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I will not attempt to describe to the rea der the excrutiating agony which 1 was compelled to undergo while under the hands ot the ooeratpr. Those whose stoical pa tience has enabled them to suffer the pangs of a throbbing tooth, day after day, until the whole face has become swollen and inflam ed, before they could summon courage enough to apply “ the rightful remedy,” the dentist’s forceps—and whose eye-balls have started from their sockets as they felt the knife rattling over their gums with as much freedom as if the operator were opening an oyster, can form a slight idea, a faint con ception of my suffering, by basing their cal dilation upon a just scale of proportion ; or, in other words, by the rule of simple multi plication, taking the inflamed gum for the multiplicand, and my lascerated shoulder and back for the multiplier. I will spare the reader the revolting scene of an army hospital, and pass over the time of my sojourn at Piccolati as hastily as pos sible. For many long weeks, I was confin ed to my rude camp-bed, while my ears were filled with the imprecations and groans of the miserable tenants of that horrible abode, and not unfrequently were my eyes greeted with the unsightly spectacle of some muti lated and ghastly corpse, as it was borne un ceremoniously to its grave. Ihe convic tion that I, too, would soon he conveyed to my final resting place, had settled upon tny mind ; and such was my desire to undeceive my family and friends, that had there been any one among my attendants, who seemed capable of sympathy for me or commisera tion for my fault, I should have made myself known to him, and have relieved my coil science from the painful secret which had so long tankled in my bosom. At length my wounds began to heal, and the chills aud fever with which I had been attacked since my arrival at Piccolati, to yield to medical treatment. As I gradually recovered my strength, I resolved, let the consequences be what they might, that so soon as I was able, I would return to my home, where I might once more enjoy the friendship and sympathy of my friends.— Often, after 1 had sufficiently recovered to leave my room, would I totter down to the bank of the beautiful St. Johns, and seated by the water’s edge, meditate upon the past and resolve for the future. I found it im possible to trace my misfortunes to any oth er source than to my own wreckless, way ward, indomitable temper. My selfish jea lousy had been tiie cause of my original despondency, and my thoughtless impetuosi ty of temper, which had always urged me to extremities in almost every act of my life, had plunged me into the bitter deeps of misery which had succeeded. My spirit was subdued. 1 had fed long enough upon the husks of adversity, and like the prodi gal of old, was ready and willing to direct my steps homewards, where, if 1 had not a father to meet and forgive me, I felt that there were those who wouldgladly welcome me hack to life, and without whose forgive ness, life was valueless, and death tenfold terriblg. The time had expired for which I had en listed, and I was discharged from the service with several other volunteers from Georgia nnd Carolina, with whom 1 left Piccolati for St. Augustine, in order to take a packet from that place to Charleston. On my arrival at the latter place, 1 lost no time in procuring a passage to Philadelphia. After a very short voyage, during which time nothing of interest transpired, our good brig entered the Capes, and passing up the noble Delaware with a fair wind and favoring tide, we met with no delay, and on the afternoon of the second day, Philadelphia, with her lofty towers and steeples, lay spread out before us. Icauuot describe the sensation produced in my mind, on once more beholding the familiar objects of my youth. A thousand joyous recollections were revived, and a thousand bright anticipations created, as my eyes rested upon the scenes of past plea sures. What would 1 not have given, could I have greeted the many familiar faces that met me on the wharf? JJut 1 had resolved first to ascertain how matters stood, before I ventured to make myself known, even to my own family. It was towards evening, when I sprang upon the wharf. Nearly all the small pittance of a soldier’s three months’ pay was gone. I had no baggage—and with a light heart and yet lighter pocket, 1 found myself once mere upon ray native soil, with in a few days of two years after niy sup posed suicide. ( To be concluded.) tMfli©[|[LL^[^¥ a THE COWARD. BV WILLIAM COMSTOCK. I was never remarkable for my