DIXON'S REMORSE.

  THERE was living in the vicinity of Beechland, a rich widow, known as Mrs. Hartshorn, past the prime of life, and who, being deeply absorbed in the duties of personally looking after a long estate, attracted but little attention in the vicinity. Her residence was much out of the way, and no one, except on business, or with direct intent, ever visited her.

  Why she remained a widow caused the usual speculation, but it was evident that she was either disinclined to enter a second time into the bonds of matrimony, or was difficult to please, for many authentic cases were known, and freely spoken of, where she had most rudely refused some of the presumptuous worthies in the neighborhood.

  On the edge of Beechland, just at the cross roads, was an old and much decayed church. Years previous, it had been a pretty village sanctuary, and beneath its shadow reposed the remains of many of the earlier settlers of the country. But for a long time it had been neglected. The doors were battered in,—the windows broken,—the graveyard

  One afternoon, to the astonishment of the villagers, some twenty of Mrs. Hartshorn's best field hands came into town in an ox wagon, and they proceeded along through the street, made the air vocal with their rude songs, and finally, stopping in front of the deserted church, they went to work with hoe and shovel, and in the course of a few hours produced an improvement, that was charming to behold.

  The doors were partially restored to their places. The seats and floor of the interior of the building were carefully cleaned, and the labor thus bestowed, rendered the heretofore neglected building, considering the mildness of the weather, a comfortable place for the assembling together of the people:

  The succeeding morning the Southern Clarion, the local paper of Beechland, in the most conspicuous place in its editorial columns, contained the following notice.

  "We have the pleasure of announcing to our numerous readers, and all others in the vicinity of our thriving and prosperous town, that the Reverend W. Claremont Goshawk, D. D., the great orator and divine, who has so long been distinguished for his defence of Southern Institutions, and his deep interest in the cause of Southern education, has consented, at the earnest request of some of our most influential citizens, to preach a series of two or more sermons. His first discourse will be on Sunday morning next,

  The weather was exceedingly pleasant, and there was a universal desire to hear the Rev. Mr. Goshawk. That dignitary, himself, had been for more than a day the intimate of Mrs. Hartshorn's house, for it was suddenly recalled to the mind of some of the people around the Headquarters, that early one morning, they saw a tall and good-looking gentleman, dressed in black, in the widow's carriage, which was rapidly whirling through the streets.

  Perhaps Annie was more interested than any one else; accustomed to attend church every sabbath, from her youth

  For a long time Beechland had not borne so gay an appearance, as it did in its desire to do honor to the Rev. Mr. Goshawk. Families living many miles distant, had come to "hear the discourse," and almost all of the available ground in the immediate vicinity of the church, was occupied by splendid "turn-outs"—in fact the carriages, in number and equipments, would have done honor to some state occasion.

  People who had been living in each other's neighborhood for years, now met to renew acquaintances that had grown dull for want of attrition, and a genial feeling pervaded the entire assemblage.

  The very sight of the pleasing throng, the subdued, yet self-evident bustle, revived in Annie's mind, most vividly, the joyous feelings that she felt at Malden, on similar occasions, and a delightful glow of excitement lit up her usually rather pale face, as she absolutely threw herself carelessly into Mildmay's arms, as he assisted her from the carriage to the ground. "Really, Graham," said she, her face radiant with smiles, while smoothing the wrinkles from her dress, "really this is pleasant, and I hope Mr. Goshawk will frequently preach for us; I am sure I shall constantly attend."

  Graham smiled on Annie, and offering her his arm, the two proceeded into church. It was the first time that Annie had been seen in public; much, of course, had been

  As for Annie, herself, the moment she stepped inside of the church, she felt a solemnity of feeling pervade her heart, that drove all other thoughts, for the moment, from her mind, as she passed to a proffered seat, and bent her head in prayer, as perfectly self-possessed, as if kneeling at her little alter in her own room.

