fears, Its sorrows and its strife- A spirit to behold in all To guide, admonish, cheer- Forever, in all time and place, To feel an angel near." In the quiet village of New Boston, in the interior of the Granite State, some sixteen years ago, resided an industri- ous blacksmith bearing the name of Robert Cochran, who by dint of hard work and cheerful frugality, besides sup. porting an interesting family,-throwing around them all the comforts, and se. curing to them all the blessed immunii page: 4-5[View Page 4-5] ties of New England life-was enabled to erect a small, yet convenient, brick house, which gave to the Cochran family an air of respectability, which was in- deed but their just dues, yet which is too often withheld from those equally re- spectable who perchance live under a squalid roof. Hardly hadt the house been complleted and the out-grounds tastefully laid out and arranged, when the brittle thread of life was snapped asunder and the kind husband and father was called to go hence, leaving a widow with five chil- dren to mourn his irreparable loss. Two of the sons, Joseph and Jesse, had grown up quite to manhood ; but the little daugh- ter, Clara C., one of the heroines of this tale, hardly conscious of her great loss, would often nestle in the maternal cm- brace of the stricken mother, and touch a chord of sadness already strung to its utmost tension, by inquiring, with the inimitable expression of wondering childhood, "t Mother, wliere is father? Why don't he come home?" "Home, dear, child!" would burst from the weeping mother: "He has gone home, 'where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.'" Being only four years old, little Clara, though saddened from sympathy for a moment, would lose all manifestation of it in the enticing and animating pur- suits of early childhood, and would only be called to repeat the question when having the image of her father called up by coming in proximity with some pic- ture-book, doll, or some other memorial of his love. The estate being duly settled, and Clara's portion placed under the guard. ianship of an early friend of her father, bearing the same name, Mrs. Cochran, with Clara, returned to the home of her childhood in Grafton, Vermont, where after a short widowhood of sorrows,- not being able from change of scenes or associations of youth to blunt the point- ed arrows of grief,-she died of a broken heart, leaving this little blossom, the only real solace to her tenacious grief, to be cared for by others, . After a consultation among the rela- tives who followed Mrs. Cochran to the grave, it was thought advisable that Clara should return with her aunt to New Boston. So, at the age of six, the little orphan returned to look again upon the place of her nativity. In her shad- owy vision, glimpses of the past would arise, provoking a thousand questions, which, answered with the fidelity of a friend by her considerate aunt, laid open to her mental eye the whole of her past history. Fruitful it was not, yet it was significant to her; and the inquiry would often intrude itself upon the mind -i"Why this change.? Once I was blessed with kind parents and a happy home, now I am a lonely orphan, thrown amlong strangers for protection." But for her early thirst for books, which in a measure quenched this morbid train of tloughts-this idiosyncrasy of mind which at times made her unconscious of all else-the probabilities are strong that, young as she then was, she would have became idiotic or insane. CHAPTER II. We pass along, with careless tread, Where vine and buds' are springing; We smile, for all above our hoads Are light and gladness rinirnm-- UiconsciuuH that beneath our feet '-'he lava flood is leaping, That in the pleasant sumnor-heat I ho lightning flash is sloeping. Time flies; spring succeeds autumn and seed time harvest; until, at last, by the over indulgence of her adopted mother, which begat in Clara a forward- ness that would suffer no restraint, there was kindled in her bosom an affection for her aunt second only to that sacred fire which a mother's love alone can kindle. Thus secure in the confidence of friends, she became awakened to an increased lOve for books, and drowned all thought of the bitter past in the re- dolent sweets of the glowing present, Sometimes, when not engaged at school, or in other sources of recreation, in hours of leisure would she wander by the side of the murrmring rivulet, watch- ing her tiny shadow in the silvery sur- face of the silent eddy; and sometimes she might have been seen, after taking t off her shoes, wading in the water 4o hold converse with the minnows, which, retreating at first, would soon return in swarms to bid her welcome. But these pleasures were not always to last; a new visitation of sorrow was in store for her. Her over-indulgent adopted moth- er, who sometimes gently chided little Clara for her eccentricities, was thrown by sickness upon a bed of languishing which terminated in her death, and our little heroine suffered a second orphan- age. Her elder brother, Jesse, now claimed the right to throw around an orphan sis ter, not yet in her teens, the shield of protection, and at his earnest solicitation she took up her abode with him, at Chi- chester, N. H., where, by every act of brotherly affection, and every obligation sacred to ties of blood, he and his en- deavored to make her contented and happy. But her second sad loss awaken- ed anew that inherent tendency to de. spondency which appeared like dark spots on the sun of her infancy. She courted sadness as a boon, nor would she be comforted. Time, however, that mighty solace, softened her grief, and she turned her attention to study with increased zeal, until, at last, she intel- lectually outgrew the district school, and, to satisfy her burning thirst for more co- pious draughts from the fountain of knowledge, she was sent abroad to an academy. There is always some epoch in the life-history of every one; some period from which to date the future. While the past had been but a broken thread, there seemed now opening to the view of Clara a more continuous prospect; and although she regretted even for a short time to break away from her loved companions of the district school,- school-mates endeared to her by the happy feats of rivalry. in their studies, and by kindly acts of friendship for her, an orphan,-yet so strong was the in- centive to know more, that she could forego the claims of friendship, for a season, for the glittering gems of pro- spective knowledge. As a manifestation of respect for Clara, who had been the queen of the school, it was proposed by her school-.. mates-boys and girls-to make up a gathering for the specific purpose of showing to her that she was to be in future, as in the past, an object of their special regard; though the fact need not be disguised that they proposed also to have a good time. A committee of arrangements was chosen, consisting of five, who, being delegated with proper powers, went earnestly at work, and on the Saturday before Clara's departure on Monday, the old school house, decorated with ever- green, consisting of remains of the last exhibition and a few new contributions in that line, was filled to overflowing. Young and old graced the occasion with their presence, which, after justice had been done to any quantity of apples, nuts, seed cakes, &c., was filled up with a variety of plays suited to all ages ahd conditions. Here would be a group in the well-trodden yard, playing "blind man's buff"-there would some strip. ling, as if orator of the day, be declaim- ing, for the hundredth time, for the gratification of the " old folks"- ' I am monarch of all I survey." I will linger by the way-side in our sketch just to remark further that Clara being guest of this entertainment, was crowned queen of the day, and that she dispensed her favors with a liberal hand; giving here a nosegay, there a poetic effusion, and there, and there again, to each and to all some little token of kindly remembrance. To enter into all the sports of that happy occasion would lW quite foreign to our purpose; we will leave a further picture of their childish extravagancies to the apt imagination of our readers, many of whom, no doubt, were partici- pators in the pleasures of this happy day, though now they have entered a new play ground in the great rivalry of life, where stern conflict stares them in the face,.and duty bids them "onward press." CHAPTER III. "We feel the influence of a spell, And wake to smile or melt to tears, As pass before the dreaming eye 'lhe light and shade of other years." In one of those sweet glens which page: 6-7[View Page 6-7] may be found channeling the steep sides of the Granite Hills, and sending t down the tribute of their pure springs to the swift Merrimack, which fertilizes no E less than it beautifies and enriches New Hampshire, and remote from the din ( and bustle of the city, stands an academy, which, on account of its good reputa- tion, is to-day, as then, sustained liberal- ly. Scholars from all sections of the' country, of both sexes, have graced its halls, and gone forth, after a season of profitable study, to give a New England influence to the world. To this beautiful spot our heroine, Clara, was sent, and as fate would have it, she met there. for the first time, George Sherwood, a distant relative from the Empire City : a young gentleman some three years her senior. Iie was rather prepossessing in his appearance, and soon by those little attentions war- ranted as relatives he won the regard of his country cousin. In her frequent rambles midst the wild profusion of the grand and the beautiful in nature, he was her constant attendant, and ere she was really conscious of it herself, her best affections were all centered in him. Dearly as she had learned to love her brother, and regard her former school- mates, and, at first, look forward with pleasure to her return to his quiet fire- side and their companionship, now, by the wild frenzy of her consuming pas- sion, she forgot them all; home seemed repugnant, she would live always away. Young Sherwood had as yet made no advances, such as would have warranted so rapid a growth of passion. Fancy gave magic import to his words, and converted mere etiquette into tokens of love. Sometimes, however, a shade of doubt would darken the elysian fields of her hopes, and then would sadness, as of old, possess her. One afternoon, as they were rambling by the side of a mountain steep, which overlooks the gentle valley on which they tread, she exclaimed, in one of those doubting moods, "George, I am sad." "Sad! cousin mine-what cause have you for sadness? The healthful glow upon your cheek, and sweet freedom of your voice, would seem to indicate any- thing but sadness." "Oh! but you know, sir, that appear- ances are sometimes deceitful ; the flush which now radiates my cheek comes of this balmy air, not of con- tentment. Unlike you, George, I have no place I can call home. While I would do no injustice to kind relatives, whom I fondly love, and who have spared nothing to meet my every want and wish, yet my heart tells me to day it is not home, for home brings with it contentment and peace, while I possess neither. I would call back the gala-day of infancy- that period now lighted alone by fancy, around which memory sheds no lucid ray; when the home of my nativity was made bright with the smiles of true affection; when the even- ing prayer of my sainted father hallow- ed the sacred ties of family and kindred." Slherwood, looking down thoughtfully for a moment, when she ceased speak- ing, wrote with his cane upon the sand; when, looking up, he caught her pierc- ing eye, and immediately exclaimed: "Clara, you are a strange girl; I hardly know what to make of you. I guess you will have to go with me to New York, where, in the life and bustle of a large city you may be able to out- grow this melancholy mood." "Perhaps I may; you had better try it coz!" returned Clara, speaking with new life, while the carnation heightened upon her check, diffusing itself gradual- ly over the whole countenance. "1 fear you would find reason, soon, however to repent," continued she, looking down in turn, and effacing with her foot all traces of Sherwood's record in the sand. "If so," answered he, "I can easily send you back again; but there will be no fear of that; the only fear would be that she who is ill at ease, domiciled with an affectionate brother, would not be very likely to feel contented with more distant relatives." Time speeds onward. One quarter has passed, the vacation is over, and again they meet. He, as usual, polite; she confiding and happy. At last he yields to the influence of her passion, and throwing off the restraints of fash- ion, evinces a heightened regard for her, and an intimacy characterized by all the purest and best impulses of human na. ture sprang up between them. Yet it was only, after all, the familiar inter- course which might safely exist between mere friends. Mr. Sherwood would probably have' denied the possibility of inspiring a passion in so young a heart; but a very little knowledge of woman's nature might have led him to be more reserved, c and not to have pursued such a course as to have forced into premature existence, her latent affections. Their meetings had been quite fre- quent and the impressions growing out of them, but for her orphanage, like all the fancies of a young and pure-hearted girl, might have passed into oblivion ere their outlines were accurately determin- ed; but now they were stamped indeli- bly upon her heart. When alone, she would reflect on their past interviews, and words which, when first uttered, seemed meaningless, now, when recalled by the magic voice of memory, were of deep import. She recalled every emo- tion and look of his when, inspired with the beauties of surrounding nature, he gave utterance to his sentiments of ad- miration-now, when reflected from the mirror of fancy, his words seemed fraught with earnest tenderness. The consequences of such pernicious day- dreamings make up the recor' of half life's ills. She persuaded herself into the belief that she was beloved, and, at thirteen, Clara C. Cochran was the pas- sionate, the tender, the loving woman.- Lady reader, do you doubt the possibility of so early a developement of the affec- tions? Then, excuse me if I say you must be passionless, unimaginative, cold. Ask the woman of nice sensibilities, with a fine texture of brain, who revels in poetic thought, if, midst the torrent of her past emotions, some traces of early passion do not yet exist, which, defying the ravages of time and the changes of scene, often cluster around the memory, awakening youthful associations, and embittering or enriching the present. CHAPTE R IV "She was a creature strange as fair; First mournful and then wild- Now laughing on the clear bright air, As merry as a child.' The last day of school had arrived; and it was a period full of touching emotions, big with interest to many a lovely school-mate-many a youthful heart-record had passed its introduction, and striking passages of gushing hope and trembling fear mingled in discordant conflict, made up the first affecting chap- ter. Clara, our little heroine, was one of that parting company. Her prologue had been made up before; the past had been somewhat clouded, with just enough of sunshine for effect, but now the sun of her hope. shone brightly-the object of her day-dreams stood beside her. He had spoken no words of love; but what need of words? His every act, so ten- derly thoughtful; every emotion so so- licitously expressive, was confirmation, strong as proof of Holy Writ, that she possessed the sacred treasure of his affections. With the oft repeated promise to cor- respond, the pressure of the hand, the kiss, the parting word, they separate.