bravery, although I always loved to hear the bass drum and bugle, and have been known in my boyhood, to follow tlie soldiers more than a mile to hear the music. My juvenile companions always boasted that they had more courage than myself, while I retorted that I could eat more than any of them. 1 never was intended for a wielder of the sword or rifle, but I came down upon pud dings, bannocks, and fresh salmon like a devouring angel. My cowardice was over looked by my partial friends while 1 was a boy; but as I grew up, I discovered that to succeed with the ladies one must be some thing of a hero. I made this discovery at the age of seventeen, for having run away and left a young lady in the lurch one Sun day, when I was gallanting her from the church, and a great dog ran at us. I was severely scolded for it by my sister, and gravely informed that there was nothing a woman so much despised as a coward. Up on this hint I acted, and veiled my weakness so ingeniously that my courage was seldom called in question. But at the age of twen ty-one or twenty-two —by which time I had become a regular beau—l found it necessa ry to go a step farther—to mote than hide my cowardice. It was then incumbent on me to “ assume a virtue”—boast of m v he roism—to talk loud and bold—and to fright en ladios with the terrors of my countenance. This course of conduct worked to admira tion. When 1 talked of Blood, broken bones—charging the enemy in flank and | rear—unhorsing generals, and cutting through shoulder blades, the ladies regarded me as the lineal descendant of Mars himself. They turned pale and fled before me, only to re turn with greater speed, and like the Indian worshippers of the Deity, knelt where they feared. At length my sister informed me in con fidence, that a Miss Jarvis had declared that I only lacked the opportunity to become a second Napoleon. Accordingly I procured an introduction to Miss Jarvis, and found her a most romantic young lady, who had read Byron and all the novels extant, and whose conversation was altogether about no ble deeds, heroes, lofty souls, and bursting hearts. We immediately fell in love with each other. She loved me because I was a 1 hero, and I loved her because she gave me a good opinion of myself. I told lierhowl longed to distinguish my self on the field of battle, and talked so reck lessly of death and destruction, that she thought I resembled Achilles more than 1 resembled Hector. She trembled lest my rash intrepidity should carry me into danger. “ Danger ! what is that 1 1 have heard the word, but really I don’t know its meaning.” The difference between Miss Jarvis and my self was this: my nobleness was assumed, while she did actually possess a degree of spirit and resolution not often found in wo man. Our marriage dav was fixed, and I set out for a tour, not very distant, to purchase some fine clothing for the occasion. When I cal led to take leave of Miss Jarvis, I found her in tears. She was fearful that something would happen to me, that I should get into ! a quatrel and perhaps fight a duel. 1 told ! her to he under no apprehension—that peo ple did not insult me, well knowing that was ! us much as their lives were worth to do so. I tore myself away from my anxious love, and that very afternoon I set out in the stage on my journey. Nothing remarkable hap pened until we came to a small village about sun-down, when we overtook several young men, one of whom appeared to be a .South erner, and wore large mustachois. We had not travelled far together before one of the young men began to quiz the gentleman about his extra hair. He was soon joined by the rest, and 1 was surprised at the pa tience with which the Southerner bore their jokes. I did not know that his tormentors were familiar acquaintances, but supposed to be all alike strangers to each other. Be lieving the man to be a rank coward, and one who might be insulted with safety, I re solved to exhibit my courage, and turning to the gentleman with the mustachois, remark ed that lie must have stolen a curry-comb and placed it upon his upper lip. To my astonishment he turned upon me, and with eyes that flashed fire, demanded an apology. Oh ! how thankful was I for the darkness which hid the paleness of my countenance ! I thought I should have swooned away.— However, I refused to apologise ; whereup on my antagonist gloved his hand and threat ened to pull my none incontinently if L did not immediately make an ample apology.