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the little negro was disjiatched to the near
est neighbor’s who lived just in sight. As
certaining that Henry hadgoneto the village,
about twelve miles distant, to procure the
marriage license, I proffered my horse to
send for him, assuring the distressed mother
that l would remain with her, and render
her any assistance in my power, which she
might require. Little William, sobbing as
if his heart would break, set ofl on his mel
ancholy errand. About dark an old lady
and her daughter arrived. They had known
and loved Ada, and their grief at her sad
fate was scarce less vehement than that of
her family. They remained long enough to
perform the last sad office of enshrouding
the corpse, but beinganxious to return home
to attend a sick family, and as I had proffer
ed to remain with the corpse during the
niglit, they departed, promising to return in
the morning.
It was late bed time before I could per
suade the mother to retire to her room. A
small fire blazed in the hearth—the corpse
lay upon the table near the center of the
room, and the old negro woman sat snoring
in the corner which the night before had
been occupied by the fortune-teller. My
mind was busied in recalling the thrilling in
r'ulpiita of tlirt |v>wt t.wnnt.v-fnnr hour*, ami in
endeavoring to account for the unhappy cre
dulity which I had seen exhibited in the
mind of tho unfortunate girl over whose life
less body I was watching. How strange
thought I, how unreasonable, and yet how
true, that superstition dwells in every human
breast. It is an innate quality nt the mind—
and though cultivation and enlightenment
may render us ashamed to acknowledge it,
vet are we all more or less the slaves of su
perstition, in some shape or other. In the
ignorant this nntural disease of the mind,
if we may so call ’.t, assumes a bolder type,
and becomes n vulgar fear; while in the
cultivated and refined it is not less sensibly
felt, though in a measure restrained by the
dictates of reason or subdued by pride. ■
Indeed, this same undefindable credulity of
the human mind—this same shadowy fear,
has been cited bv some as one of the strong
est natural evidences of the immoitality
of the soul. There are many who put
the fullest faith in Fortune-telling, and
would blanch at an evil omen, or thrill with
joy at a good one, who even strive to hide
their superstition from themselves. Tosuch,
one prediction verified, one omen answered,
is sufficient to establish their belief, while a
thousand failures would not unsettle their
faith in the grossest of absurdities. Thus ac
cident conspires to aid the deception, and
our natural superstition renders us redicu
lously credulous,in spite of our better judg
ment.
In this instance there was something so
remarkable, so mysterious,as almost to make
me superstitious in spite ol myself. I lie
strange appearance ol the old fortune teller J
—her sudden disappearance, for she was
gone before morning, no one knew whither j
—the dream —the fearful realization of the
maiden's fears—all seemed linked in dark j
mystery. But upon reflection I was at no :
loss to account for vvliat at first glance seein- ;
ed so mysterious. Os a very nervous and j
excitable temperament, her imagination had
been much excited, by her dream and the
ominous card, and it was doubtless owing j
to her visionary faith in thesupernatiiial that J
she lost her life. Her brother stated that j
she approached <dose to the edgeol the hank
and stood looking stedlastly, as if attracted
by someobject on the other side ol the creek.
He warned her of her danger and begged
her to come away, but she did not remove
her gaze, and when the bank, which had
been undermined bythe late rains, gave way
beneath her feet, precipitating her into the
stream, she put forth her arms exclaiming,
“Henry! Henry!” and still calling upon
that name, sank never again to rise in life.
The angry stream doubtless recalled to her |
mind the scene pictured in her dream, and
perhaps her disturbed fancy supplied the
figure of her lover upon whom her gaze was
fixed. Thus she fell a victim to superstition.
I had long indulged in a train of such re
flections, ami my eyelids were growing wea
ry as I sat by the dim fire-light, when I was
suddenly startled by the noise as of heavy
treading of naked feet in the room—l start
ed from my seat and gave the fire a stir
which caused the brands to rekindle and a
bright light was shed throughout the room,
by which I was enabled to see two enor
mous cats, their eyes gleaming like balls of
fire, their tails erect, backs bowed and every
hair standing fiercely on end. I felt my
own hair leap up, as I saw them approach
towards the corpse. Seizing a heavy stick
I made towards them, endeavoring to fright
en them away, hut they only growled sul
lenly as they seemed preparing to attack me.