- She to return to her mountain home rev- elling in the sunshine of sweet hope; he to mingle in the busy life of a crowd- ed metropolis-remembering her only as an orphan relative, with whom, from very pity, he had promised to corres- pond. Clara is now living with her brother, Jesse, at Chichester; where, inspired by a brilliant hope, her former moods of despondency find no place. She is as blithe as the gentle fawn, and, but for her aversion to all restraint, however healthy, and her imperviousness to all advice, however good, unless in unison with her own wishes and purposes, which gave to her an air of wild independence, she might be set down as a model girl. She was generous, even to a fault; and would often forego many little comforts, rwhen, by parting with them, she could contribute to the happiness of others. In the little circle of her acquaintance, being no longer solicitous about self- though, to all save a few tried friends, page: 8-9[View Page 8-9] she had lisped no word of her heart- anchorage with another-she loved to study the ebbing and flowing of passion in others; and, if need be, to direct the illvery current of affection in channels before rendered difficult through timidity or painful uncertainty. Charlotte Gould, an exotic of rare beauty, who, on the death of her mother in a distant State had been sent to live with a distant relative and guardian at Chichcster, being about the same age of our heroine, became, by similarity of taste, her most intimate friend. They were both equally fond of books, both loquacious, both companionable; and, being often together, the seciets of one became those of the other. Thus it was that Clara learned that her friend, feeling in her orphanage that desolation which well nigh made shipwreck of her early hopes, sighed for some male com- panion, nearer than brother, on whom to cast the anchor of her affections. "Charlotte," said Clara, one day as they were looking over a book together, "what do you think of Mr. Hart?" "Why, I think he is a very nice young man ; dent you?" "To be sure I do. But how would you like him for a lover, Charlotte?" in- quired Clara, again; looking up archly at her friend. "I would like him for a husband, bet- ter," returned she naively, slightly blush- ing at her own frankness. "Well, you know, there must be ove before marriage?" "True, there should be: and, to an- swer your first question directly, I should kinder love to be beloved by Mr. Hart, though I would not have you intimate my feelings to him for the world. O, how ashamed I should feel!" Thomas Hart, the young gentleman alluded to above, unconscious of aught save friendship for both, had often, in their rambles over flowery fields and be- side the meandering brook, been the happy companion of Clara and Char- lotte; but he had now left the village and the pleasantcompanionship of these girls, to fill the station of Clerk in a store at Concord. The first, and each succeeding Sabbath after hii departure found him at home, feeling a real satis. faction in visiting the paternal cot, and in exchanging greetings with his kind neighbors. He had casually, since his departure, seen and spoken with both of these girls, but had as yet received no intima- tion that he was an object of any special regard to either; though it cannot be de nied that he entertained a partiality for each, which caused him often to draw comparisons between them, when think- ing, as all young men are very apt to do, about a wife. One sabbath evening, or, to use the language of the poet, "One night, when long the lyre had slept, Udollo's passion, like a sea Of red-hot lava, madly swept Ili.4 soul on to its destiny." Yes, that Sabbath night, flush in the hey-day of youthful hopes, our hero resolved on a declaration; and (as he afterwards confessed) visited Clara first, because she was the nearest, purposing to make her the recipient of an hereto- fore divided passion. Clara received him, as was her wont, with pleasant greetings. When, read- ing, as by intuition, the purpose of his visit, after casually remarling upon a few common place matters, she very happily warded off the declaration by exclaimning," O, by the way, Mr. Hart, I am in possession of a secret worth mere to you than me, and you may have it for the asking." "t Y u are more secretive than women in genieral," returned Thomas, with a cunning look, which soon settled into a laugh. "Why"so. you wondrous wise?" in- quired Clara, laughing in turn. "O, nothing," said he, "only women generally tell all their secrets without asking." "A penny for your wit, Sir Solomon; but being an exception to the general rule, I will not reveal mine without so- licitation." "Apologizing for my innocent reflec- tion on the ladies, I will be especially obliged, Clara, if you, being in posses- sion of a secret of interest to me, (and I doubt not you are,) will let me into it." "Well, listen-a young lady of my acquaintance, not a thousand miles from here, who has often been favored with your company, is, to my certain knowl- edge, very favorably disposed towards you. She is well worthy of you in every respect, and, I doubt not, she would be very happy to receive a visit from you to-night." "Are you serious, Clara?" "1 Never more so." ' Give me the name." "Charlotte Gould." I thought as much. Good night, with thanks. I'll visit her now." So undetermined had Thomas been as to the preponderance of the tender passion, between these girls, that it only needed this direction to run out towards Charlotte as naturally as though no oth. er current had ever swayed its course. We will remind the kind reader, that a few months since our heroine paid Mrs. Hart a visit, at her happy residence, and, as often before, they dwelt long upon their former happy companionship -awakening pleasing recollections, and kindling in the bosom of Charlotte fresh emotions of gratitude towards her old friend, Clara, for that Sabbath evening visit from Thomas Hart. CHAPTER V. "T"e lips tlhat )reatho the burning vow, By falsehood base,unstained must be; The heart to which mine own shall bolw, Alust worship honor more than ate." We now introduce again, to the notice of our readers, George Sherwood. We have traveled on, in the thread of our story, between two and three years, since that eventful parting between Mr. Sher- wood and our heroine-the interesting particulars of which we narrated before. During this period, true to his promise, he has corresponded with her frequently. His epistles, however, lisp no caution to that loving heart, for breathing in every period, ah, and every word of her letters, her adoration, her sacred trust in the hope of his love. He is now sauntering down Broadway, earnestly engaged in the perusal of a letter; it is from Clara. And as it can but add to the interest of the tale, and shadow forth in a very tangible form her sentiments towards him; developing in a measure her hopes and fears; without further comment we will give it, entire: CIICHESTEm , May 6th, 1849. DEAR GEr oao:-1 received your kind, but short letter, yesterday; and after reading and re-reading it, I sat down and pondered long upon its contents. At first it seemed not to come home to my heart as good tidings from my best friend. But I confess, after due re- flection, I wronged you. I ought not, I will not. claim your undivided attention. En- grossed in the secular duties of life; striving with thousands of hawk-eyed competitors to lay up a competency for the future; a seeming neglect on your part shall not be construed by me into indifference. Should I ever indulge in a chiding spirit-though I shall endeavor not to--take it as an evidence of my highest regard; for pure love is always exacting. I have read Shakspearo until I am completely in love with him; (don't be jealous, for I am more in love with the donor.) It is remarked by Lamartine in his Raphael, which I have be- fore me, that "' if we separate the stage trom the drama, or the drama from the stake, the whole scene fades, and the feeling vanishes." This may be true with some; but I think I could not have entered more into the true feelings of the great Dramatist were the stage with all its gorgeous scenery placed before me, and your friend, Mr. Forest, star of the occasion. You say you don't like long letters. That is the only thing, dear George, in which we seem to differ; and I wish I could induce you to write a good long letter, again, as yu used to when we first commenced this correspond- ence. I shall not insist on it, though-a short one rather than none. Silence on your part would kill me. You have not given me that advice I so much need, as to my future plans; not said a word about the propriety of my working in the mills. Do speak of this in the next letter, as Jesse is by and by going to California, and I must find another houme; anl I can see no impropriety in my going into the mills to work. "ow evr, in this, as in every thing elbe, I shall abide your decision. I anxiously await an answer. Affectionately yours, until denth. CLAItA C. COCLUAN. This letter is scarcely perused, when a gentleman, meeting Mr. Sherwood, exclaims: "What, another letter! Well there, you are the luckiest man alive. What does the little cousin say to-day?" With this, his intruder, lifting his glass to his eye and squinting at two young ladies upon the opposite side, inquires- "Sherwood, do you know those ladies, opposite, just entering that carriage?" Looking as directed by the inquiry of page: 10-11[View Page 10-11] his friend, Sherwood answered in the b negative. "Then it is my pleasure, good fellow, tt to make you happy by an introduction, d this afternoon, at their residence. Say, will you go?" "I don't know as I can," returned p Sherwood. "I have just received a letter from my old school-mate and cousin, in the country, which if I don't answer now, I am fearful I may neglect b altogether. Won't some other time do a as well?" "O, fush-nothing like the present. a If you must play the amiable to your t country friend, to-night, by answering her letter, why then set about it at once. You have time enough to write half a r dozen letters between now and the hour V I should be pleased to accompany you there." "Well, name the hour," said Sher- ' wood, "and I am at your service." "Say four; how would that time with your business?" inquired the friend, whirling his cane, and brushing up his moustache with his white-gloved hand. "First rate; say four, and let both be punctual." They now separate; and George, feeling somewhat exhausted, and hungry withal-not having much appetite in the morning, and sipping barely a cup of coffee for his breakfast-called in to a restaurateur and ordered a steak; and while it was in preparation, he sat down and gave Clara's letter a second perusal; after which, he soliloqu;zed thus: "I declare, I am placed in something of a dilemma, with this country cousin. Idon't know hardly how to extricate myself, with honor, from her constant importuninge of me for advice, with re- newed tokens of attachment, which I am quite sure I never designed to kindle. As for ever thinking of marrying her, why that's entirely out of the question. Sticking down a stake there-what is my next course? 1 have it; I can ex- tricate her and myself from the meshes of this foolish attachment, not by giving her the slip at once, but by continuing, as usual, to correspond with her, and gradually wean her from this passion, -which I fear engrosses her whole being-by growing colder and shorter, with each succeeding letter, until her at- tachment and this correspondence shall die together." After discussing the merits of a rare- cooked steak and the necessary accom- paniments, he ordered pen and paper, and dashed off, with a ready hand, the following: DEAR CLARA :-Your friendly little missive, burdened with the effusions of a pure heart, and traced with a ready pen, I have just read with pleasure. Between a severe head-ache and pressing engagements, I shall be compelled to answer it in as few words as possible, and to the almost entire exclusion of every other sub- ject save that touching your future plans. I read with no little surprise, in your for- mer letter, that your brother Jesse purposes visiting the gold regions. I had supposed he was too strongly attached to home to venture so far. To me, California has little or no at- traction-I had rather make less and enjoy more. Clara, you rely almost entirely on me for advice about those things which had better be left to the direction of your brothers, or other friends there. One cannot judge accurately of local matters unless he is on the ground to see for himself. Were I there, things might ap- pear entirely different; at least, I could better judge of your wants, and more safely direct you in your future plans, so as to best contrib. ute to your good. I doubt not, if matters are as you intimated in your former letter, you would best subserve your own interests, and quite as much contribute to your happiness, by going into the factory at once. I should be loth, if I were you, to draw upon the small amount in the hands of your guardian, unless in case of sickness. Do, however, as your own good judgment directs, with all due regard to the opinion of near and dear friends, and you will not do wrong. sT From your constant friend, GEORGE SHERWOOD. True to the appointment with his t friend, at four o'clock, George was at the Exchange, where he met his comr I rade, and, in some half an hour, called at the residence of the Misses King.- , Two hours were very happily spent in discussing the last new novel, the fash- s ions, and, more than all, the war be- - tween the tragedians, Forest and Mac- s ready-the first evening of whose new g engagements occurred that night, and T, Sherwood was induced, at the sugges- d tion of his friend, to accompany the l, trio to the Astor-Place Opera House, le to listen to Macheth, by the great Eng- lish tragedian, Macready, supported by v Mrs. Pope, a star of the first magnitude. c Mr. Sherwood at first endeavored to f persuade them to visit Broadway Thea- tre, and listen to his old friend, Forest, t with Miss Wallack; suggesting that, as b dispute and discussion ran high among i the friends of these two rival tragedians, t in the city, he should chose to support c Ned. Yielding, however, to the prefer- b ences of the ladies, they decided on the I Opera House. s Leaving our hero to go to the Opera s House, we will take a short peep at E Clara, who, after remaining with her brothers, dividing her time between them-sometimes being with Jesse and t then with Joseph-about a year after i the date of these letters, accompanied one of her brothers to Manchester, and entered Mr. Felt's weaving room upon the Amoskeag Corporation; alternating for the next two years between Hopkin- ton, Fishersvillc, and Manchester:- keeping up all this time a regular cor- respondence with Sherwood, who, in his next letter after the one published, ap- pears ill with himself and everybody else. The Astor-Place Riot, which occurred on the evening of his engagement, and which occasioned quite a loss of innocent life, left Sherwood less a watch, purse, coat, and hat. In the dense mass of hu- manity which filled to overflowing the entire area of boxes, parquette, &c., George, and his company were held as in a vice. Prudence dictating the propriety of standing as quietly as possible, he silent. Iv endured divers elbowings from near neighbors which made him as tender as a well-pounded steak, until Macready had carried the play, amid torrents of thumps, hisses, potatoes, and eggs, into the Castle Court scene; where Macheth, after the exit of the servant and Banquo, strikes that superlatively tragic attitude in which he exclaims: "Is this a dagger, which I see before me- Its handle towards my hand?" "Nol you miserable John Bull! Its a chair, and be d-d to you!" was the stentorian answer which sounded clear and distinct above the terrific uproar which filled the house at that time, ac- companied with a flying chair, which fell at Mncready's feet. Now was the time for a demonstra- tion. The mass, heated with passion, began to surge. George's lady compan- ion fainted, and in the attempt to gain the door with her, like the Egyptian of old, he fell among thieves, who stripped him of everything valuable and then left him to be drifted out with the wild surge, losing sight of the lady, whom, so far as we know, he has never seen since. No wonder, after such ill usage, Sher- wood's pen betrayed his chagrin, and that poor Clara for a moment paused in sorrow as she read his letter. But, at- tributing his ill mood to that night's mis- hap, an allusion to which he had made in his letter, she fell back upon her usual quiet, and thus things remained until March, 1853, when an incident oc- curred which entirelyhchanged allt the current of her hopes; yet to which we shall not allude, further, until we shall have traced up the history of Catharine B. Cotton, the other heroine of this eventful record, to about the same period, where we find them together, and shall endeavor to exhibit to the reading pub- lic, so far as in us lies, one of the most ,mysterious unions ever recorded in his- tory. 