— I saw that he would be as good as his word, and stammered out an apology—vowed that I had no intention to hurt his feelings, and that I was sorry if 1 had given him any of fence. He seemed satisfied, but 1 could not feci the contempt with which he regarded me. 1 looked wistfully around me, and was glad to perceive that there was no lady in the stage to witness my humiliation, with the exception of a little woman who sat in one corner, wrapped in a red cloak, with spectacles on her nose. Os course I cared nothing for her. I also rejoiced that my name was a secret to all present, and believ ed that as it was somewhat dark, my coun tenance would not be recognized should 1 meet any of my fellow-passengers again.— When we reached the next stopping place, the young men left us, together with the ter rible fellow who wore mustachois. I was thankful for that, and as 1 pursued my jour ney, with no one but the old lady, who did not speak during the whole passage, I was left to my own reflections ; and I resolved never again to insult a man until I had be come certain be was as great a coward as myself. At length we reached the hotel at the end of our journey. I stalked into the sitting room, and with a lofty air and loud voice summoned the waiter to my presence. Hav ing laid my commands upon him, I walked up and down the room with tragedian strides. The door opened suddenly. 1 turned to see if the waiter had returned, but it was my fellow passenger, the little old woman in the red cloak. She approached me with a fam iliarity not very agreeable to a man of my cloth, as 1 was about to insinuate, when she threw back her hood, took oil’ her spectacles, and exposed to my astonished view the verit able countenance of Miss Jarvis, my intend ed bride ! I staggered back *wo paces and then stood like a statue, unable to speak a syllable, while the cold sweat streamed from every pore in my skin. “ 1 have this evening witnessed your hero ism, Mr. C ,” cried she. What a noble fellow you are ! how brave ! bow reckless of consequences! Have you found out the meaning of the word danger V’ At that moment, bow felt the “second Napoleon!” “ Miss Jarvis, I don’t understand you,” answered I; “ I did not expect you here.” “ I will explain then,” said she. “ I was fearful that your hot courage would carry you into danger—l beg pardon, you don’t understand the word—l feared you would get into a quarrel. 1 had a dream similar to that of the wife of Julius Cmsar, previousto his assassination, and forboded evil. So great was my anxiety, that 1 resolved to ac company you in disguise, and, in case of necessity, to act ns your guatdian angel.— But, sir, l perceive that you can lake care of your own safety ; for however dauntless you may be in the company of women, you have an admirable share of prudence where men with beards are concerned. Most invincible sir, 1 bid you a lieu. I shall return home, and send your mother to protect you.” She then retired hastily and I saw her no more. My stage adventure was soon nois ed abroad, and 1 wished the rocks aud moun tains would fall upon me. Since that day I have sought for a wife, hut the ladies shun me as they would an adder. 3£> nr Jfi ill W Ui U-3 $ Ifi Ait W* Burning of Moscow. —The French enter ed into a deserted city. Only the vilest of its population remained. Swarming over its innumerable streets, they begun to plun der its churches and bazaars and magnifi cent palaces. But when the night came on, aud tlie meanest soldier lay down wrapped in the costliest furs, and drunken with the richest wines, the cry of “ Fire ! Fire !” burst like a knell of death upon the ranks. The flames shot upward, and the lurid light revealed a figure in the windows of the Kremlin palace. It was the Corsican ! His hand grasped a pen, and he was writing by the light : and could any one have looked over him he would have beheld a letter in dicated to the Czar, and on its page was written “ Peace!” The flames were extin guished ; but the next night they broke out in all quarters, spreading with such rapid progress that they involved at the same time the abodes of poverty and sumptuous pa laces; monuments and miracles of luxury and art! The very tombs Were burnt up! In the midst of all, the equinoctial storm arose and raised the ocean of fire into great billows which rolled and dashed against the Kremlin, and would not retreat at the bid ding of him who stood upon tjie taniparts. In the midst of the howling of the storm and crackling of the flames, the fall of the massive structures and explosion of com bustible magazines, the rolling of drums and sounding of tocsins, the solemn peal of bells, and clocks striking their last hours, the rev elry of the drunken, and the shrieks of an guish, and all