One sprang u|>on the corpse. Aiming a des
perate blow, l knocked it far on the floor ;
with a loud yell it dashed out of the window
through which it had entered, and was im
mediately followed by theothor. The noise
alarmed my hostess who entered the room
in great agitation. I explained the cause
to her, and after, as I thought, effect ually se
curing the window against another intrusion
from such visiters I begged her to retire.
She desired to look upon her daughter, and
lighting the candle which I had extinguish
ed, we approached the corpse. I had not
seen her since she had been dressed in her
funeral robes. Turning down the cloth
which covered the body, I exposed one of
the loveliest faces that ever smiled in detth.
What asight of solemn beauty ! Her round
ed form lay clad in the plain white muslin
dress that was to have been her bridal robe
her bright auburn hair was parted upon
her polished forehead, over which sat a
beautiful cap of her own needlework—the
dimpled cheek, the beautifully curved lips
seemed only to lack their native ruby hue
to give them life—while the long silken
lashes seemed striving to hide those soft
blue orbs that had once beamed with such
bright intelligence. There were no ghast
ly imprints of disease on that fair brow—no
sunken eye, no hollow cheek, nodeath point
ed features —hut full, and fresh, and lovely
as she had lieen in the bloom of health and
youth she lay. while a smile of heavenly
sweetnesso’ei spread her angelic face. Long
the mother gazed—heavy and deep were
the sobs that shook her frame, and touch
ingly eloquent were the outpourings of her
heart's deep sorrow, i was too full of grief
to offer condolence to her, and I could only
entreat that she would retire from the har
rowing sight. At length she again retired
to her room.
Resuming my seat hy the fire, I sat filled
with the gloomy thoughts naturally inspired
hy scenes like the past, until 1 perceived the
heavens slowly greying in the east. Desir
ous of refreshing myself hy a walk, I waked
the old negro who had snored away the night
in the corner, and sallied forth into the fresh
morning air. It was not so near light as I
had supposed, but as day began to dawn, I
continued my walk in the vicinity of the
house and mill, until it was quite daylight.
Presently I lieatd the approach of horses’
feet, and in a few minutes l could see two
horsemen, a man and a boy coming round
the base of the mountain,at a rapid gait. I
quickened my pace in order that I might
reach the house by the time they arrived.
As I expected they proved to he William
and Henry. As they dismounted, the young
man who was a well grown, fine looking
youth, of perhaps twenty years of age, gave
me a hurried salutation, and taking my hand
in his, which was feverish and hot, we moved
towards the door. On entering, the first ob
ject that met his view was the corpse of his
intended bride. Poor youth, his manhood
torsooK nim, anil he fell prostrate upon the
body giving vent to his grief in the wildest
lamentations. It was no time for me to
speak. Observing that the covering of the
body was somewhat disordered—though it
was still so dark rn the house, that I could
not distinctly seethe face of the corpse which
was slightly exposed—l replaced the cover
and retired from the room, that I might not
interrupt the sorrowful interview between
the almost distracted mourners.
I had paced before the door forsome time,
picturing to myself the wretched feelings of
the disconsolate youth, when suddenly a
loud scream broke upon my ear, so full of
agony and horror, that I involuntarily rushed
in the direction from whence it proceeded.
As I entered, I beheld the mother, where
she had sank down upon the floor near the
corpse, while Henry, with one hand elasped
over his eyes, leaned against the wall appa
rently gasping fijr breath. Pointing with
the other hand towards the body he gasped—
“Oh God!—look there! look there!” 1
turned and beheld a sight of such freezing
horror as sent the blood curdlingto my heart.
Neither in all the sad realities of life, or the
most extravagant imaginings of my brain,
had 1 ever realized a scene so distressingly
painful, so revoltingly heart-sickening! That
beautiful face was all marred and mangled
—those lovely features upon which a smile
of such angelic sweetness had reposed but
an hour before, were now ghastly, grim and
hideous ! During my brief absence, and
while the old negro whom I had charged to
be watchful, was sleeping, the cats had en
tered and preyed upon the corpse. The
nose and mouth were dreadfully mangled,
and nearly all the upper lip eaten away,
leaving the white teeth exposed in a most
ghastly manner. The sight was terribly ap
palling, and 1 quickly hid it from my sight.