'CHAPTER VI. "* Radiant with her spirit light Was the little beaitioius child; Sporting round a fountain bright- f Playing through the fluwrets wild." In presenting to the notice of our fair r readers a new heroine, it is due to them, as s to me, to frankly confess a marked differ- ence between the disposition, habits, and f predilections of the two. Our former, and we frankly confess, i still favorite character, Clara C., has, up , to the end of the fifth chapter, evidenced, e in an eminent degree, all those peculiarities which make up the trusting, confiding, in- tellectual, and beautiful woman; and, while lingering over the phases of her life, in- s spired with new emotions of respect at e every period, we confess we looked forward *r with no pleasurable emotions to the task r which we thought awaited us in delineating page: 12-13[View Page 12-13] the thread1le life of the other. But, since opening inquiries, and gaining new means of access to the history of our second heroine, Catharine B. Cotton, whom we shall hereafter call Kate, we are in- spired with an increased respect for the trusting woman, who, though in some respects wanting in force and energy, ex- hibited the true heroine. In this recpect, the two were alike; and here we find an explanation of that mys- tcrious union which cemented our heroines so readily together, though world-wide apart in all else of their ,make up. In the rural village of Pownal, Me., -.sme fifteen miles from Portland, resides As;a Cotton, the father of our second hero- ine, Kate, who is also a blacksmith, and, not unlike Clara's father, at the opening of our st'ry, by industry and frugality has acculmulatedt some property-is, in a word, "well to do in the world,"-and his sons and dau,hters, going out into the great field of lii', to work out their destiny and contribute to the world's onward progress, have nit been silent aetors. Kate wtas in childhood a mother's fond one-ever stprting in the rich flow of her own cheerf'ul spirit she was the angel of' the huwehold. She loved, when the fond father would return at eve, weary with the burden and heat of the day, to solace his cares, and make him forget his fatigue in the sweet welcome with which she would greet hinl. Thus she grew tip until her eighteenth year, at which period the paternal roof found her .still an industrious and promis- ing girl. The child, which, with its laugh- ing black eye and sunny ringlets, was beau. tiful to 1,}ok upon, was now transformed, by the magic touch of' all-conquering time, into the mature woman. She had no great ambition to accumulate knowledge, was not immoderately fond of books, yet she had improved her not large opportunities quite as much as girls in general. Being now, as the saying is, "out of her time," and desiring to do something for herself, and, no doubt, learn something more of the I ways of the world than she had been able to glean from the old homestead--with the blesings of kind parents and her own rich anticipations to give new impulse to her throbbing heart; putting on the best gar- t, ment, and accompanied with a few dear v companions of her youth-she winds her r way, by a private conveyance to the Depot, n and, with the speed of the wind, she is i- borne on in the 'ears to Biddeford. It was e a beautiful May morning on which she sat e out on life's great journey, the young flow- - ers peeped out their golden petals to kiss the parting dew-drop, and all nature wore 1 thO heaven-bought freshness of eternal - youth. The sun, the great fountain of s heat, paid its pearly tribute to the scene. a enriching it with a crimson hue no pencil could reach. , "Oh, pleasant is the dewy morn." S That evening found our heroine com- fortably housed in Biddeford, and the very , next day she entered the mill to work. As f her first impressions of the thousand new i objects which everywhere crowned her , sight may be of worth in tracing her men- tael characteristics on this first step in a new sphere, and as it may shadow fobrth evidence of her mental strength at the age of eighteen, we will give to the public a private letter, addressed to an old school- mate who had not then caught the factory fever, but who has since found it for her interest, with others, to avail herself of this means of laying up something qgainst a rainy day. DiAi FRIEND SUBAN :-I was quite pro- voked with you for not coming over, as you agreed, and seeing me off; I had a mind to remain silent, just to pay you, but wisely con- eluded it woulc. trouble you ",ore to have to read my hasty scrawls, so I now write. I anticipate your ,inquiry, and will say that I like much better than I anticipated. I shall in a few weeks board with Mrs. Hanson, a boarding mistress liked very much by the girls. I am at present with Mrs. A., and shall remain here un:il one or two of Mrs. H.'s boarders go home, who are now on their notice. I can give you but little account of things here, as day- times I am in the mill, and evenings in the house. I have remained at home for the very reason that my very fashionable dreases. as you know, are a sight to behold, here. You thought they were all very neatly cut, but they are not cut at all, except that they make me cut, when contrasted with the fashion here, a very strange tigure. The beaux here are very thick; that is, the material out of which young ladies make them. Nice, hair-lipped goslitts are as plenty as flies in mid-summer. I have not spoken with one of them, yet, though they stare at me in the streets as though I was a seven years wonder. One impudent fellow commented to his companion, in my hearing, on my " solid charm'is"-I was so mad that I' went home and had a crying-spell. Ah, I wish, dear Sue, that you were here; I know you would enjoy yourself. My over- seer is a first rate man; he is a weaver by the name of Fifield, on the Laconia Corporation, where two first-rate girls work, to whom I will allude in my next. I have an easy chance now ; I hope to be able in a few weeks to tend work myself. Affectionately yours. CATHARINE B. COTTON. N. B. Do write soon. Love to all. The above, though not very imaginative, is certainly a very intelligible letter, for a green country girl, and shows her possessed of good perceptive faculties at least, We do not claim for Kate so much intellect or refinement as exists in our beautiful char- acter, Clara; yet the former was a good girl, and equally susceptible to the tender pas- sion with the latter. CHAPTER VII. t But time, foir good or ill, sweeps on; And when few years haveo coie and gone, 'T'ho past will be to all as naiught, WV sther remembered or forgot."' A few weeks after the writing of the preceding letter, finds Kate comfortably packed away at Mrs. Hanson's, where she is so fortunate as to bl made acquainted with a couple of young ladies, who after- wards became very much attached to her, and one of whom seemed to have her des- tiny linked closely to that of Kate's. As it is essential to the developement of our story to hold each character, however small may be the part called upon really to act, distinct, we will designate these two ladies, above mentioned, by the names of Lucetta and Abby. To Lucetta, with whom we shall have the most to do, aside from our heroine, our readers may like to be introduced. Imag- ine yourself looking in upon a factory boarding chamber, on a Sabbath day, in which are standing two cleanly looking beds, a small table, chairs, trunks, &c.--- The room is occupied by girls, all of whom have gone out save the object of our pres- ent notice, Lucetta; she, with a tall and graceful figure and a countenance sweetly effeminate, with light hair and light blue eyes, stands at the window, reading a billet. (n the small table before her lies also an- other, the seal of which she has not yet broken. She takes it up, not indicating the most distant emotion at the perusal of the first; but when she broke the last seal and cast her eyes upon the autograph, her countenance instantly radiated with blushes. Both were from gentlemen of her acquaint- ance, soliciting her comemny as partner in a pleasure excursion down teC river, on the morrow; each promising to call for an answer in the evening. The first gentle- man, a machinist, of pleasing address, who might be termed a good worker, yet whoso costume was always rather gray from age, had long solicited a more intimate acquaint- ance with Lucetta, but had always been made to understand that his attentions were not wanted; yet, with an earnestness which would suffer no restraint, he em- braced every opportunity to press his suit. To his kind note she granted not a thought, but when the name of Cyrus Emmon s struck upon the eye a pleasing sensation diffused itself through her mind, enriching her handsome countenance with the glow of deep passion. Mr. Emmons was a mechan- ic residing in Saco, possessed of more than usual personal attractions, with a Na- poleon build, being thick set and portly, which gave him an Alderman look all la- dies love so well, He was also very dres- sy. Arranging her toilet, she sat down a mo- ment to fix some other, little matter which entered into the composition of her orna- ments, when her room.-mates made their appearance, having just returned from church. Kate leads the van; and with her large, yet symmetrical, person, and a countenance fresh as the gushing of her own free spirit, she exclaims, ( O, Lucetta, how much you have missed by not going to church with us-but what have you there, Miss? an invitation-and yet another! Why, are they both for you? ("Both were sent to me," remarked Lu- cetta, handing them to Kate for perusal. Running her eyes over them, Kate re- marked, "Well I know what I would do with them, were two such gentlemen to in- vite me to an excursion, to-morrow." "A tlt so do I," remarked Abby, look- ing at the notes as held out by Kate. "Well, what would you do, Abby?" in* quired Lucetta. "s O, I would accept both; which, as a page: 14-15[View Page 14-15] matter of course, would lead to a duel, and' I should ,in ) iii a heroine." "Very consiacrate, truly! and what would you do, Kate?" 1 Me?" said Kate, "I should do just as you intend to do,-accept the prettiest one, Cyrus Emmons. I think he is a dear pret- ty fellow. He fills my eye to a charm.- Should you choose the other. possibly I might take his bid, and wouldn't we cut a great swath?" As she said this, the trio set up a great laugh which broke strangely upon the still- ness of the quiet Sabbath and led to a re- monstrance from mother Hanson, who, breaking in upon them, declared the whole neighborhood would be disturbed with this unseemly mirthfulness. Suffice it to say, Lucetta, when Emmons cthcd, accepted his invitation, and enjoyed the pleasure of his company on that even- ing until the moon was quite high. The morrow comes, and Kate and Abby go to their work in the Laoonia mills, while Lucetta enjoys a pleasure ride down the Saco. After remaining in Biddeford some six months, during which time our heroine had not been an indifferent spectator in the great amphitheatre of life, she returns to visit her old home, endeared to her by so many ties of kindred and early associations. What a pleasant thing it is to look in upon the quiet fireside of domestic peace. "Home, sweet home!"How the memory loves to linger around home scenes. The associations of our early school-days-how the mind fraternizes with this rich poetry of our existence. How blissful to linger here, and drink in the sweet music of this glowing retrospect; while the recollections of a fond mother lead all the van. That constant friend whose anxious eye watched our every want, whose bosom pillowed our infant head, while, pulse beating to pulse, we were lulled to gentle sleep. How the affections linger around that soul-inspiring thought of MOTHER! We must press it to us, nor let it go until it has left a blessing big with high resolve to profit by her heaven- ly counsel. In recollections of home, thought suc- oeeds thought: with the mother comes up the father, whose head, perchance, is now whitened by the frosts of many a winter. 'If never before, gratitude now possesses us as we contemplate the heavy sacrifices he has made for us. Then, again, will the pulse beat anew, as, in our fleeting vision, we drink in the fond recollection of confiding sisters and happy brothers, whose images rise up be- fore us as in the morning of our days, when, beside the babbling brook, or over the green meadows, we wandered in quest of flowers. And yet another group comes up in this flood of early recollections. They were our school-mates; those who were of our own age; who entered the arena of life with us; with whom we have played and gamboled-and quarreled and made up- day in and out. With kindred sentiments and emotions rushing in upon the mind of our heroine, whose six months absence seemed as so many years, she is placed down at the old homestead, and permitted to look in upon the paternal hearth-stone, so full of touching reminiscences. We need not tarry to picture the meet- ing. New England homes are full of such touching scenes, so redolent with joy to both parties. There may be seen the mother, with her checked handkerchief or apron thrown over her head, the corners of which are confined by the teeth, careless of oughl save to meet and welcome a returning child, and throw wide open the doors to meet the ob- ject of her daily solicitude upon the thresh- old. How much of real happiness is crowd- ed into that short moment, when the hands and lips meet, and after which with sub- dued joy the mother steps back exclaiming, "Oh, dear, dear child, how glad I am to see you home once more, looking as natural as life." t This is Kate's first return, since her first i departure from the paternal roof, to pay a tribute of love to these kind friends of her infancy and childhood, whose prayers as- cended daily to heaven to shield and protect her from harm in her abscence. -She might, D after expressing emotions of joy at meeting her kind parents, brothers and sisters, and neighbors, have also said not inappropriate- ly, with nature's true poet, T. B. Read, in closing that touching production of "The Stranger on the Sill," that v ' The barn, the trees, the brook, the birds, The meadows with their lowing herds, The woodbine on the cottage wall- My heart still'lingers with therm all. Ve strangers on my native sill, Step lightly, tor I love it still. She remained at home some two weeks,. during which time, accompanied by her friend Susan, she wandered over