cither sounds of a wild exult ing spectacle, were seen running through the street the most squalid wretches that ev er assumed the form of humanity ; men and women with dishevelled hair, with torches in their hands, and the aspect of demons, revelling in their own pandemonium. Na poleon dashed out of the town on his charger, beneath the overarching columns of flame, and retired a league distant, where the heat of the fire pursued him. “Ob!” exclaim ed lie, when lie afterwards described the scene at Si. Helena ; “ it was the grandest, the most awful, the most sublime spectacle which the world ever beheld.” Romance of real Life. —The Paris Glole furnishes the following Neapolitan romance: The Countess Mulfioli was left a rich and beautiful widow, at the age of twenty-two. Innumerable suitors came, hut the Duke de Hermello was the only one whose sighs were reciprocated. Their union was agreed up on, and deferred only till the term of widow hood had expired. One day, at a fete, the young Countess took the fancy of consulting a fortune-teller, who was there for the enter tainment of the guests. He, as usual, ex amined the lines of her hand, and, with a troubled countenance and tremulous voice, said “ Lady, you are at the Gates of the Temple of Happiness, but you will never pass over its threshold, and will die in des pair.” The lady was deeply affected by this prediction, and all the affectionate south ings of her lover were scarcely adequate to restore her mind to tranquility. Time and passion, however, bad obliterated the im pression, when the Duke de Hermello went on a visit to Rome, and the Countess retir ed to a convent anxiously waiting his return. Days, weeks and months elapsed without the re-appearance of her betrothed. At last came from him the following cruel epistle : “ Madame ! we deceived ourselves in be lieving that we were destined for each other. To-morrow I shall be married to the Prin cess Maria Doria. Let us forget our child ish fancies, but ever remain friends.” This was the stroke of fate, for on finishing the letter she sank to the ground, and was taken up a lifeless corpse. On the same evening her father left Naples for Rome, and five days after the Duke de Hermello received three poniard wounds as he was getting in to his carriage, and expired on the spot. The ministers of justice in both countries are engaged in investigating these tragical events, which have occasioned the deepest emotion in many noble families. The Gentleman. —“What makes the gentle man I The shape of the hat, the cut of the coat, and the quality of cloth he weats ? Oh, how easy then to make a gentleman ! Yes —we can take the veriest blackguard that walks the street; the knave, the loafer, the gambler, the debauchee, and even the rob ber can be made into a gentleman, by the combined skill and effort of a hatter and tailor. And it does not require half the time to do this, that is necessary for the honest laborer to earn his plain Sunday suit. But suppose those who would become gen tlemen, have no money ; how can they ob tain the materials and pay for the work 1 Oh ! you may rest easy about that. The ways and means are the least difficult things to get at, in these days of unparalleled in vention. Yes, by mere dint of invention. The men who till the ground, who erect our dwellings, who sail our ships, who make our clothes, and saw our wood, can never be gentlemen, till they forsake these low em ployments. If they should become gentle men, which their means seldom will allow, how long could they remain so I Not long, for the very nature of tbeir pursuits would ruin them in an hour. “What! a gentleman with his new beaver and $lO broadcloth, go to work ; it would sink the best fortune in the country. There is, therefore, no such thing as a working gentleman. But is there not a capital error in all this] Is it not the mock rather than the real gen tieman, which we have described ? It is not s easy a thing to make a real gentleman ; neither is it very easy to find one. The real gentleman is he who pursues some honest employment, keeps his expenditures within his income, never injures the feelings of any one unnecessarily, uses no deception, al ways tells the truth, and minds his own bu siness. Beautiful Incident. —A fews days since, under our obituary head, was recorded the death of a child of about two and a half years of age—the daughter of N. A. Thomp son, Esq., of this city. Connected with her death is one of those beautiful and touching incidents which sometimes occur, as if tore mind us of the close connection and sisterly communion that exist between the