That face was never uncovered again.
“ Oil, mv God!” exclaimed the almost
ft antic Henry, “was it not enough to tear
her from me thus, but Iter sweet body must
be devoured—that l should never behold that
lovely face again. Oh!—oh!—it is more
than I can bear!”
“Do not murmur, Henry, at the piovi
denc.e of God. It has pleased Him severely
and sttangely to afflict us. ButHe will give
us grace to bear it, if we place our trust in
Him.” said the weeping mother, while con
vulsive sobs choked her utterance.
It was long before all the argument or
entreaties I could use succeeded in calming
the violent emotions of the bereaved family.
About nine o’clock the neighbor who bad vis
ited us on the preceding evening arrived
with her husband,and shortly after some four
or five of the nearest neighbors came to the
house, with whom I consulted in reference
to the funeral. A rude coffin had already
been provided which arrived about noon,
and a grave was opened near that of the fa
ther of the deceased, on a beautiful spot
near the bank of the stream, which was sha
ded by a noble beech. There being no cler
gyman tlien in the settlement, at the solicit
ation of the mother, I officiated at the funeral.
The day was dark and sombre, and the
November winds whistled through the
branches of the trees, scattering the faded
leaves in our path as we bore the deceased
Ada to her long homo. It was a sad office
to consign one so young and lovely to the
silent tomb; and as we paused hy the little
mound which we had reared over her low
ly lied, every heart in that rustic throng
throbbed with sympathy for the Doomed
Maiden. w. t. t.
Madison, Georgia.
r&M r PE\?l&M©\£ a
O, that im’ii should put an enemy in their inoulils,
to steal away their brains! thut we should, with joy,
revel, pleasure, and applause, transform ourselves into
beasts! —Shaksteare.
A narrow Escape. —A young lady in Ban
gor, who was engaged to be married to a
moderate wine drinker, after attending a
few Washingtonian meetings, informed her
intended, that unless he gave up his wine
drinking entirely, she would not fulfil her
premise. This, the gentleman after coiisid
etahle parleying agreed to do, hut she did
not require him to sign the Pledge—no, his
word was sufficient; so their engagement
remained unbroken, and for a short time his
promise also; but the old adage held true
in his case, Promises, &e. She remonstra
ted with him, urged him to sign the Pledge,
assuring him of her determination to lead a
life of single blessedness, rather than wed
one who loved his liberty to drink, better
than lie did her. But again the lover pre
vailed on her to accept his promise instead
of his signature, and all things now bade fair
to terminate hftppily.
At length the wedding day arrived—the
friends assembled—the minister rose to per
form the solemn ceremony, that should make
the twain one for life, and the joyous biide
groorn led forth his chosen one, with manly
pride. The bridal attendants exchanged
significant glances, and all in silence awaited
the breathing of the marriage vow. The
bride’s father looked on with a quivering
3(D &a*hi js &kt sans <b mmiL.
lip, and the tear softly stole over her moth
er’s cheek, as the miuister propounded the
inquiry, “ Wilt thou have this woman to he
thy wedded wife!” “1 will,” responded
the bridegroom, in a deep heartfelt manner,
as he gazed on the face of her he loved. At
this moment, ere the ceremony proceeded
farther, the bride cast onelook of agony upon
the minister, and silently disengaging her
self from her bridesmaid, left the room. All
was confusion and amazement. Her father
followed her, and eagerly demanded the rea
son for such capricious conduct. Without
hesitation she answered, “Father! Edward
has twice promised me, previousto this day,
that he would never again touch aught in
toxicating—once he broke the promise and
I forgave him, but warned him if it occur
red again, I would give him up forever; and
father, he lias dishonored his word again. I
detected it by his breath just previousto the
opening of the ceremony, for a moment 1
doubted what step was most advisable, but
when I remembered my own promise, I
could hesitate no longer. Return to him,
dear father, fell him my reason for discard
ing him, and God grant it may waken him
to a sense of his danger.” The father being
a temperate man, could not urge his dauglt- |
ter to run the tearful risk of uniting herself
with a tippler, and he left her in the solitude
of her chamber, to gather strength to endure
her disappointment, while he returned to
the parlor to inform the heart-stricken young
man why his affianced bride had fled. The
company dispersed hastily, some applauding j
the course taken hy the lady, others con- !
demiting it, but all pitying the intended
bridegroom. For our part we think the
young lady narrowly escaped the dark lot of
the drunkard’s wife ; for he who honors not
his own voluntary promise, can have little
strength of mind, or manly honor to battle
with the temptations to drink, which con
tinually present themselves. This occurred
but a few months since.— The Organ.