green hills and broad fields, all the time picturing to her interested companion vivid sceenes in her six months factory life. She h:;J L en only one gentleman, who exactly filled her eye, and he was Lucetta's quondam lover, Cyrus Emmons. She pictured in glowing colors to her friend, his portly figure, his high carriage, his studied neatness in dress, and more than all, his manly address. "But there," she exclaimed, at one time, after having closed a panegyric on his per- fections, "He is nothing to me, I will as- sure you, save as the acknowledged lover of my dear friend, Lucetta; of whom I have before alluded." How many of my lady readers, perchance, have uttered the same language, when speaking. of gentlemen in whose society they have been charmed; knowing full well that the relations they sustain to oth- ers forbid any reasonable hope of a nearer connection with them; and yet, contrary to all the dictates of common sense, and of their knowledge of what is for their own good, indulge in a sentimental passion for them. With the close of this chapter, Kate re- turns to Biddeford. CHAPTER ViII. "Life is but ,ijroubled ocean; Elope a meteor; Love a flower Which blossoms in the morning beams, And withers It the evening hour." Kate is again about her work in the mills. She has got along finely; become quite a good weaver, and earns pretty good pay. Her friends, Lucetta and Abby, whom she has become to love as sisters, are her constant companions; they work, eat, and sleep with her; in a word, their joys and sorrows are one, and their sources of amusement, intellectual culture, meetings, tiopping and talking, are inseparable. In all save one thing they are a unit: and in this, although Lucetta is the exclusive par- ticip nt, yet her joys here, through mutual aympathy, are a source of satisfaction to her companions. We allude toher intimacy with Emmons, who is now he; aoknowledged lover, and deports himself, for the time being, as such.? From their excursion upon the river up ,to this time, Lucetta and Cyrus have been very intimate. She has poured out the rich treasures of her affection upon him, in their fullness, and, from a reciprocal manifesta- tion on his part, she is rendered felicitously happy. But passion, smothered to be sure, not even acknowled to herself-yet, not less a vital principle--is working in the bosom of Kate for Emmons. When under its sway, her feelings are worked up into a tempest of indescribable emotions; and yet in the pre- sence of her almost constant companions, she appeared as calm and placid as a sum- mer sunset; though strange as it may ap- pear, she rejoices in the happiness of Lu- cetta, and would have scorned the thought, as impious, of supplanting her in the object f her affections. Thus, by the tide of destiny, (we can call it by no other name) contrary to reason, to hope, to a consistent friendship for her friend Lucetta, and ad. verse to every sentiment or emotion of pro- priety or duty, she hugs this passion to her bosom and nurses it with her midnight tears and spectre fancy, into a cruel and relent- less master. "Lucetta," said Kate, one Sabbath after- noon, as they were 'seated in the sitting room of their boarding house, "Has George ever proposed marriage to you?" "No ;" returned her companion, " but"- "You are engaged?" questioned Kate again, without giving time for Lucetta to complete the sentence. "We are; but I don't think there is any need of hurrying our marriage. We are both young, you know, and both in good employment; which would not be the case, if we were married; for, however others may do, I have no notion of working in the factory after I am married, neither would Cyrus allow me to do so. Besides, I want to earn enough to enable me to get a good fitting out; for if you begin with a poor outfit, you are pretty sure to live and die with one. Though the man may make a good living and provide enough to eat and drink, yet it takes a great deal of coaxing, with some men, before they can appreciate the wants of a household; and I don't i0n agine that Cyrus is in every way an exceep tion to this rule." e page: 16-17[View Page 16-17] "I am sorry," said Kate, looking ear- nestly into the face of her companion, "that it is not convenient for you to marry now." "Why? what objection, dear Kate, to rour waiting a little longer?" "Oh! these long courtships too often end had, and then, I want you to get mar- ried; I should feel happier." "Well, Kat, I have no idea that our courtship will be very long; no doubt one year will close it up, One object of court- ship is, I suppose, to give each an opportu- nity to study the character, dispositions and habits of the othc e. -- . ( True, but that matter is all accomplish- ed oi your part, I suppose. You are en- gaged now; which should be good evidence that you know each other well," replied Kate, very truthfully. The conversation is no interrupted by the entrance of Abby, who, undisturbed by any uphcavings of lassion, lived and mingled in the great current of life, sym- pathizing with those around her in their af- flictious, and constantly adding to the num- ber of her large stock of friends, About this time, there happened along a celebrated lady sorceress; who, putting up at one of the best hotels in Saco, issued flaming posters and hand-bills, setting forth, in an attracting manner, her wonderful powers of magic in telling fortunes. Her apartments were thronged for a week with a motley crew from all grades, classes, and conditions of society-com- Ixcsd mostly, however, of factory girls, with here and there an occasional member of the other sex. In exchange for poison- ous flattery, love and luck in a cottage, in the factory, by the way-side, and in every other place this side the moon-all ending in felicitous marriages with every descrip- tion of bipeds unll'r the sun-we say, for being most grosly humbugged by these walking pests, whose chief business it is to poison the minds of females, and addle their heads with glowing prospects of a heap of good things to come-they pour out their money like water - thereby enriching shrews and fleecing themselves. "Abby," says Kate, as they were Fpasing, one night, from the mill to the boarding- house, two or three days after her Sunday onvceation with Lucetta, about marriage, a "what say to visiting that fortune-teller, this evening?" "O, I'll do just as you and Lucetta con- elude; there is one thing certain, though: I never shall go to such a place alone, for I do not have much opinion of such stuff." Just as they had closed the above con- versation, Lucetta, who had remained be- hind to see a friend, overtook them, and be- ing apprised of what they were saying, as- sented, readily to .KIt's proposition; and, after supper, the trio might have been seen standing in the entry leading to madame humbug's rooms, awaiting their turn to con- sult the oracle. "Hot kg have we got to wait here?" inquired Abbi of her companions; both of whom were dressed just like her, and ap- peared similar in most respects. "O, only a short time; they say she do- spatches business," Ere long they are admitted into the pre- sence of the sorceress,who was a little black eyed woman, with rather prepossessing ap- pearance, loaded down with jewelry and flounced from top to toe in silks and satins. She was about opening the pages of the dark future to a young lady, whose flashing eye, flushed cheek and quivering lip gave indica- tions strong of conflicting emotions. Jeal- ousy or hate, or unrequited love, was evi- dently wrangling in her bosom, and she, poor girl, had come to take a few lessons in the future. The wily woman commenced by shuffling a pack of cards. "There, there, I see," she exclaimed, " look at the first cut; this is an affair of the heart; you have had some trouble, and you will have more, yet, before you see the end, which will be as bright as you are deserving, and that will be bright enough, sure. Oh, yes, here is the gentleihan, a fine fellow"-at the same time presenting th6 'jack of hearts,'--- and here is your ladyship next in order," show- ing the ' queen of hearts' as the second card cut. Thus she went on from one iard to another, delineating a future all of sun- shine, with her ehemies humbled in ,th dust, to this weal victim to credulity.- Hope, the great comforter, under the rich prospect of thlei'glowing future, chased all conflicting embtions away. With a light ,foot and laughing eye, she arose from her seat, handed the woman a " half," and left the room. Abby was next seated, whose repugnance had all vanished, and whose faith became wonderfully quickened in the power of the arch deceiver, before whom she now sat, meekly waiting to take a peep at the future. With her she went through the same rout- ine of shuffling the cards, giving, however, different lights and shades. Abby was dis- patched with a sweet future, gained through much trouble. "Will marry rich- be mother of five darlings," -"Live in peace, and die in a pot of grease." Quivering like an aspen leaf, yet attempt. ing to hide her agitation by a feigned laugh, Kate approached the oracle, while the old cards received an extra shuffle. 'Well there,' remarked the woman, as she made the first cut, and presented the "Queen of Clubs,"-"' You have got a se- cret trouble breeding in your bosom; per- haps it may be about the loss of friends, or some fellow; at any rate there is trouble in the camp. But it is only the prelude to a clear sky," continued, she, cutting the "Queen of Diamonds." "You must cheer up, for after a few dark spots in your life, your pathway will be bright. Oh, yes, yes, this clears up the mystery; it is about a gentleman who is at present attentive to somebody else; or, in some way, don't re- ciprocate your passion. Yet, who will, by and by, make up in his kind attentions for all present sorrow," continued she, turning up the "King of Hearts." "When may I expect this to come about?" inquired Kate, laughing to ward off suspicion as to her feelings. "O, you must have patience, Miss," said i she, shuffling again, and cutting the "Seven- Apotof Spades,"and holding it up to view. t In seven months, your sorrow will be turned to gladness; and then, after a proper time, a you will be married, and your two friends t here will attend the wedding. When Kate was despatched, Lucetta, m with an anxious brow, induced by a conflict d between hope and fear, took the seat. When, h after cutting the "Jack of Spades," which i she held up, she told her that her present s fellow would prove false; but that eventual- e ly either he would come back penitent or t she would marry somebody else who wouldh be to her as good a friend. Shewouldbeu ft decorated, also, with many richjewels, dres- ses of silk and satin, and keep a maid; as ce her husband would beimmensely rich. After ae she is despatched, they pay the woman fifty ie cents each, and return to their boarding- t, houses, each one so full of thought, so ex- c. j tatic in their anticipations of the future, t- that not a word is spoken between them. CHAPTER IX. h " 'Tis vain to seek in men for moro than man.", The man is dead who for the body lives-. Lured by the beating of his pulse to list With every lust that wars against his peace And sets him quite at variance with himsolf"' d At the close of our last chapter, our e heroine, with her two companions, who had contributed to render her so happy e by consulting the Sibyl, and receiving e very favorable responses, was just retir- ing to rest for the night, to dream on the visions of fancy which had sent tiem into the regions of bliss, and perchance i unravel the complicated webb which the fortune-teller has spread before them. The present chapter will be devoted t t a flattering notice of a few of the male characters, which cannot but con- tribute to the interest of the story, and are necessary to its completion, which ,we shall open upon the public street in Saco; where are standing, ir the neigh- borhood of the post-office, two young men, engaged in conversation, inter- spersed with frequent bursts of laughter. Most conspicuous of the two, was Cyrus Emmons, to whom we have before cas- ually alluded. He was dressed in the very height of fashion; sported a gold watch and sundry other little ornaments, which make up, too often the real at- tractions of the dandy-though Mr. E. was not really a dandy, yet approximated so near one as to puzzle us exceedingly to distinguish the difference. There were two traits in which Em- mons may have been said to excel; in- deed, of which he had often boasted that he surpassed his fellows. The first was in personal attractions, being, as we said before, of a build rather distinguish- ed as of the Napoleon order-inclined to corpulency-and the second in which he more especially excelled was his fac- ulty of deceiving the women. Here page: 18-19[View Page 18-19] rested his great triumph. He was al-' w ways chuckling over the surrender of gi some new victim to his fiendish lusts, to su such of his comrades as were as vile as ne himself, though in the church and mar- do ket-place he bore a good name. The other fellow was a fit companion al for him, as will be seen in the following conversation. he "Cyrus! ho for the fortune-teller. If w you have not consulted the oracle, now is your time; don't neglect the opportu w nity. You would inspire the old hag o with strange emotions, and obtain from her, no doubt, a very flattering future." gi "O, you are too late!" "What! you been there?" a Yes," answered Emmons," I have t been, as usual, superintending the for- e tunes of some ladies." b i Superintending the affairs of the a women? I don't understand you; tell h us what you mean." a 1" O, don't speak so loud I Come, go 1I down to the shop, and I'll tell you what h a trick I played on the girls last night." t "What girls," enquired Sam, as they passed along. a "There, that is just like you, Sam Green, you care nothing about the trick, t it is the girls you like to hear of. I I was going to tell you a little game 1 1 came over three of mother Hanson's 1 girls, last night; but if you don't want X to hear it, say so, and that is the end of it." "O, get out your blarney, old chap, and tell your story." "Well, you know Lucetta, Kate, and Abby all dress alike." "Yes." So I thought, after I had read that flaming notice of the fortune-teller's great powers, I would go up and consult her ladyship, as to my future-" "Right, I know of no one who needs direction in that line more than you do." "No interruption-going, yesterday, on an errand for the old man, I took occasion to call in, and, as it was just after dinner, there were no ladies in waiting, so I had a good chance to read her at the same time she was feigning to read me. After she had completed her story, and I had paid her, I told herI wonted her to assist me in making three girls happy, who would probably con- sult her while in the place, and that she need have no hesitation as she would be doing good." "O, yes, yes," responded she, "I will always do good as I have opportunity." '"You see, Sam, I hit the nail on the head the first blow. I fastened her just where I wanted her." i"You did bring her in the line of your wishes, first rate, that's a fact; but go on, I am interested," broke in Green. "I now gave her a description of the girls, so she could not be mistaken; how they all three dressed just exactly alike; and then I described Lucetta, with her tall slim figure, light hair, and light blue eyes; and Kate, with her large frame, black hair and eyes, and flush cheeks; and Abby, with her blue eyes and black hair. Then I described them, truthfully, as to their present relations with the fel- lows, and, so far as I could judge, their hopes and wishes, and every thing of that kind, also." "You are going with Lucetta, now, aint you?" broke in Sam. i' Well yes, kinder; though I intend , to