  The congregation had been some time in their seats, before the reverend gentleman made his appearance. In fact, the first impression of quietness that prevailed, was beginning to give way. Gentlemen were seen to be moving about, and looking at the door, and one or two went out, while the young ladies began to gaze about, and recognize each other in the congregation, while Governor, and his fellow-servants on the outside, it was very evident, from sounds of suppressed laughter, had got together under the shade of a wide-spreading tree, and were detailing gossip, and cracking jokes.

  Suddenly was heard the tramp of horses, driven rapidly along the road,—the whip cracked, at which two or three saddle nags broke their bridles, and scampered down the village street,—steps were heard rapidly unfolded—a sort of kid glove, a gossamer fan confusion ensued in the congregation,

  It was afterwards asserted by some one, careful in such statistics, that almost every gentleman in the congregation rose involuntarily to offer the widow a seat; but nothing could surpass the dignity and urbanity, with which the reverend gentleman abandoned his precious charge, preparatory to ascending the pulpit.

  The Rev. Mr. Goshawk's appearance and manner were decidedly impressive, and he himself was not unconscious of the fact. After remaining a few moments in silent meditation, with his soft white hand pressed to his head, he beckoned to a negro boy, looking in at a side window, and when the fellow climbed in the pulpit, he whispered something in his ear. A long and mysterious pause ensued, while the boy ran over to Head-quarters, and borrowed a pitcher and tumbler, and returning, set them within reach of the Rev. Mr. Goshawk.

  That gentleman arose, and opening a small gilt-edged book, read the beautiful hymn, beginning:

  and finishing it, desired some one present to be so kind as to "lead the singing," and resumed his seat.

  Several moments elapsed, but no voice was raised; it was apparent that one or two gentlemen were half inclined, but their hearts or voices failed them,—the reverend gentleman finally arose, and commenced himself. He was evidently cultivated in church music, and poured out

  Scarcely had he sung the first line, when a sweet female voice, clear as ringing glass, and as hearty as the birds of the field, joined in, and the two, in wonderful accordance and harmony, concluded the stanza.

  The congregation, for the moment entranced at the unexpected exhibition, the instant it ceased, turned, by universal consent, their eyes upon the innocent face of Annie, who, suddenly perceiving the extraordinary interest she had so unconsciously created, blushed deep crimson, and sank back to her seat.

  The reverend gentleman selected for his text, "Be ye holy, as your Father in heaven is holy!" and he made it appear as if this injunction was one of the most literal in the sacred book, one of the most imperative, and necessary to be obeyed. He drew with tremendous fervor the character of the Great Jehovah, stated that none could look on him and live, that he filled all space, was the creator of all things, and yet desired to reside in the heart of corrupt and fallen man,—that man, inclined as he was to wickedness, "even as the sparks fly upward," was by a holy life and godly conversation, to render himself a fit temple, a proper temple, a worthy temple for this for this holy, just, and omnipotent Being,—and then in a few condensed passages, he rapidly portrayed the punishment of those who refused to obey this dread command.

  The congregation swayed to and fro, as if rocked in a storm-driven ship; stern, unflinching men, that in the

  Suddenly Mr. Goshawk stopped, he appeared pained at the effect he had himself produced. Lowering his voice to a clear, heart-breaking tone, he said:—

  "Brethren, think not that the minister of the Gospel delights in harrowing your feelings. Should he consult himself, he would only salute your ears with the dulcet strains of mercy, but alas! wo betide the prophet who refuses to cry out against Ninevah.

  "If, my friends, you hear at the solemn hour of midnight the heart-rending cry of fire—fire—FIRE, do you rush into the streets, and denounce the one who gave the alarm? no, you bless his name, and hastening on, you flee for your life from the devouring element.

  "So stand I here, crying fire—fire—to your slumbering consciences. I would have you escape a consuming flame, that will not only destroy your bodies, but will torment your souls for ever. Flee, I say,—like Bunyan's Christian, put your fingers to your ears, and hasten while you yet may, out of the City of Destruction."

  Among Mr. Goshawk's hearers was Dixon. He had, some weeks before, come up to the vicinity of Beechland, on business, and having been taken sick, he had, while thus prostrated, almost literally passed through the valley and shadow of death. The balmy weather had tempted him into the street, and gratified by any novelty, he had strolled into the church.