The following is a dialogue between a ;
drunkard and his wife ; itis in perfect accor
dance with the unreasonableness of drunk
ards in general.
“ I say Molly, vvliat have you got for dirr*
tier ?”
“ 1 told you this morning we had nothing
in the house.”
” O, well, let me take the baby, and you
pick up something.”
“ So you told me this morning, but there’s
nothing to pick up.
“ Oh, pick up some codfish and potatoes,
Molly, pick up someth ng.”
“ But Mr. Lindsey there’s nothing in the
house.”
“ Nothing at all 1”
“ No meal, nor bread, nor potatoes, nor a
mouthful of anything that can be eaten.”
“ Well, well, Molly, 1 say pickup a little
something or oilier, and let us have some din
ner, for I’m in a hurry.”
THE last leaf.
BY O. W. HOLMES.
I saw him once before
As be passed by the door,
And again
The jiavement stones resound
As he totters o’er the ground
With his cane.
They say tliijt in his prime,
Ere the pruning knife of Time
Cut him down,
Not a better man was found
By the Crier on his round
Through the town.
But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at all he meets
So forlorn;
And he shakes his feeble head,
Thut it seems as if he said
“ They are gone.”
The mossy marbles rest
On the lips he has pressed
In their bloom.
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb.
My grandmamma has said—
Poor old lady ; she is dead
Long ago—
© ©
That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose
In the snow.
But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin
Like a staff',
And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.
I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin
At him here,
But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches—and all that,
Are so queer.
And if I should live to he
The last leaf upon the tree
In (liespring—
Let them smile as 1 do now
At the old forsaken bough
Where 1 cling.
i Saturday Afternoon. —What day in the
whole week’s calender that is more remark
able for its many striking peculiarities, than
Saturday? and a Saturday afternoon, what
a busy, bustling, stirring time ! Standing
upon the corner of the street, wo can look
upon the moving throng, and seem to read
each passing thought upon every changing
countenance.
Here goes tlie Bank man, or rag baron, in
black broadcloth and fine linen ; eyes twink
ling and watchful, arid a stern expression
about the close mouth. He is one of the
many who tramp along life’s turnpike to the
jingling music of the “ almighty dollar” and
a few old coppers, enjoying no recreation
but what is derived from the multiplication
ofan interest table. Here is the gaily mess
ed damsel passing along with a very self
important strut, and easting a most excruci
ating and captivating side-long look at every
buck she meets. Here goes the day-laborer,
with a bland and happy smile lighting up
his whole countenance. No doubt, he is
thinkiugof the morrow—the holy Sabbath
—a day when he can cast off the weight of
toil and vexation which now clings to him,
and be happy amid the bright smiles of a
fond wife, and’ the innocent prattle of his
children. His heart which heats beneath so
rough an exterior, affords to that man a hea
ven of content; he is at peace with the whole
world, and why should he not be one of the
happiest of God’s creatures ? There comes
the sharp, pinched up, acute features of the
wealth-hoarding merchant. He is probably
ruminating upon the losses and gains of the
week. There is the brawny, rugged car
man with an enlivening smile upon his face.
Perhaps (lie is a young chap) he is thinking
of sparking it “on a Sunday evenin’.” —
How spry yonder timid shop-girl trips home
wards. with a whole week’s earnings care
fully folded up in one corner of her clean
white hendkercliief. Won’t there be a jo
vial circle around the fireside of her home
to night ? What, with the sly questionings
of the old folks who is her beau, the prattle
and noisy laughter-peals of her little brother,
the crowings of little sister in her lap, and
the mote questioning, and promising, and
laughing : —God help the happy group a
rouud that old homely hearth-stone !
’!3 death ! here is a scratchingand-crawl
ing politician, whose face is marked with
deep study, passion and brandy! The dirty
ends of several old odd numbers of the B.