shake her off as soon as I get an op- portunity and not make too much fuss. I But, to go on with my story, I told her 8 how Lucetta was going with a feller now, t of my acquaintance, who would leave f her, by and by, in all probability, and that she could foretell such a result, and , by eventually giving her a more wealthy man, reconcile her to it, without a mur- d mur. "I vow, this is rich; go on! I want to hear the rest of it; what of the other ,t girls," broke in Sam. it "Well, as to Kate and Abby they r don't go with anybody, but, as a matter of course, want to. If I am not mis- Is aken, Kate likes me most hugely; at "any rate, I thought it safe to tell the y, woman that she was in love with a feller k who was going with somebody else, and st to make her feel comfortable, she had in better fetch it round, in her story, so as Ld to put her and him together, by and by. to And then I told her to give a beau to er Abby, and she would certainly do much I good to all the parties concerned." "I wonder if I couldn't win the affec- tions of Lucetta or Abby, now, and profit by your doings." "The d--l, no; you couldn't do any- thing there. They wouldn't let you come within ten rods of them." "Why not? I am as good as you are," returned Sam. "All that may be true," said Cyrus, "but I am quite sure, after enjoying my company, (as he said this he looked graciously upon himself,) it would take twelve months seclusion from society, with the prospect of an exit for life, to make either of those girls reconciled at ilj to your society." "And I am quite sure," said Sam, continuing the sentence where Cyrus left off-"k it will not take more than three months' companionship widL you to juin every one of them." "O, not so fast, Sam! I am as honest among the girls as the miller; and I am quite sure that mother Hanson's girls have no reason to complain of me. I know we attend the same meeting, and I am often thrown in their society-in a word, that I am partial to one orttwo of them." "Well there, Cy! I can bear any- thing except to hear you attempt, under reproach, to plead honest. Where was you last Monday night, and who was your companion? You are now going with Lucetta; last night sat up with her till broad daylight, though you purpose in a few days to throw her aside and make Kate happb'for a few days with your guilty presenee. One week ago, you spent the night at the ' Pool' and who did you spend it with? Ah! that's the question. You can go to meeting on Sunday and appear as meek as Par- son B--:; then practice your deception on the opposite gender, and appear on Monday as -- I won't say it. Ah! Cy, you're a great one-beat the world in deception." "Sam, where did you pick up that stuff about the Pool? That's now too stale for a hungry dog." ', Perhaps the Clerk of the Halifax ,could enlighten your mind on that point; as stale as it is, it is getting to be quite good currency among the ladies. Sam 'good o * .11* said this with an unction, and looked up with defiance. "And I suppose," said Cyrus, half in a tone of inquiry and half denunciation, "you help give publicity to it?" "Most certainly I do, in private quar- ters, where such acts arStaken as evi- dence of manhood. Not, however, where it would tend to lessen you in the estimation of the honest public. I sup. pose, Cy, you know that you are held in highest estimation where you are least known. All the reporting I do only sets you higher among the bo'hoys and ga'e hals." "My most considerate friend, Samuel Greeh, Esq., you will please bring in your bill for these important services, rendered, and it shall be canceled at once." This was spoken ironically; but Sam replied as cool as a cucumber: "Hand out a quarter now I and when I present the bill it can be credited." Sam Green, the personage ab9ye named, is as unprincipled as Cy; and, but for the reflection cast upon him touching his popularity among the girls, he would probably never have alluded to the Pool affair. In justice to these two knaves, we will say, they parted friends, and Cyrus has been very careful not to beard the lion again. CHAPTER X. "Ah. me I for aught that 1 did ever hear, Did ever read in tale or history lie course of true love never did run smooth" In closing the eighth chapter, we re- lated a scene with the Sibyl or Fortune. ' teller, and left the three ladies most in- terested in the responses given, about to retire to sleep on them. Lucetta is the most wakeful of the three. The bitter and sweet which entered into the com- position of her evening potation made her very restless. 'Though the oracle had spoken-the fiat had gone forth- still, when the thought of parting with Cyrus obtruded itself upon her. mind, even though with it had gone forth the promise of his return, or a worthy sub- stitute; still she could not but think that 'a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush.' The draughts of Kate and Ab- by, on the contra acted s narcotics, r page: 20-21[View Page 20-21] and, like Don Juan in the Seraglio, they slept very soundly the whole night. All three were up the next morning with the first bell, and each avoided, with the most studied indifference, any allu. sion to their last night's adventure. They went resoluely to work, as usual, in the mills, and none could have gathered from their looks the most distant idea that " mingled hope and fear sat brood- ing there." The next Sabbath evening found Cy- rus there, as usual ; nor did it take long for him to gather from Lucetta the en- tire success of his designs. He was very sensibly struck with the change in Kate's manner towards him. Before, a studied reserve, a kind of shyness, seem. ed to possess her in his presence; now her laughing eye met his, and, "In blissful silence, thought kissed thought."- kindling within her bosom the sweetest melodies. Yesterday she was tortured with the belief that Emmons never could be aught to her; and that life, myste- rious life, was indeed a burden; she could have exclaimed, with the poet,- "Oh! life is strange and full of change, And it brings me heavy sorrow, Though I came to the world but yesterday, And I shall go hence to-morrow." This change is deeper than that of the mere sentiment of love. She loved as deeply before; yet, then, to manifest it was impious; now, through the influ. ence of the sorceress, she claims Em. mons as hers, with the right, at the ear- liest moment, in case of a declaration on his part, to close the bargain. Emmons, sensual as he was, only needed this new flame to render himself, in his own opinion, one of the most for- tunate men out. Every opportunity, when he could catch Kate alone, would he poison her soul with the vile breath of his flattery, and thus outrage human- ity by most wickedly imposing upon his own sacred promise of undivided affec- tion and marriage between him and Lu- cetta. But for the fear of public indig- nation, he ere this would have snapt in twain every show of regard for her.- But the voice of an otherwise indignant religious society, and outraged public sentiment restrained him. Things remained thus for some time, until at last suspicion strongly implicated Emmons of playing false to both of these girls by secretly doing the amiable to another; which finally led to their temporary change of locality, and sub- sequent stoppage at Lawrence, Mass., where they entered the mills. This was followed with a diplomatic correspond- ence between Cyrus and Lucetta, which terminated in a suspension of all inter- course and finally open hostility. After remaining there six months, Kate re. turned to B., when, with characteristic consistency, he left a third victim, un- known, however to Kate, to ingratiate himself fully in her affections. JIe found her, from the influence of the knavery practiced on her credulity by the Sibyl, as well as her own unchanged passion for him, ready happilyto receive him. The man who will thus trample on his most sacred promises, and trifle with the affections of woman, commits an open wrong on society by outraging its sacred usages; and on Christian moral- ity, by breaking its sacred requirements, and is a thousand times worse than the robber, who, with a drawn pistol, draws your purse. He merits a dungeon deep- er and a doom more appalling than his. Then let public sentiment be aroused, and such base libels on humanity, if not punished by legislative enactments, an. nihilated by the breath of an outraged public sentiment. Unfit for society, or civilization-put the mark of Cain upon them, and let them wander, vagabonds, upon the earth. "Born but to be some snarl or plague, Vile product of a rotten egg, In every feature of thy face, A want of heart or soul, we trace; By your own looks betrayed, condemnld- Of shame in front there is no lack, And curses ride upon your back." But to our narrative. Kate is again in mother Hanson's old boarding-house, at B., and, as I said before, still impress- ed with the belief that the prediction of the Sibyl will be fulfilled, and only wait- ing an advance on the part of Cyrus, to take the first step towards it. That step has been taken, and in the constant atten- tions of Cyrus upon her every want and wish, Kate is, for a time, very happy. He is as constant in his visits upon her on Sabbath evening, as he is in his at- tendance upon church, which is quite constant. A question might here be raised as to the propriety of such a course on her part, having reference to Cyrus' former connection with Lucetta. But, in courting, as in politics, all is con- sidered fair; there was no occasion, therefore, for the dissevering of the bonds of friendship, so long and so hap- pily existing in time past, between Kate and Lucetta. The truth is, Kate had. merely stolen the march on her friend and secured the attentions, for the time being, of Cyrus. Four or five months after this, while Kate was on a visit to the paternal cot, where she received the congratulations of friends and neighbors, on her good fortune in securing a situation for life ;-- having gone home at that time to pre- pare her things for an early marriage with Cyrus,-on her return, who should return to B. but Lucetta, who had scarce- ly secured a room at Mother Hanson's, before this model lover, Cyrus, traced her out, and the old flame kindling anew, he made immediate overtures for recon- ciliation. Appearing like the "returning penitent" of the Sibyl, she received him with open arms and entirely supplanted Kate in the attentions of Cyrus. 'Thus things were situated on the re- turn of Kate, when she was very coolly received by Cyrus, who informed her he could not marry her, for the very reason that he had changed his mind. This blow was quite disastrous to the peace of Kate, who wandered about af- terwards trying for months to. chase the demon of an unrequited love from her mind. But, alas! it stuck to her closer than a brother. Could she have hid herself from herself in her rambles from Biddeford to Lynn, and thence to Lawrence, and so on up to Manchester Then could she have forgotten her dis- appointments, and eventually outgrown a passion which now unrequited, stung her to the quick, and led her on to des- peration; the strongest manifestation of which has an entire abandonment of one of Nature's first laws-self-preser. vation. She even after this desertion by Cyrus, who attended church as constant. ly as ever, and appeared to feel no com- punctions of conscience at the great wrong done her, :attempted suicide, by drowning; but humanity gaining the su- premacy, she shrunk from it just as she was about to take the fatal leap. She after this continues her rambles until about the middle of June last, when she engaged work at the Manchester Mills, and boarded with Mr. Gerrish. In the meantime, while Kate was thus beset with tormenting despondency, her old friend Lucetta was again deserted by Cyrus Emmons, who formed a new connection, and finally committed a greater wrong, if possible, on a very good girl, by inducing her to marry him. This blow was as fatal to the peace of Lucetta as Kate; the confidence mis- placed in Cyrus, when compelled to yield to open desertion, very sensibly affected her health, and in six weeks af- ter his marriage,she went to that "bourne from whence ne traveller has ever re- turned," "where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest."- Abby, who has fortunately had no heart flirtations with the arch deceiver, suffer- ed only through sympathy. She' stuck as closely as a sister to Lucetta in her last sickness, and gilded her passage to the tomb with her cheerful smile and ready hand in this last hour of need. CHAPTER XI. -"Look back a pace, If you would go ahead." It becomes necessary, now, for our kind readers, would they trace this dou- ble plot to its final consummation, to travel back with one in the narrative to the end of the fifth chapter; and help repair with me the broken thread in the web of Clara C. Cochran's life. She now rests confidently in the blissful hope of George Sherwood's love. She has never seen him since her girlhood. At the age of thirteen, she cast anchor, as she thought, in the safe moorings of his love; and ever since their separation, up to this period, his image has been the star of her destiny. She could truthfully have exclaimed;- "Thou art not absent, every thought Is thine alone! Thou'rt still with me; page: 22-23[View Page 22-23] For my mind's eye by memory taught, Looks back into my mind, " thee. In sleep, a voice Ah! not unknown, My pillow seeks, 'Tis memory speaks,- Tnat voice! 'tis all thine own." She is now at Manchester, at work in the mills, and with the tide of humani- ty which pass up Franklin and Market streets,to the Post office, might, one evening, in the early part of March, have been seen Clara, who, on calling into the office, found a letter for her. A calm satisfaction rested upon her countenance, as she examined the ad. dress, and traced the pen of her beloved. She hastily broke the seal, and run her eyes over its contents, when an unearth- ly palor overshadowed her before serene countenance, and the wild frenzy of despair gathered on her brow, leaving it as desolate as the black heath after a tempest-driven fire. Her companions noticed that some- thing unusual was the matter with their mate, and made th necessary dispatch to learn the cause. She merely remark- ed to their inquiries, that she was ill dis- posed that evening, but hoped after a night of quiet rest, to feel better.