innocent child and the spirits of the better land, and which should reconcile parents to the early loss of the little ones which are lent them but for a season, or rather, as we should say, to tlie return of a wandering child of heav en to her celestical abode. The Evening Gazette thus beautifully no tices the death of the little one. “ A few days before the child’s illness a butterfly, very large and of singular beauty, was found hovering in the room where she was at play, quite fascinating her with its graceful motions and brilliant colors, and after being several times tiust out, flying back at last, and resting on the infant’s fore head. For a moment the beautiful insect remain ed there expanding its brilliant wings tothe great delight of tlie child, then suddenly, as if it had accomplished its purpose, took its departuie, and was soon out of sight. The child sickened —and, again, but a few hours before her death, the hutteifly was seen flut tering and seeking entiance at the window of her chamber. It matteisnot, toourfaitb, whether, as the innocent superstition of an other land would tell us, there was a mes sage thus borne from the holy world, that this young life was needed there, and must be taken away. But at least, while we remember that this frail insect is the emblem not only of a fleet ing existence, but of a resurrection from a narrow and bumble life to a higher and a brighter, we may find in the incident an il lustration that shall teach us of that Chris tian lesson which can never reach us too powerfully—that the spirit, of which we witness the first unfolding here, has a freer and noble expansion in a home where our love, though not our care, can follow it.”— Boston Amo icon. Memory. —We may find a mere local memory combined with very little jugment; that is, the memory of facts, dates, names, words, discourses, &rc. But that kind of memory which is founded, not upon local or incidental relations, but on real analogies, must be considered an important feature of a cultivated mind, and as holding an impor tant place in the formation of intellectual character. The former kind, however, is often the more ready, and is that which generally makes the greater show, both on account of its readiness, and likewise, be cause the kind of facts with which it is chief ly conversant, are usually the most in re quest in common conversation.” Thus, men of great minds are frequently silent or uninteresting in common society, while very weak and uncultivated persons make ashow, and are considered interesting and agreea ble, in the same circles. Great talkers, or those who are said to possess great conver sational powers, have retentive memories even to the utmost minuteness, but are not usually intellectual. Their conversation con sists wholly of anecdote and narrative, often of the most trivial kind, and commonly about themselves; but they seldom draw inferences, make original remarks, or gener alize in any way. They do not reflect. Discriminating Justice. —The British pa pers state that one Lady Winchester has stolen the jewels of one Lady Augusta Gor don. Asa punishment, Queen Victoria de clares that tlie said Lady Winchester shall not appear again at court. Had she been untitled and poor, she would have been de spatched forthwith to Botany Bay for the rest of her natural life. A man whp would like to be thought a gentleman, takes the benefit of tlie Bankrupt law, and wipes off’ a debt of half a million, the result of a reck less and profligate course of speculation. His friends gather around him and congrat ulate him for the deliverance. An humble mechanic, by the same means, relieves him self and starving family from a debt of a few hundreds, the consequence, most likely, of sickness or other calamity, and the world points the finger of scorn at him, and loads iiim with the most abusive epithets that im agination can suggest. One law for the rich, and another for the poor, all over the world.