S. Democrat are peering out of the torn
pogket-hole of bis rusty black coat; and,
while be is explaining, de facto, the state of
political flairs, and the remedies that will
save the country from immediate ruin, the
honest independent whom he is talking to,
is listening some, nodding much, gaping
more, and wondering how much longer he
will be held by the button.hole
Huzza ! here comes a troop of school
boys with their “ smilingshining faces,” hal
loling, yelling, running, jumping, bounding,
tumbling along, their little hearts swelling
and bursting with very joy at their escape
from the thraldom of the school-room and
the tyranny of the tutor’s rod. “Whoop!”
there they go—dashing off’like mad—scat
tering away—some to sail their walnut-shell
boats upon the limpid bosom of the Shetuc
ket—some to gather nuts among the hills,
or wander over the broad fields, God knows
whither. Happy, happy are the days of our
youth ! We learn to value them more, as
the accumulating burdens of life devolve up
on us.
Saturday afternoon ! who does not wel
come its approach ! — Norwich News.
Irish Hospitality. —The hut was low, and
built of shingles: it consisted of but one
room. Nevertheless, it was clean, orderly,
and to us, accustomed lo southern cottages,
comfortable. An old woman was spinning,
and a cheerful girl, plain, but of a pleasant
countenance, was in the act of putting some
small fish into the everlasting three legged
pot. “Ech I” nlic exclaimed, “ but the leddy
is wet;” and down she knelt to pull off our
shoes and chafe our feet, while the good
dame hung tip our dripping cloaks, and as
sured us it would be line by-aud-by ; and
then she would have us sit close to the fire ;
and after some whispering between mother
and daughter, a little roundtable was brought
from the datk corner, and covered by a clean
white cloth ; aiul the little fish were dished,
and potatoes, full and floury, raked from out
the ashes ; and if we had not partaken of this
genuine hospitality, we should have given
offence to those who meant so kindly. The
old woman spoke with clannish devotion of
her old landlord, Doctor M’Donnel. She
only wished he was able to come to Mur
lough Bay, and then she was sure he would
build her another “ hoose.” She was quite
self-possessed from the moment we entered
until we departed; there was no southern
shyness mingled with the national hospitality;
the case of manner of this poor woman and
her daughter was perfectly well bred.
When she placed all she had to offer, both
asked permission to resume their wheels ;
and they conversed with us, and speculated
on the weather. And the old woman spoke
of the traditional feuds between the Mac
quillans and the M’Donnels, and assured us
that Fairhead was better worth seeing than
the Causeway, and told how her husband
and her other children were at “ wark” in
the doctor’s fields. And at last, when the
boat came in sight, and the rain ceased, she
rose, “ cloaked” us carefully, and clasping
her hands, bade God bless us, with a rustic
grace and earnestness we have not forgotten:
the girl watched our departure, but the
mother immediately returned to her wheel.
We have often thought ot the humble cot
tage of Murlough Bay. We do not remem
bet to have seen one where industry and
cheerfulness made a braver stand against
poverty. We have been in many huts,
where the inmates sat, unrejiiningly, side by
side with misery, as if it were their sister ;
but here was the resolve to displace misery
by industry, —the effort gave the dignity of
independence to the poor inmates.— Mrs.
Hull's Ireland.
Evolution if Light in the Human Sub
ject. — It was ten days previous to L. A.’s
death that I (Sir Henry Marsh) observed a
very extraordinary light, which seemed dart
ing about the face, and illuminating all a
round her head, flashing very much like an
aurora borealis. She was in a deep decline,
and had that day been seized with suffoca
tion, which teased her much for an hour, and
made her so nervous that she would not suf
fer me to leave for a moment, that I might
raise her up quickly in case ofa return of
that painful sensation. After she settled for
the night, 1 lay down beside her, and it was
then this luminous appearance suddenly
commenced. Her maid was sitting up be
side the bed, and I whispered to her to shade
the light, as it would awaken Louisa. She
told me that the light was perfectly shaded ;
l then said, “ What cau this light be which
is flashing on Miss Louisa’s face?” The
maid looked very mysterious, and informed
me she had seen that light before, and it was
from no candle. I then enquired when she
had perceived it; she said that morning, and
it dazzled her eyes, but she had said noth
in or about it, as ladies always considered ser
vants superstitious. However, aftei watch
ing it myself half an hour I got up, and saw
that the candle was in a position from which
this peculiar light could not buve come, nor
indeed was it like that sort of light; it was
more silvery like the reflection of moonlight
on water.