- Gaining fortitude from the kindly sympa- thy manifested by them, she made the effort, and, after some difficulty, reached her boarding-house. We will not attempt to pencil the agony which rent the bosom of that one orphan that night, as the thousand hopes gathered up from the store-house of six years trusting correspondence were changed to vipers, venomous with dead- ly stings. We will allow the poet to speak for her: "O life! thou art 1 galling load, A long, a rough and weary road To trav'lers such as 1, On, onward, as I cast my view, What sick'ning scenes appear;- What sorrows yet may pierce me through, What desolation drear! Still loving, despairing, Must be my bitter doom i My woes here shall close neser, But with the closing tomb." The kind reader, we have little doubt, would thank us for the privilege of pe- rusing a letter fraught with such blight- ing intelligence to poor Clara. Such a desire is commendable, and, having the means, we will gratify it. Though we cannot present to them the sad traces of burning tears which stained the paper and obliterated some parts of the words upon it, we will give entire the letter: FRtIEND CLARA :- Being about to leave the city for a few weeks, perhaps months, on busi- ness, I embrace this early moment to answer your last. I am really sorry to see you so intent on keeping up this almost guilty cor. respondence, which if permitted longer to con- tinue, under your erroneous opinions as to my sentiments toward you, will be likely to result in evil consequences to you. I ought, perhaps to have said as much before; but I confess I hadn't the courage. I have once or twice hinted to you, in my letters lately, the great impropriety of one's building up false hopes, or harboring an unreturned passion for anoth- er, on mere evidences of friendship, which was alone my incentive to the continuance of this, I fear, sad correspondence. You seem to have misunderstood me and my motives all along; blinded by a deceptive passion, you have construed what, from the best of motives, I had intended as a healthful caution to you, into renewed evidences of my affection for you. I entertain now, as ever, a brotherly regard for you, and shall always take a deep interest in, and feel to rejoice at, your prosperity. I beg of you, do not wirite me again! Let us rather, both of us, lay aside our pens for the present, and study fortitude. You, in con- quering a passion for me I can never recipro. cate; I in reirieving a sinking fortune, which threatens me with bankruptcy. Choose some worthy companion for a pro- tector and husband from the thousands which meet you by the way side every day in Man- chester, ant remember me in future only as your silent, yet appreciating friend. GEOROE SHEIRWOOD. This now lovely and isolated Clara, in whose character, trustful till now, was singularly combined romance with morbid sensibility, lost all relish for the society of others. She walked 'midst shadows, a quiet, harmless being, me. chanically performing, when in the mill, her work,-while her mind, awakened to her youthful relish for sadness, calling up all the disappointments of her life, which made a chapter of fearful import, on which she fed with a relish. It is a common remark, that the years seem to grow shorter as we advance in life, and they who would once exclaim, "' a whole year Pl in accents of alarm at its length, at last find themselves offer- ing to the same space in the careless tone of indifference, "only a year I' Each succeeding year of waiting was to Clara almost an eternity, as she looked forward, after their departure from, and separation at, the Academy; but now her infancy rushed up before her, as if of but yesterday. But the future! alas, what a sad, sad picture to her: it was studded all over with the imagery of despair. Life had lost all its charm, and she would cut its friendship and society, by casting it off forever. It is no wonder, after this, she neglect- ed her work, and staid out to commune with herself, in her chamber,--that her board bills run UD, without any present means of liquidating them, and hence, that she got a bad reputation in the room and boarding-house, and was frequently chided, both by the -overseer and board- ing mistress. These were to her but light afflictions, however, which would pass from her memory with the burning tear they would call forth, without a murmur or complaint. There was one great ghost which haunted her constant- ly: it was the spectre of unrequited love, which accompanied her now everywhere. If amidst the din and bustle of the crowded street, the lyceum room, or the religious meeting, she sought for objects to awaken her attention and drown her sorrow, that cruel letter would come up, dissipating all her hope, and thwarting all her plans. "Do not write me again," would strike upon memory's ear like the knell of departing hopes; and then would she leave the crowded street, and wandering by the side of silvery waters, ruminate on the propriety of throwing off this " mortal coil," now rendered an oppressive burden. Sometimes for a moment would she harbor the thought that he would relent, if apprised of her heart's devotion.- Inspired by this delusive thought, she sat down and wrote him once, twice, and thrice, pouring out the incense of a pure affection upon his obdurate ear; but no words of remembrance returned in answer, to break this ominous silence. A copy of the first I have been able to secure, and without apology, now pre- sent it: DBAR GEOaGE:-Led as much by inclination as duty, heretofore, to follow your advice, and obey your commands, or even casual sugges- tions, in all things, I am loth now to depart from that purpose, and would not, only that it imposes restrictions on my panting heart, which is well nigh consuming me, and even which it must break, or be broken. Hope chastened by a companionship with despair, bids me plead with you to relent, and call back that cruel sentence which bids me be silent,- Allow me to write as before, with the confi- dence of a return from you, which prompted me, and my poor heart will be satisfied. With- out this confidence on which to feed the hun- gry longings of a confiding bosom, and blunt the pointed daggers of despair which now pierce me to the centre, life is but a burning waste, and to shake it off will be my future purpose. I was pained, dear George, to hear that you do not succeed as you deserve and desire in your business matters; could Ibut impart to your wants and contribute to your peace, pos- sessing the wealth of a world, I could part with it all, and be enriched by so doing. Affectionately yours until death, CLAIAr C. COCHRAN. N. B. Do answer this letter. It seems hardly possible that there is a man, who, having kindred feelings with the race, and possessing those noble sentiments which are the prerogative of Christian humanity, could in silence withstand such an utterance of devotion for him, as breathed in every line of this letter, even though he had done nothing to awaken it. But, on the cn. trary, if he has corresponded with the writer for six long years, and received in every epistle from her during that time, unmi taken demonstrations of love for him deeper than the ties of friend- ship, or even kindred, then must his heart be obdurate, his sense of duty blunted; and his humanity hardened against her pleadings, who has cultivat- ed a rose planted by his own hands, though watered by her sighs and tears. CHAPTER XII. 4 I remember now, I am in this earthly world, where to do harm Is often laudable to do good sonmetimes Accounted dangerous folly." In the preceding chapters, we have endeavored to develope, with the history of our two heroines, the growth of that passion in each, which, having been suffered to run riot with the judgment and reasons find at last no response in the hour of need from those whose presense awakened it to action. We page: 24-25[View Page 24-25] find nothing more fitting for them to say d of themselves, thus stranded on the sea b of life, than as the pensive and drooping genius of Cowper expressed it, might s Byron say of himself: j "The howling blats drive devious, tempest-tost, Sails npped, reanis opening wide, and comlpasr lost, And day by day some currett's thwarting firce Bets me more distant from a prosperous course." Their sheet anchor has failed them; their moorings proved unstable; and, when, for the first time, they met at Manchester, so opposite and yet so much alike, they were drawn together by an irresistible force-entered into each other's feelings and purposes with an l alacrity truly astonishing. This myste- rious fellowship, which existed so liar- moniously between Clara and Kate, was evidently the result of a mutual sympa- thy. Clara, who was now nineteen years old, looked upon Kate, who was twenty. two, as an elder sister. Each consulted the other in all their plans, present and prospective, which the occasion or their wants might seem to suggest or require. When not engaged in the mill, they were quite often seen together-sarne- times rambling through the picturesque Cemetery and communing with the dead, as more congenial to their feelings, than further intercourse with the living. About this time, Kate received a com- munication from the old friend of her school days, Susan, to whom she wrote the letter home, which we published in the sixth chapter, giving an account of her first impressions in a factory village. Susan is now at work in Saco, and wrote Kate last April to Lawrence, where she formerly resided. The letter remained there until it was advertised, when Kate sent down for, and received it. Without comment, we give it in full: SAco, April 29, 1853. DEAz KATE:-.Your letter has occasioned many a happy laugh among your old friends; you gave a rich account of Manchester shop- ping. (I wish I was up there now to go out with you.) You do certainly get your goods there at very low prices, and no doubt can find a much larger assortment than we have here. Luoy Clark has got married to that Chapman fellow, and moved away. I called to see her before she left. when she wanted to be remembered to you. Lucy was a good girl, and I am glad she has made out so well; I think we ought to take fresh courage, and not despair of finding two manly hearts which beat in unison with ours. Notwithstanding her former bad luck with some two or three beaux, she has at last found in Chapman a stand-by. I think we have both of us been jilted enough to , look before we leap" again, and keep our hearts at our own disposal, un- til we shall have learned who is who, and what is what. But, Oh! dear Kate, if you was here now, and could witness the sad countenance of Lu- cetts, you would forget all your troubles in sympathy with her. Hers is evidently an af- fair of the heart, which, unless shaken off, will seriously, perhaps fatally, affect her. If that Cyrus Emmons don't have weight enough on his conscience to pack a horse, why, then I am no judge of deserts. I suppose you know he is married; it took place not long since, and created quite an excitement at Mother Hanson's, so Abby told me. I hope you have conquered that old passion for Cyrus. He has proved himself unworthy of a thought, and to indulge in passion for a married man is very wrong, unless, perchance, he should be your husband, in which case you must love him with all your heart. My motto is, " look ahead, not back,"- using our former experience, however, in our onward march, that no deceiver again poison our .linds with base flattery. Write again, soon, Your affectionate friend, SUSAN. N. B. Give my love to Sarah Davis, and tell her to write me. Kate read and re-read this kind and intelligent letter from an old friend who had drank deeply, also, of the cup of sorrow, but in the strength of firm reso- lution, had not suffered it to make deep inroads upon her peace of mind. Yet it bore no balm to soothe the corroding sorrows of Kate. It rather heightened her grief, and made new inroads upon her lacerated heart. With a mountain of conflicting emo- tions pressing upon her mind, she took t up her pen and wrote as follows: MANCHETEBR, July 21, 1853. DEAR SusAN :-Though I have little or no inclination to write to anybody, yet I am con- d scious so friendly a letter needs and should ; have an immediate answer. Well, Cyrus is - now indeed married. and, as you say, I ought t to forget him; but, Susan, that is impossible. s While my conscience and reason require of me n a surrender of this passion which is consuming e me, yet my heart bids me linger over the put, ,t and gather up new sadness from its fruitful d lessons. You can forget-I can't. You can o love again-I can't. My heart, my poor beat- 1, ing heart, has beat its last new passion for I man. I have gone with a new friend; one )t who, like you, dear Sue, has suffered disp- pointments on account of a man, to different sources of amusement; we have laughed and talked and joked with ou room-mates; we have wandered down to the beautiful cemetery and read the names of the departed; we have ransacked the stores and shops-still to be the restless and unhappy creatures we were before. I can find no rest this side of the grave, and I had rather trust to the future with all its un- certainty than to be constantly dwelling here in the midst of painful shadows. I want you to give my best respects to mother Ianson and Abby; and tell Abby I want her to keep that book I lent her until I come down, So, if I never come, she can keep it. The ring which you find enclosed, I want you to carry and give to Cyrus. It is one he gave me when he was going with me; I have no further need of his ring. Don't be sur- prised at so late an answer to your letter; I have just received it. Farewell. Affectionately yours, KATE. N. B. Don't write again until you hear from me! The startling intelligence of Emmons' marriage capped the climax of all for. mner sad events of her life. All further hope of a union with him was cut off now forever. Before, a lingering hope, based on the words of the Sibyl, would sometimes fliat in the sea of eloom which surrounded her, like an oasis in the desert. But now all desire to live and all fear of death had vanished. To her diseased brain, the language of Lady Macheth to her timid husband is not in- appropriate: "The sleeping and the dead Are but as pictures ; 'tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil." On the next visit of these girls to the Cemetery, Kate broached the subject of a union suicide. They had both of them before intimated their desire to rid themselves of life; often, in the mills and at their boarding-places, had they been heard to say - I wish I was in that canal;" but never, so far as we have the means of knowing. alluded to quit. ting life together until this visit to the Cemetery. On that night the summer winds chaunted a requium over the de- parted day, the reflected rays of the set- ting sun still lingered in the west and silvered over the forest tops with a pan- orama of colors finely blended, each. heightening in degree, until at last, by a concentration of pencilled rays, the whole west became one vast sheet of sparkling rubies; interspersed now with azure ground-work, now radient with brilliant red sapphire, and now glowing with the inimitable rubicel- the rich yellow shade of which but heightened the intense beauty of the scene. It was indeed a lovely night, which, while it might image to the eye of Christian faith the sunset of the Christian, and point to immortality beyond the grave, it could not have suggested self-destruction only as its opposite, and not in harmony with the universe. Thus, contrary to the teachings of that lovely sunset; contrary to the wish and purposes of God, as expressed in his sacred word; contrary to all the prayers of friends and promptings of youth; contrary to nature's great law and command " to live" until ripened to maturity-these young women, in the flush of physical health, which some. times made them buoyant even to levity, while mingling with their fellows, not- withstanding the weight of years which sadness, petted as a child, had brought upon them-they, there, over the tombs of the departed, 'mid the sweet zephyrs of evening, breathed a vow, and that VOW-SUICIDE. Driving back, with scornful defiance, the recollections of pious homes and praying mothers, they fell by the strength of thwarted passion into the la. mentable conception of self-destruction. There, in that beautiful spot, so well adapted to feed the fancy and invigorate the imagination with a healthful glow of religious sentiment, mid the rural charms and sublimities of nature, they resolved on "Making the sun like flood, the earth a tomb, The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. In arranging preliminaries consequent upon their purpose, they fixed the time and the place with as much deliberation and calmness as though it were but to ma/ke arrangements to visit a distant friend; and then they return to their boarding-house,. commingle with their room-mutes and mill-mates as though they would await sluggish nature's time to rid them of life, and not incur the Heaven-denounced crime of suicide. page: 26-27[View Page 26-27] One week has now passed since that wicked vow, and these two victims to their own hardihood are seated