— Knoxville Post. The Army and Navy. —A Convention of Officers of the Army and Navy will be held in New York on the first Wednesday in Oc tober. The objects of the meeting are to ascertain the actual destitution of religious and moral instruction in botlT arms of the National service, and to do wbat can be done by purely moral and persuasive means, to secure a truly able and spiritual chaplaincy for the army and navy. Also to endeavor to elevate the whole character of tlie service, intellectually as well as morally, and to en list, if possible, the counsel and co-operation, of officers themselves, in efforts to secure these important results, as far as practicable, at their respective posts. — Philadelphia In quirer. The British Treaty. —According to the London correspondent of the Baltimore Patriot, the provisions of the lately conclud ed treaty between Great Britain and the United States do not meet with universal concurrence on the other side of the water, any more than on this; although the gene ral tone of the British press is that of hear ty congratulation upon the amicable adjust ment of the disputes between the two coun tries. “ The London Times,” while ap proaching the terms of the adjustment, ad mits, as it were authoritatively, that conces sion have been made by Great Britain, but maintains that they were honorable to her generosity ! and forbearance ! ! But the Loudon Morning Herald (Tory) declares that too much has been yielded to the Ame ricans; and if the same course of conces sion is continued, (it says,) the American government will not stop until it accom plishes its resolution ‘to expel British do minion entirely from the American conti nent.’ Lord Ashburton’s “ apology” in the case of the Caroline, is especially offensive to the English grumblers, as a “ humiliating degradation,” which they express the confi dent belief will not be sanctioned by tho British government —nnd Lord Ashburton is roundly abused for assenting to it! We imagine, however, that the British Minister did not transcend his instructions ; and in that case, the government will be bound, in good faith to him, as well as to us, not to dis avow his acts. Afemale Antiquarian.—A young lady, niece of Dr. Vonhovenburgh of New York, of a romantic turn of mind, was the other day on a visit to the Falls of the Passaic, at Patterson, New Jersey. She insisted, des pite the remonstrances of her friends, on descending what is called the Chimney, a singular aud picturesque volcanic formation. Whilst searching the “ nooks and crannies,” of this subterranean place, a shrill cry an nounced that something remarkable had ex cited her attention. Tlie most courageous of the party cautiously hurried down, and found her standing tip-toe endeavoring to decipher the autographs sculptured on a large perpendicular rock. Afterrubbing off the moss which had grown over the names engraved on it, they were delighted with seeing the names of “ tho Father of his country,” and several of his companions in arms, neatly cut in the old English letter of that date, carved in the rock. Hints to Writers in Periodicals. —Much time, words, ink, and paper are wasted on introductions. Periodical writers should be brief and crisp, dashing into the subject at the first sentence. Sink rhetoric. Nobody cares bow you came to think of your subject, or why you wrote upon it: of course the exordium is unnecessary. Commence with your leading thought, and avoid irrelevant digressions. You may be less scholastic, but you will be more original, and ten times more amusing. Take it for granted, that your article at the first is four-fifths too long. Cutting it down requires resolution; but you gain experience as well as improve your arti cle,by every excision. For the mode of doing it, begin by crossing out all explanatory sentences. Leave nothing but simple pro positions. Young writers always explain a thing to death. Never commence an arti cle till you know what it is to be about.— Some writers have an incontinence of words, and will dilute you an idea to twenty pages. —American Journal. The treaty between the United States and Texas, which was received by the Se nate too late to permit the necessary discus sion upon some of its provisions, is said to be highly advantageous to both govern ments; establishing the trade between us and that flourishing young government, ami in the most satisfactory manner all those points and subjects which the peculiar posi tion of the two countries, in regaul to con tiguity of soil; similarity of institutions; people; religion; language, Ac., render in teresting and delicate. Under the provisions of this treaty Texas will become a great con sumer of the people of the United States. It is the first commercial convention form ed between Texas and the United States, although Texas has been recognized for more than six years. Mr. Reily, we understand, returns home after bis brief residence as repiesentative of Texas in Washington, but during which time l.ehas succeeded in doing much good /or his own nation. He left Washington last Tuesday. ✓ The city of Washington is 11 square miles in extent, covering an area of 7,134 acres. Not less than 2004 acres were in the streets and public squares, covering 541 acres, were reserved to