  While suffering from disease, he had occasionally reflected

  When the congregation separated, the different members pursued their way homeward, and left Dixon by himself. Although known to almost every person in the house, no one recognized him, save by a glance. Amid all the shaking of hands and congratulations, there was no demonstrations of friendship, or interest, for him. In his usual humor, he would have vented his spleen in muttered oaths, and in a thousand recalled circumstances of fancied power and superiority, that he had, as an offset to any neglect he might receive; but now his spirit was broken. There was something in Mr. Goshawk's manner and voice, that recalled recollections of childhood, when he used to go to church with his good old mother, and on coming home, hear her talk of the feelings that animated her spirit. A thousand words of good advice, a hundred prayers for her dear child, crowded upon his weakened brain, and he felt he was not only despised by man, but also abandoned by his Maker.

  To such an extent was his mind excited, that he hardly had strength to get to his lodgings, which were comfortable, although connected with the "Head-quarters." Once in his room, he threw himself on the bed, and seemed to be overcome by the communing of his thoughts; the acts of his life appeared in review before him, and he was shocked at the scenes of injustice, bloodshed, and

  Although Dixon was a native of Georgia, it had been impressed upon him while still a child, not only that it was an unpardonable thing to buy and sell his fellow-beings, but, also, that it was sinful even to hold slaves. Dixon's mother was a strict Methodist, and she had been inspired by this feeling in her youth, by the teachings of parents, who claimed, while sitting under the unction of John Wesley's preaching, and listening to his voice "'face to face,' that they had been converted from the error of their ways, and convinced of the sin of holding slaves." These were the impressions left by a mother upon the mind of Dixon, and as every reminiscence of his life, that was pleasant to dwell upon, was associated with that mother, so also were the impressions she left most vivid and most binding on his conscience. And these early instructions now came upon him with tenfold force, as the only legacy, and only remembered councils and obligations of one, whom, clouded as was his conscience in other things, he still revered as a sainted being.

  While in this mental agony, Dixon's friend, Puckett, who had so faithfully nursed him through his long sickness, came into his room, with a pack of cards and a couple of tumblers in one hand, and a bottle of whiskey in the other, and setting them down on the table near by, he turned to Dixon and said:

  "Come, old fel', I have brought you some 'picters,' and also something to drink, for you see you can stand a

  "I'm too sick to play, Puckett, and too weak to drink! some other time!" said Dixon, the perspiration starting on his brow, both from excitement and weakness.

  "Bah!" said Puckett, moving a small table into the middle of the floor; "you don't s'pose," he continued, "I've been a mother to you for these three weeks, not to know what you can stand. Drink a little, any how, is my motter; and drink a good deal if you can, is my other motter. Come now, fotch up you chair, and let's high, low, Jack, and the game," and Puckett gave the cards, or "picters," as he called them, a scientific shuffle.

  "I can't play to-day," said Dixon, peevishly, and astonished, himself, at the repugnance he felt; "I can't play, for," he continued, "you know it's Sunday, Puckett."

  At this remark the Kentuckian put down the cards, and laying back in his chair, and thrusting his legs far under the table, he broke out into repeated bursts of laughter; tears streamed down his cheeks, and at last he rolled his head from side to side, as if he was too full, and could not get relief. He found words, however, finally, and said:

  "Dixon, by the Lord you will be the death of me—Sunday! that's a good one; can't play 'cause it's Sunday," and Puckett again went off into hysterical laughter, repeating, "Dixon, you are too funny! Oh! that—that's too good—too good."

  "But I'm serious," said Dixon, greatly annoyed.

  "That's the very thing!" said Puckett, sticking the pack of cards in his mouth, to keep from breaking out

  "Puckett," said Dixon, when that worthy had become somewhat quiet; "Puckett, don't go down stairs and blow on me, but I tell you the truth now, when I say I'm going to reform. I'll do it, Puckett, and you may laugh as much as you please."