in their chamber Clara has just returned from the mill, where she has very irregularly worked for the last two or three months; while Kate,whose brain is too meaty and too unschooled in poetic thought to rhyme in harmonious numbers, is at- tempting to throw off a poetic effusion, which we will not give here. Clara is the first to speak- "Kate, I have been in to see the old man, who is pressed very much for the want of weavers, and I have promised to go in to morrow. So this afternoon I want you to go with me up to Brown's Daguerreotype Rooms: I am going to have my picture taken." "I thought you hadn't any money, Clara!" exclaimed Kate, looking up from her paper. "O, I have borrowed three dollars of Mrs. Foss, which will be enough for the occasion. Say, Kate, won't you go with me?" "I will if you will help me out with this verse of poetry; I have got three written, which will have to do, but on the fourth I can't make it go so well," an- swered Kate, taking a long breath and looking up at her friend. "I never attempt poetry," remarked Clara; i" it requires more imagination than I can command. I have flatteied myself heretofore that I could write de- cent prose, but poetry is entirely out of my sphere. From the same fountain where you have drawn the three first verses, you can no doubt obtain all the others which may be wanted. I think, however, that a visit to the Museum Building, and a look at Brown's splendid gallery of pictures, even though you you may not want to sit for one, will induce, by relaxation, fresh thoughts." (i Well, I declare I don't know how to take you, Clara; one moment you will renounce all persons and things, and beg me to witness that denunciation, and then, ere that has grown cold, you will be talking about somebody's beautiful dress. And now 1 hear you speak of Browa's splendid gallery of pictures as 'calculated, by a relaxation of the mind, to induce ' fresh thought.' Are you se- rious in these conflicting thoughts and emotions, Clara?" "I am, Kate I Being as you are, the creature of impulse, and with but a weak rudder to my frail craft, I am now sailing 'mid the breakers of the world, with all around me cruel wreckers, who, intent on gain, offer no shield of protec. tion to the lone orphan, and I become the misanthrope, thrown off my humanity, and denounce my existence as a curse, and man and earth as hateful. Now again I am wafted on the calm bosom of some fairy lake, with green islands, like gems set in a beautiful casket, surround- ing me on every hand, calling forth my highest admiration in spite of myself.- If you are not so affected now under different aspects of life, then I can only say, you differ materially from me." "I expect," said Kate, looking quiz. ingly in the face of Clara, "you will be 'wafted on the calm bosom of some fairy lake' about the time our vows are to be performed, so that it may not be convenient to be my companian on that occasion." O0, tamper not with me in that way, I beg of you, Kate! My purpose is unalterable; life's bounds are set with me, beyond which I cannot pass. Look to yourself, I beg of you. See that the childish fear of death does not so beset you as to leave me no companion to lighten my passage to the tomb." Oh, 1 am as firm as Rock Rim- mon! You need have no fear of me," returned Kate, a tear gathering in her eye, as she saw Clara weeping. "Let human nature weep, For 'tie her strongest sympathy." Waiting long enough to dry their tears and dress up appropriately for the occa- sion, these mysterious beings wend their way to Brown's, where, after sitting for theirs, examine minutely his large varie- ty of pictures, which so tastefully deco- rate his apartments. Commenting free- ly on the peculiar characteristics of some of these, the originals of which they had known before, they discussed also, or rather Clara treated of, the different traits of intellectual genius shadowed forth in this and that picture, until in this way, to all appearance, they had whiled away a happy hour, occasioning no thought in the brain of the artist that they were not the cheerful creatures their freedom manifested on that occa. sion, or that they had made a league with the fates to " shuffle off" life in two weeks. "There's no art To find the mind's construction in the face." Sunshine may appear upon the exte- rior, while the inside is black with des- pair. They next visit Ferren's, and Jack. sons', and Putney's, examine a large amount of dry goods and purchase no- thing, when the latter, after loading his counter with samples, in his usual bland way, thanks them for their very liberal purchases, and bids them call again.- We note this, not in the way of reflection upon Clara and Kate, but only to prove that they were emphatically women still, and had not shaken off this marked characteristic of some of the sisterhood, a passion with them strong in death. On their return, they called in at Fisk's, Young's, and Tewsburys', and at the latter place purchased stationery to serve them during their contemplated short pilgrimage here. Another week is passed, and no sus- picion is awaked in the minds of their companions that they really purpose sui- cide. They boldly proclaimed their purpose to those around them; yet it looked so strange, that they are all in. credulous. They could not look in and read their purposes, or conceive how, in those so young and promising, the canker of unreturned love could rust out all desire of life. Aside from this declaration, there was nothing in their manner to warrant the conelusion that they were not jesting. They entered without reserve into conversation upon every variety of subjects discussed by their companions, and sometimes they in. dulged in words of pleasantry, and talked about the beaux, as though they were interested actors on this ter- restrial globe. We will look a moment upon them in their chamber: they perform what they conceive to be a last duty to Sherwood and Emmons,-that is, to write them farewell letters, the first rough drafts of t of which were found among their effects. 3 Clara has a package of letters before her, probably from Sherwood at different : periods of their correspondence. She has been reading them again in course, and, having accomplished the undertak- ing, now seats herself to write. We will follow her pen: DEAR GEORGE:-For the last time I write you, to bid you a long farewell. I have obtruded my poor notice upon your valuable attention three or four times since you bade me be silent; I therefore fear I have incurred your displeasure, or caused you pain. If so. forgive me. I will not trouble you with an- other solicitation for you to write me; my only desire is, that you will now and then send a thought or a wish after me, to that *' land of rest," into whose portals I am about to enter, Ere you receive this, I shall have seen the last of earth, whatever may await me in the future beyond. See that I am buried with as little trouble and expense as possible, by the side of my dear mother, in Vermont. My friends at Hopkinton will take charge of my effects, and return your letters. With my blessing, farewell forever, CX&iAt'C. COCiHaAN. The above letter breathed the same devotion for Sherwood that had charac- terised all her previous letters. On the altar of her love, she has made a vow, a wicked vow,and likelthe law of the Medes and Persians, it was irrevocable. In the tenacity with which she had adhered to her engagement with her friend Kate, thus far, there was no reason to doubt that she intended what she said; and there was not a possibibility of a doubt that Kate, also, from the first mo- ment of the attempted suicide, had re* lented. Kate wrote as follows: DERR CYBUS ;-Dear Cyrus, why have you deserted one who loves you so terribly, and has been made very unhappy on account of it? W hen you recall the thousand promises which you have made me, and as often broken, how your conscience must reprimand you. I know you have tried to ruin me; only think of it-to ruin her who has loved you so dear- ly, and suffered so much for you. If you had treated me as you should, you would have, found in me a devout friend. What is passed cannot be recalled, but remember that you have ruined a poor, dependent girl. God for- give your sins, which are many, on account of it, and may you be brought to think and speak page: 28-29[View Page 28-29] of my memory, in pity, at least. Farewell' forever, CATIIARIN B. COTTON. N. B. I have sent Susan the ring you gave me. Give it to your present bride! Thus ended Kate's last very sincere epistle to her deceiver, which betrayed, in solemn tones, a despondency which would not be thwarted in its purpose.- The iron had entered the soul, and life was to be the forfeiture. Clara's resolution grew, also, out of a feeling of despondency; but it was so interwoven with the texture of her eventful life as to shape her purpose with an iron hand, though the commis- sion of that purpose .was transgressing the laws of God and man. We have said that suicide is a crime of fearful magnitude. It reveals always a want of Christian sentiment, of which had these deluded girls possessed one particle imbedded in their hearts, as a principle, tncy would have been restrained from even a thought of a crime so fearful as suicide. Fearful, not so much as ertaining to the actors, as in the pernicious lessons taught to others, who have alonb to do with pas- sions and feeling. Such examples beget a disrespect for life, rendered sacred by all the endearing ties of kindred; by all the lessons of revelation, and all the prompt. ings of nature. Ere long, should a few more such daring spirits dare and do, the waters of the Merrimack might tell tales as frightful as those of the Seine-a draught of whose waters, like the mythological Lethe, are said to wash out all recollections of the past and all consciousness of the present. We have said our heroines lacked the Christian sentiment. By this we would not intimate that they have not exhibited many features in the past of their lives beautiful, as betraying kind hearts and pare aims; but neither Clara or Kate, we fear, had any very reliable conceptions of personal obligation to a Higher Power.- Clara was driven, by early lessons of sor- row, into a fatal mistake. She dwelt long upon the thought that in infancy she had suffered when she had not merited it. She dwelt on the apparent inconsistency of our Heavenly Father's transmitting disease to the virtuous and good, which often followed them, like the bailiff, to the grave; while others who have lived by deeds of dark- ness have been secure in all the immunities of physical strength. Had she investigated deeper into the beauty, harmony, and order of the moral and physical universe, and found behind each an unchangeable law, an infringement of which brought sin and misery into the world, and entailed upon the sons and daughters of transgression disease, suffering and death, then she would have seen harmony in discord, good in ap- parent ill. But not being induced to such a train of thought, she was led to impugn Infinite Benevolence as a being not worthy of trust, and attempt to bury present sor- rows in the bosom of the Merrimack. CHAPTER XIII. "Lander dived for love; Lucadia's cliff The Lesbian 8appho leaped from in a miff, To punish Phaon Icarus went dead Because the wax did not continue stiff; And had le minded whAt his father said, he had not given a name unto his watery bed." 'Tis the sabbath, Nature's bright and lovely moral holiday. The sun arose in all its majestic beauty, throwing in advance its golden breath, tinging the spires and projections of a city in slumbers. This day was given to worthy father and mother, to doting children and young friends, to pass, in happy quiet, hours unappropriated to toil; and on this sweet day burning hearts beat high in anticipation of mutual joy in opening appropriately its hallowed hours. 'But there were two among those thousands who arose that morning in advance even of the usual hour; they arose not, we fear, to adore, while others slept, the upward march of the King of Day, and with lively emotions see him kiss from valley and hill- side the vapory mist; not, we fear, aye, quite well know, to feel gratitude for pro. longed life, and that their temporal oondi- tion was far better than thousands-no, not for this, alas! but awake to settled gloom, despondency, cold, cheerless fate, with but one bright glimmer-horrible its conception -that peace for them was not to be found in this life, but alone in the realms of the dead. And, to ensure it, before that day's deeds were fully recorded, their names with the living were to be erased and transferred to the registry of the rash and untimely dead. The day passes on; the church-bells toll their sabbath chants, and many a heart, stung to the quick by the same corroding touch that blighted the hopes of our hero. ines, stood and gathered fresh courage from the consciousness of their rectitude, and formed a fresh resolution to live and do good-to shrink in the future from no duty -abiding their Maker's time when the wronged shall rest in an eternal inheritance. But not so with our friends, Clara and Kate; who, in the apparent poss ssion of every mental and physical faculty, have, with a coolness unequalled even in the pa- ges of romance, deliberately decided that this day shall be their last; and, so sad the thought, that Nature itself, which had shone forth so beautiful in the morning, began to assume, as if through sympathy with these poor mortals, another aspect, and dark, portentous clouds were in the sky; man besought his home; beasts crept stealthily to their hiding places; and birds circled the air in wild suspense. The cur- tain of premature night fell, closing in mountain and hill-top; gushing rain traced new courses in the earth, and the winds mournfully and plaintively sighed through woody lawns. While to many this caused gloom, to Claa and Kate it was but a great and happy prelude, a fitting overture to the GRAND MARCH OF DEATH, upon which they were about to enter. Arising with cheerful countenances from the tea-table, where, to all appearance, they had ate as freely as ever, and where they had helped swell a spirited conversation about spirits, Clara declared, passing to the entry, that she had seen nothing of spiritual rappings, herself, but hoped soon to be where she would know all about them, if true. Miss Davis, one of their room. mates, remarked to them that "the heavy storm would be likely to keep them in ig- norance, touching spirits, one day longer at least, as the time was thea at hand on which they had fixed for the last grand scene in the lives of two factory girls." This was spoken jocosely, and intended only as a take-off on Clara and Kate for indulging in foolish expressions, at times, about com- mitting suicide; not indulging in the most distant idea that they really purposed car- rying their threats into execution. At this gentle rebuke, Clara was noticed to weep; and, passing with Kate to their chamber, they changed their garments with despatch, each dressing in vesper white, and, with their hair tastefully arranged, as if for a wedding, they descend and pass to the street, arm in arm. See them, gentle reader, as, with measur. ed tread, keeping time -with their gloomy thoughts, and lips compressed as if to check all utterance of the desolation within, these two victims to passion march like criminals to their doom. No legal tribunal has pas- sed sentence upon them; they have as- sumed a fearful responsibility-become self- accusers and self executioners. In obedi- ence to the cruel demands of " unrequited love," they would out-leap all daring of the sterner sex, and together play quits with life. We think we hear each one of them- standing but for a moment overlooking the calm surface of the water, so soon to be their