the United States. The running length of the streets laid out was 721 miles—those streets being equal to an average of 100 feet wide. Not only were the 17 squares, covering 541 acres, re served for the use of the United States, but of the 20,372 building lots, one half were given to the United States, and all the pro perty held by the Government of the city is free from taxation. ®ISO©D M & L a For the “ Southern Miscellany.” LETTER FROM MAJOR JONES. NO. V. Pineville, September 27th, 1542. To Mr. Thompson: Dear Sir —Sum times I think I is the on luckiest man in tlie world. Everlastingly ther’s some sarned thing happenin to me, in spite of all 1 kin do. Sense 1 kutu back from Makin, and myscription of the zamination’s been red by most every body bout here, I blieve ray poplarity’s ris considerable. Miss Mary said she wouldn’t be sprised much if I turned out a perfect Birum, and mortalized all the ladies of my quaintnnee. She was mighty proud of what 1 said bout her buty and larnin, but she says I didn’t give the rite answer to the sum bout the cannon ball and moon ; but that’s no matter now\ I ► want to tell you bout a scrape I got in toth er day, as I knows you never beam of jist sich a catasterfy afore. Last Sunday, Miss Mary and Miss Carline and Miss Kesiah and all of the Stallionses vver at church, and when it was out I jist rid rite up to Miss Mary and lowed I’d see her home. She didn’t say nothin, and I rid long side of her a little ways, and begin to feel mighty good ; but fore w T e got out o’ site of the church ther was a whole gang of fellers, and a heap more young ladys, cum ridin up and reinin in, and prancin and ca vortin bout so that no body could tell who was ridin with which : a!! gabberin and talk in and laughin, as if they’d been to a corn shuckin more’n a church. Course cousin Peter was thar, on uncle’s old white-eyed horse, with his saddle-bags on—for he al ways carrys ’em wharever he goes,to make folks blieve lie’s a doctor—and the way he tumbled the big words about was stonisliing. I didn’t say much, but rid monstrous close to one side of Miss Mary, so cousin Peter couldn’t shine much thar. Well, we all got to old Miss Stallionses without auy pertick eler accident hapinin, though I spec ted evry tninit to sec sum of ’em histed in the mud, the way they kep whippln one nothors hor ses unaware and playin all manner of pranks with one another. When we got thar the whole crowd stopped, and someone pur posed a walk down to the branch to git sum grapes. All hands was agreed cept old Miss Stallions, who said the galls better stay home and read the bibel. But you know it ant no use to talk bout ligion to young la dys when they ant sick nor sorry bout noth in ; so away we went —but 1 tuck monstrous good care to git long side Miss Mary, and thar 1 stuck till wc got down to the branch wbartlie grapes wer. You know the wild grapes is jest gittin good now—and I never seed a pretty young lady yet that didn’t like something sour. Ther’s lots of ’em all round the plantation, but the best ones is down on the branch. Cousin Peter and Ben Biers and all the fellers, fell to gittin grapes for the ladys, but they all bad their Sunday ins on and was fraid to go in the brush much “ Oh, what pretty grapes on that tree!” said Miss Mary, lookin up half-way to tlie top of a grate big gum that stood rite over the water—and her pretty bright eyes spark lin like dew-drops in the sun-shine. .“Oh I wish I had sum.” Cousin Pete had been tryin to make himself very spicuous bout Miss Mary, hut he didn’t seem to care bout them tickler grapes more’n sum that was lower down. But all the ladys had got their eyes on them high grapes, “ Them grapes is like the young ladys,” says cousin Pete. “ VVliy is they like the girls?” axed Miss Kesiah. “Oh, cause—cause they’s sweet,” says cousin Pete. “ I reckon its cause they ’re hard to git,” says Bill Willson. “ It s cause they’re more trouble to git than they ’re worth,” says Tom Stallions. “ Ant you shamed, brother Tom ?” said Miss Carline. “ What do you think, Major V says Miss Mary, and she gin me one o’ them witchin side looks that almost made me jump out o’ my boots. “ Why,” says I, “ I think theys like the young ladys, cause theys sour grapes to them as can’t git ’em.” “ Yes, Major, but you know they’re to be bad by them that lias tlie prowess to win ’em”—and then she give me a look that made me feel prouder than I ever did afore in my life—“ and you can git ’em if you try, Major ; I know you kin.” When she said that last part, I seed cousin Peter’s lip sort o’ drap. My heart liked to knock the buttons off my