  "He he—ha ha!" cachinnated that worthy, but as he looked up, and saw the pale and excited face of Dixon for the first time, a feeling of alarm came over him, and rising up, he said:

  "Why, what's the matter, old boy, you look as white as milk and water?"

  "Did you never think about dying, Puckett, or any thing of that sort?" inquired Dixon, at a loss to know how to get his naturally good-hearted companion serious.

  "Thought about dying?" mechanically echoed he. "Why, yes, I thought about it once, when I got out of tobacker, but I don't recollect any other time."

  "Did you never think, Puckett, about another world, and what will become of us if we go on breaking Sunday, playing cards and drinking?—I have thought of these things. I've laid here on my back for days and nights and been full of thinking. I've been a bad man, Ben. I've seen sights in this very room that have made my brain cold; it's awful, Puckett, awful!" and Dixon's face settled into black despair.

  "What did you see, Jim?" asked Puckett, perfectly at a loss to understand the slave-trader's feelings.

  "I've seen dead nigger women," said Dixon in reply, "screetchin to me for their children—I've seen nigger men praying for their lives—I've seen whole gangs of niggers, with their backs all blood, their eyes all sunken, pointing their long skinny fingers at me, and they keep on doing it whenever I'm alone!"

  "You must have manyaporter," said Ben, with a kind of soothing voice. "Didn't you see rats?" he continued, with an equivocal smile, and looking archly at Dixon. "Why, Jim Ruggles, after he had his last frolic, seed the devil; he told me so himself; said he looked like a rattlesnake forty feet long, twisted all around his body, with his soft jawed and infarnal open mouth pat up agin his face, tongue, pizen-hooks and all; so seeing niggers is nothing," and Puckett looked at Dixon under the impression that he had conveyed much consolation by his remarks.

  "I wish that I could see a snake, or any thing, Puckett, but niggers. I'm afraid of niggers," and as Dixon said this, he nervously clutched his rude but sympathizing companion by the shoulder.

  "Is there a living nigger as can scare Jim Dixon?" asked Ben scornfully, and somewhat confounded at the exhibition he had witnessed.

  "No," said Dixon in a hissing whisper, "not a living nigger, Puckett, they can't scare me; it's dead niggers as claws at my vitals," and as the invalid said this, he fell in a fainting fit back on his pillow.

  Ben instinctively lifted Dixon up, chafed his temples, and the moment that he displayed returning to consciousness, gave him some water. The sick man slowly came to himself,

  It was not long before Dixon fell into a lethargic sleep, when Ben quietly stepped away, and proceeded to the barroom, where sat Busteed and three or four of his patrons, engaged in one of their usual games of chance.

  As the Kentuckian presented himself, Busteed laid down "his hand," and with unfeigned astonishment asked:

  "What's the matter? Puckett, you look as sickly as a glass of lemonade."

  "Do I?" said the 'mother,' who unconsciously to himself, still bore traces of his excitement at witnessing Dixon's sufferings—"do I look white? well that's a good one; and what do you suppose is the reason?" said Puckett, addressing the men before him in a mysterious voice.

  "Can't say," was the universal reply.

  "Well, boys, you see," said he, in almost a whisper, "Dixon's tuck too much; he's got the tremens bad, very bad; he's seen black ghosts, what do you think of that?"

  "I think it's humbug," said Busteed, and with his companions he resumed his game.

  "Maybe it is," half soliloquized Puckett, as he turned away—"maybe it is," and then he walked up and down the room, for the first time in his life in profound reflection, and honestly wondering what the trader did mean.

  Dixon slowly recovered his strength of body, but not his peace of mind. Unable to go much about, he was left to the solitude of his own chamber, where he reviewed the past events of his life, and determined, so far as it was in

  On the plea of indisposition, he carefully abstained from the company of his former boon companions; and he was not a person to be intruded upon when he expressed a distaste for society. In his solitude, he looked forward with considerable interest to the services of the coming Sunday; having a vivid, but undefined impression from what he had heard, that there was a necessity, not only for morality but for holiness, he earnestly desired to learn the way that such a high degree of perfection could be reached,—at the moment, no definite way of propitiation presented itself, but liberal charities and alms.