I watched it more than an hour, when it
disappeared. It gave the face a look of be
ing painted white and highly glazed, but it
danced about, and bad a very extraordinary
effect. Three nights after, the maid being
ill, I sat up all night, and again I saw the lu
minous appearance, where there was no
candle, nor moon, nor in fact, any visible
meansof producing it. Her sister came into
the room and saw it also. The evening: be
fore L. A. died, I saw the light again, but it
was fainter, and lasted about twenty min
utes. The state of the body of the patient
was that of extreme exhaustion. For two
months she had never sat up in bed. Many
of hersymptoms varied much from those of
other sufferers of pulmonary complaints
whom I had seen, but the general outline
was the same. Her breath had a peculiar
smell, which made me suppose there might
be some decomposition going forward. The
young lady about whose person these lumin
ous appearances were manifested 1 had seen
several times before her return to the coun
try; her lungs were extensively diseased;
she labored under the most hopeless form of
pulmonary consumption. —London Medical
Gazette.
“Merry England.'' —We make the fol
lowing extract from a letter sent by an in
dustrious English mechanic to a gentleman
iri Newburyport, hy whom it was handed to
the editor of the Newburyport Herald.—
The letter writer is a man of 35 years of
age, with a wife and four children. He is
said to be a most excellent workman,” and a
man of integrity and sound moral principles.
He came to this country about a year ago,
but was induced to return to Liverpool for
reasons not stated. Hear what lie says of
the condition of the working people in Eng
land, and contrast it with the prospects of
our own mechanics:
“ To be sure, the prospect is very gloomy
at present; but yet there’s a sweet little che
rub sits smiling aloft to keep watch fertile
life of poor Jack. As to myself personally,
I am not so much concerned, but it is the
thoughts of my rising family that pains my
heart. Crime, always ati attendant on pov
erty, prevails to a great extent in this town.
It is almost dangerous to let your children
go out of your sight, and parents have to
keep their eyes always upon them.
“I had hoped to have been in the United
States by this time, but am thus far cruelly
disappointed. lam now as low in the scale
of society as it is possible almost, to be ; and
how I am to get over the approaching win
ter, God only knows.
‘•You will very naturally ask, how do you
live? Why, my dear sir, we do not live—
we “starve?” two meals of water gruel, or
salt and potatoes, or, for variety, the second
boil of coffee or tea grounds, given by “most
English charity.” The best charity is cold,
but in this happy land it is far belowfreezing
point. This is the bill of fare of thousands
of our very best mechanics in this country;
and to procure even these, we are compell
ed to pawn and part bits of clothes
to the pest ofsociety, the pawnbroker.”
Here is a beautiful thing from the pen of
Mrs. Cornwall Baron Wilson :
The Head and the Heart. —“ Please my
lady, buy a nosegay, or bestow a trifle,”
was the address of a pale, emaciated looking
woman, holding a few withered flowers in
her hand, to a lady who sat on the beach at
Brighton, watching the blue waves of the
receding tide. “ I have no half-pence, my
good woman,” said the lady, looking up
from the novel she was perusing with a list
less gaze ; if I had, I would give them to
you.” “lam a poor widow, with three
helpless children depending on me; would
you bestow a small trifle to help us on our
way ?” “ I have told you that I had no half
pence,” reiterated the lady, somewhat pet
tishly. “ Really,” she added as the poor
applicant turned meekly away, “this is
worse than the streets of London ; they
should have a police stationed on the shore
to prevent such annoyance.” Such were
the thoughtless dictates of the head. —
“ Mamma,” said a blue eyed boy, who was
lying on the beacli at the lady’s feet, flinging
pebbles into the sea, “I wish you had a
penny, for the poor woman docs look hun
gry, and you know we are going to have a
nice dinner, and you have promised me a
glass of wine.” The heart ot the lady an
swered the appeal of her child ; and with a
blush of shame crimsoning her cheek at the
tacit reproof his artless words conveyed, she
opened her reticule, placed half-a-crown in
his tiny hands, and in another moment the
boy was bounding along the sands on his er
rand of mercy. In a few seconds he return
ed, his eyes sparkling with delight, and his
countenance glowing with health and beau
ty. “Oh ! Mama, the poor woman was so
thankful ; she wanted to turn back, but 1
would not let her; and she said, God bless
the noble lady, and you, too, my pretty lamb:
my children will now have bread for two
days, and we shall go our way rejoicing.”