winding sheet--exclaim, in the plain- tive notes of that beautiful poetess, Mrs. Sarah Helena Whitman, "Oh, bathe me in the Lethean stream, And feed me on the Lotus flower Shut out this false, bewildering gleam, The dream liaht of departed hours. The fiture can no charm confer ly heart's deep solitudes to break; No angel wing again shall stir The waters of that silent lake." Now, there is one moment of wild sus. pense; a shudder of hearts intent upon the same horrid purpose. Death-shadows are reflected from the glassy river; a shooting meteor reveals watching, anxious forms upon the bridge; hand grasps hand; hearts beat with strange emotion; frenzied eye meets eye-the fatal vow is fulfilled, when the water trembles at its awful check, wild eddies for a moment flow, and our heroines are no more! page: 30-31[View Page 30-31] APPENDIX. IT may be of some interest to our readers to peruse an account of the melancholy s'ents which gave rise to the foregoing story, and we append the following as it appeared in the Manchester (N H. ) Daily and Weekly Mirror. There were facts, documents, and letters which could only be printed, with slight variations, in a fictitious form, and hence the story was written. Love, Desperation and Death! TWO YOUNG LADIES DROWNED t PREMEDITATION A N D C O O L NESS TNEQUIALLED! "The course of true love never did run smooth." At about eight o'clock last evening, (Sunday, Aug. 14th,) two young ladies, operatives in the mills, committed suicide by drowning; the particulars of which, so far as we have been able to gather, are as follows: One of them was Miss Catharine B1 Cotton, of Pownal, Me., aged 22; the other, Miss Clara C. Cochran, aged It, a native of New Boston, but who has lately had a home with a brother at Hopkinton. They roomed together at No. 24, Manchester Corporation, this city, and have frequently expressed a purpose to drown themselves; but their friends had no apprehension that such was their design. For a few days previous, they had talked freely of doing so, and communicated their intention to a room mate, but still without creating any alarm. As they left their boarding-house late in the evening, however, the lady rooming with them followed and watched them. They pro- oeeded hand-in-hand, and with great apparent cheerfulness, to the bridge crossing the upper *anal, leading to the Manchester Mills--stopped together upon the stone wall of the cabal just above the bridge, and together leaped into the water. The act was seen by one or two per- sons, and the alarm was instantly given, though ten minutes escaped before either was taken out. In that time, the body of Miss Cotton was recovered,-that of Miss Cochran having floated down the canal, was not recovered for some time after. AU efforts to resuscitate them failed. Miss Cochran for some days previous had been very much depressed and low spir- ited. Their whole proceedings were marked by great coolness and deliberation. Both of them left letters to their friends, announcing their purpose, and giving directions in regard to the settlement of their affairs, and the disposal of ther effects. Miss Cochran, we understand, was to come into possession of several thous- and dollars at 21 years of age. Various ru- mors are afloat in tegard to the cause of this rash act. From all we can learn, it is to be ascribed in both cases to the grief of disap- pointed love. Below we insert the letter of Miss Cochran to her sister at Itopkinton, written just before her untimely decease, and carefully placed in her trunk: MANCHESTEn, Aug. 14, 1863. DEAR SISTER :-I received your letter last Wednesday, and contrary to your custom, ans- wer it the first opportunity. Though I knew it was haying time, and of course, you would have a great deal to do, still I felt provoked at your silence. You and aunt Achsah are my only regular correspondents, but I now and then answer one of the many letters that I re- ceive. It is only 6 o'clock A. M., and have began in good season so as to write to you and to Jesse to-day. Am glad to hear that Louesa is with you,for a little help is better than none, As for visiting you, I probably never shall meet you again in life, ere you receive this, I shall be in the silent realms of the DAD! Start not, dear Annie, nor shudder, for what use can there be in dragging out a wearisome life, deprived of all enjoyment I am only a burden to myself, and everyone else, who interests themselves in my welfare. Give my love to Joseph, to Martha and to all who care for me, or pretend to. Bury me in Vermont, by the side of Mother, and I have money enough to pay all funeral expenses. I owe Mrs. Maria Foss my room-mate, three dollars, Mrs. Jacobs $1,26 and three dollars for my board, and there is over three dollars due me at the Amoskeag Counting Room, If there is any- thing left of my money, after paying my funeral expenses, which I want to be as cheap as possible, and paying my debts, send it to- gether with his letters, (which you will find in my pocket,) to John H. Sherwin, 140 Fulton Street, New York. Jesse and Joseph are probably well enough off already, and if I could aid John by a few dollars, it might do some good. A copy of Shakspeare which I have lent John Jacobs, I should like to have J. H. S. have ; the rest, my clothes and other things, you may divide as you see fit. And now, good bye; mourn not for me, friends ; tell Jesse I would like to see him once more before I die, but that cannot be. Farewell forever, CLARA C. COCHRAN. To Mrs. Ann M. Cochran, Hopkinton, N. H. Forward quickly, for it tells of death. The following was written upon the opposite sheet of the letter by Miss Cochran, and evi- dently intended for the eye of her lover: AND NOW DEARBST ;-I must write you a few lines, though ere you receive them, the hand that penned them will be cold in death. Do not think of me with regret, for 'tis better that it should be so. "One nore unfortunate weary of breath Rashy importunate, gone to her death," I forgive all who have injured me, and crave for forgiveness of you, if I have erred, and I know I have. Be happy and forget me not. Even if you ever marry, still 'twill not be wicked to cast a thought on me, and no one would love you the less for it. I shall, I hope, be buried in Vermont by the side of my moth- er. FAREWELL. Further Particulars! Miss Cochran and Miss Cotton, on a Sab- bath evening, in firm health, walked to the canal and deliberately jumped in, without any apparent hesitation. There was a cause for such a strange proceeding. The public mind, as is natural, is curious to know this cause.- Was it disappointed love, was it shame for past acts, or was it fear of bringing disgrace upon themselves and friends? A tattling, surmising, evil-minded class in community simultaneous. ly cry the last. But we are authorized to say, and feel warranted in saying that such sur- misings are all false. Disappointed love was the cause, and the only cause that brought about such sad and fatal results; not a late disappointment, but in the case of one of them wearing and preying upon the mind for some fourteen months, so that almost nightly her pillow was bathed in tears. The following letter written by her and addressed to Cyrus -- , Biddeford, Me., has been found and tells its own story. MANCHESTER, Aug. 14th, 1863. I now for the last time will attempt to scribble you a few lines, and ere these few lines reach you I shall be sleeping in death. Think not that I shall ever trouble you again With a letter, for I shall not. No, this is the 'last. You will receive this with anger per- haps; but, Cyrus, forgive me for troubling you. I have forgiven you long ago, but have not forgotten. I suppose you are in Biddeford now happy and contented. I hope you are. As for myself I am not happy, but in a few moments I shall be free from the sorrows of this world and I cannot be more unhappy in another. When you read this, think that I am cold in death and shall one day meet you in another world. So farewell, Cyrus, go and be happy. From your friend and well-wisher, CATHAtINE COTTON. Miss Cotton was an intimate friend of a Miss Davis, with whom she has conversed freely about these matters for a year or two past, and with whom she was most of the day Sunday, and with whom she left all of her affairs in charge, averring that she should drown her- self. Miss Davis did not believe that she was in earnest till she s8P; her jump into the fatal stream. Statement of Miss Davis. Everything throwing light upon the last hours of Miss Cottrn and Miss Cochran, or tending to show what contributed to their melancholy fate, last Sunday evening, is read by this community with great avidity, A thousand and one stories are afloat, most of them having no foundation in fact, calcu- lated in part to injure the feelings of the friends of the two unfortunate females whose sudden, deliberate, self-possessed act of taking their own lives has caused such a sensation in our midst. We proceed to lay before our readers a state- ment made by Miss Davis to us, in the pres- enceof two other ladies, one of whom was also a room-mate of Miss Cotton and Miss Cochran, and all three of whom saw them when they committed the fatal deed. Miss Davis first became acquainted with Miss Cotton two years ago, at Biddeford, Me. where they were both at work in the mills, She became intimate with her. Soon after their acquaintance commenced, a young man in Biddeford began to show Miss Cotton many attentions and in time became her acknowl. edgedlover, An engagement took place and the time was set for their marriage. Miss Cotton went home to Pownal, Me., to make preparations for the marriage, got ready and returned to Biddeford one week before the day appointed for the nuptial ceremony, when she was informed by her lover that he had changed his mind, and concluded not to marry. This event took place a year ago last June. Miss Cotton staid at Biddeford a few weeks longer, but after she was abondened by one upon whom all her affections were placed, it was to hei like a deserted home, and she left and went to Lowell, where she staid a few weeks, and went to Lawrence. She staid at that place but a short time and came to Manchester. But here, as at all other places where she lived, since the page: 32[View Page 32] allver cord of her existence was broken, she could think of nothing but sorrow; clouds and thick darkness were continually about her. She went to Lynn, hoping that a change of occupation might bring relief to' her mental sorrow. But wounded affection, caused by thedeception of a lover almost at the bridal hour, cannot be healed by mere worldly cares, or by diverting the mind by travel. About seven weeks ago she returned to Manchester, unable to be contented anywhere, and then for the first time became acquainted with Miss Cochran. Possessed of kindred feelings upon one subject, they soot became quite intimate. Bliss Cochran in early life became strongly attached to a young man with whom she went to school. They have not seen each other since, but for some six years up to last March, they kept up a regular and affectionate corres- pondence, begetting in her mind the belief that he was her lover and would be her husband. It may be that he considered them merely let- ters of friendship, and had no idea of ever marrying her, Last March he wrote to her saying that she need not write to him again till she received another letter from him. She did write several letters from whieh no re- sponse came,and from the moment that the full conviction flashed upon her mind that she was abandoned, her life has been desolate. "Hope deferred maketh the heart sad," and dreary, dreamy and almost uure:.l have been the hours since that conviction flashed upon her mind. Her tears were more bitter than those shed for the dead, and yet not so consoling. As she read, "do not write me again," she seemed to lose all consciousness of who she was and where she was, and the meaning of what she had read, reminding one of little Mary Lee- I put my hand upon my head To think what It could mean,- I knew I never had been dead And come to life again. IT was long before I understood The words that I had read, And then an overwhelming flood Of burning tears I shed. With minds in such a sorrowing state, three weeks ago Sunday, Miss Cotton and Miss Cochran remarked to their room-mate, Miss Davis, in three weeks from to-day we shall die. After that they frequently remarked that they should drown themselves-that they could not bear the pain of living. Of course their re- marks were not taken in earnest. Miss Cotton had told Miss Davis that several times, once at Lowell, she had been on the bank of the river to drown herself but her courage failed her. The week before the fatal deea they did rot mention the subject to any one, and seemed to act as if they had forgot it. Sunday one said to the other, "I did not speak of our drowning during the week because I wanted to leave your mind uninfluenced by anything I might aay." The other responded, i, for the same reason I have been silent about it." Miss Cochran worked on a dress till a late hour 8atrday evening, and Sunday they both ap. peared as usual till nearly noon, when they began to pack their trunks. After dinner they devoted most of their time in writing letters, and giving directions about their affairs, seem- ing all the time to be in so good spirits, that no serious apprehensions were felt by Miss Davis, or others who had had intimations of what they had said and done. They ate a hearty supper and appeared in a pleased state of mind, till they went up stairs for the last time. Then, when they were joked about their talk of drowning themselves, they cried. Miss Cotton gave Miss Davis three letters and asked her to put them into the Post Office the next morn- ing, and also gave her labels for her trunks and boxes showing where they were to be sent. A little after dusk they came down stairs dressed in white, and Miss Davis and one oth- er lady asked them to go out and walk, think- ing that thereby their minds might be diverted from the subject which had become so awful. They refused, in rather a cold way, walked quietly round the corner of the house and up the street towards the canal, which was but a few rods off. Miss Davis and two other friends feeling a little uneasy thought they would follow after at a distance. They did so, and upon enquiry found that they had gone up a short street, and turned to the left towards the canal bridge. They followed as fast as they could, and had just got to the bridge, when they saw them hurrying to the side of the ca- nal, some three rods above, and jump in to- gether, without a word, or scream or a particle of hesitation. Miss Cochran sunk to the bot- tom and was not again seen till her body was taken out three-quarters of an hour afterwards. Miss Cotton sunk and then rose giving a gurg- ling sound and then floated down the canal. Alarm was immediately given, and a young man, James Hall, boldly jumped in and caught her by the dress as she was sinking again; but she was so heavy, and he solight, that he was not able to save her. Boards and rails were thrown to her, after she came up the second time, and though they came within her reach she made no effort to touch them. She was taken out in about ten minutes. We have given the amount of the particu- lars given us by Miss Davis. We learn from another source Miss Cochran threatened,before she came here,when at Fish- erville, to drown herself and once went to the bank of the river for that purpose, but was :'alowed and restrained. gi The following scrap was found under the lamp in the room of Miss Cotton and Miss Cochran the night after their decease: "To any one who cares to find the bodies of Catharine Cotton and Clara Cochran: You will find us somewhere in the canal, between tt c Amoskeag Counting-Room aud the next bridge."