jacket, and I’d had them grapes if I’d had to dig the tree up by the roots. My hat went off quick er than a flash, and up the old sweet-gum I went like a cat squeirel “ Don’t fall, Ma jor,” says Miss Mary. When she said that, I swar I like to let go, it made me feel so interestin. I want no time a gettin to the very top branch. Cuttin off the largest bunch, I throwed it rite down to Miss Ma ry’s feet. “ Thank you, Major—thank you,” said she. “ Throw me sum, Major,” said Miss Carline, “and me too,” —“and me too”—“thankyou, Major—“throwme sum, Major”—“ ant the Major kind ]”—“it lakes him to climb trees,” said the ladys. “ He’s good as a ’coon,” said Ben Biers. “ I can beat him any time,” said Tom Stallions.— *• No v-c-u can’t,” says Miss Mary. By this time I had gin ’em more grapes than they could all eat, and carry home to hoot; and if 1 had jist cum do>vn then, I’d cum out first rate. But you know that’s the nice pinte—to know when-to stop : ther is sich a thing as bein a lectle too smart—and that’s jist wliar I mist it* I was standin on one vine rite over the blanch, with my hands holt of one over my head, and thinks I to myself how it would stonish ’em all now to see me skin the cat. My spuukf was up,and thinks I, I’ll jist show ’em what I kin do; so up I pulls my feet and twisted ’em round through my arms over backwards, and was lettin my body down tother side foremost, when they all hollered out, “ Oh, look at Major Jones !”—“ Oh, see what lie’s doin !” “ Oh, I’m so fraid,” said Miss Mary. That made me want to do my best, so I let my self down slow and easy, and begin to feel frith my feet for the vine below. “ Oil, my gracious!” said Miss Kesiah, “see how he is twistedfliis arms round.” Sum how I couldn’t find the vine, and my arms begin to hurt, but I didn’t say nothin. “ A 1-e-e-t-l-e further forward, Major,” says Tom Stal lions. “ No; more to the light,” says Ben Biers. The ladys wer all lookin and didn’t • know what to say. 1 kep tryin to touch both ways, but kus the vine was thar. Then I tried to git hack agin, but I couldn’t raise myself sum how, and I begin to feel mon strous dissy, and the water below looked sort o’ yaller and green, and bad sparks of fire all through it, and my eyes begin to feel so tite I thought they would bust. They was all hollerin somethin down below, but 1 couldn’t hear nothin but a terrible rorein sound, and the first thing I knowd sumthing tuck me rite under tlie chin, and tlie next minit kerslash I went rite into the cold wa ter more’n six foot deep. I got my mouth chock full o’ muddy water, and how upon yeath I ever got out without droundin I can’t see ; for I was almost ded fore I drapt, ancT when I cum down I hit sumthing that like* to broke my jaw-bone, and skinned iny nose like a peeled tater. When I got out, the ladys wasskreamin for life, and Miss Mary was pale as her pockethatikercher. “ Oh, I’m so glad you an’t hurt no worse, Major,” says she ; “I thought you was killed.” But, lord ! she didn’t begin to know how bad I was hurt. I set down on a log a little, anil the fellers all cum round laughin like so ma ny dratted fools. “ Want l rite, Major— ant they more truble to git than theys vvurth after you’s got ’em 1” I didn’t say nothin to Tom, cause lie’s Miss Mary’s brother; but cousin Pete cuni up with his fine rigins on, laughin like a grate long-legged fool, as he is—says he, “ ant you shamed to cut sich anticks as that—l’d had more sense—jist look at your nose—ha, ha !—ant you a pret* ty piclur for a Georgia Major ‘?” The la dys was gittin reddy to go home ; Miss Ma ry was lookin serious. “ Don’t you think lie looks like a drounded rat, Miss Mary 1” axed cousin Pete. “ I think he looks quite as well as you did at the Great Attraction,” says she. Pete sort o’ looked a leetle flat, and turned round and tried to wouldn’t take sicli a duckin for all the sour grapes nor sour galls in Georgia—ha, ha !’* says he. Thinks 1, that’s sort o’ personally insultin to Miss Mary, and I seed her face grow sort o’red. “You wouldn’t, wouldn’t you ?” says I, and with that I pitched him in neck and heels. When he got out he lowed he’d settle it with me sum other time, when thar want no ladys long to taka my part, That’s tho way cousin Pete set tles all his accounts —some othei time. Tom Stallions tuck his sisters home, and the rest of tho ladys and fellers went along; but cou sin Pete and I didn’t show ourselves no more that day. I bant seen him since, tho’- thars been all sorts of a muss between mo ther and aunt Mahaly bout it. I don’t think I’ll ever skin the cat again. No more from Your frond til doth, JOS- JONES.