The eyes of the lady glistened as she heard
the recital of her child, and her heart told
her that its dictates bestowed a pleasure the
cold reasonings of the head could never be
stow.
Absence of mind. —We have just got our
finger upon an old case of absence of mind,
that is infinitely better than anything mod
ern we have ever seen. In some respects
La Fontaine was not unlike Oliver Gold
smith ; both were forgetful, generous, un
affected. The French poet almost forgot he
bad a wife; and when his friends told him it
was a sliarne to absent hiraSelf from her,
promised to call and see her. The servant,
not knowing him, said she was gone to
church; upon which he returned to Paris
in the company of his iriends. Being one
day at a house, his son came in ; but not hav
ing seen him for some time, he did not re
cognize him, hut remarked to some of the
company, that he thought him a very prom
ising lad. He was told this promising lad
was his own son. “Ah!” exclaimee the
poet, “ upon my soul, I’m very glad to hear
it.”
©KD©Q M A L.
For the “ Southern Miscellany.’’
LETTER FROM MAJOR JONES.
NO. Till.
PineviUt, November stk, 1842.
To Mr. Thompson :
Dear Sir, —Sense I writ you that last let
ter we’ve all ben as bisy as yaller jackets in
a cotton blossom, movin’ over to town. I t
wan’t no great ways to hall things, but th en
you know its such a plagy job. I never
thought ther was so much plunder ’bout our
house til we come to move. But its jest so
every year. Mother’s always got more old
washin-tubs and fat-gourds, and Rpinin
wheels, and quiltin frames, and sich fixing
than would fill Noar’s ark, big as it was
and she’s got to have ’em all moved, lock
stock, and barrel, for she says she can’t trust
nothin with niggers when she aint on the
plantation. This movin into town every
winter and out in the summer is all a fool
quality notion any way, and I’m gittin rite
sick of it, and if it hadn’t a ben that the Stall
ionses was gone to town when I got back I
blieve I’d coaxd the old woman out of it this
time.
Well, now I’ve got a fair swing at Miss
Mary, for she’s so close 1 can jist call in any
time ; but ’tween you and me, I’m fraid I’m
gvviue to have some trouble ’bout this mat
ter yet. There a lot of fellers scootin ’bout
her that I don’t more’n half like no how.
One chap’s jest come from the north, rigged
out like a show monkey, with a little tag of
hair hangin down under his chin jest like
our old Billy Croat, that’s a leetle too smart
for this climate, I think. He’s got more
brass in his face than ther is in mother’s per
servin kittle, and more gab than Mr. Mount
gomery and our preacher together. He’s a
musick teacher and 1 don’t know what all,
and makes himself jest as popler ’bout town
as if he’d lived here all bis life. All the
town gulls is gwine to take lessons of him
on the pianner, ’cept Miss Mary, and old
Miss Stallions says she aint gwine to the e.\-
jiens of byin a pianner these hard times no
how. She says she’s gwine to laru her gals *
to make good houskeepers and good wives]*
and when they git mnrrid if ther husbands
like musick they can bye sich things fbf ’em
if they’ve a mind to.
“'V es, madame, but though, you know”
—says the imperent cus, the very fust time
he was iuterduced into the hous by cousin
Pete, who is jist as thick with him, as too
fools could be—“you know complisliments
is the gratest riches a young lady can have
—complishmetits last for ever, but riches
don’t.
“ But no body can’t live on complish
ments,” says old Miss Stallions, “ not these
times, they can’t.”
“ Yes, but Miss Stallions,” says he, “you’s
rich enough to ’ford your butiful daughters
every gratifactiyn in tlie world. Now you
hadn’t ought to be so stingy with sich chain,
in daughters as you’ve got.
“Cus your iinperence, thought I, fora
stranger, rite afore ther faces too. Old Miss
Stallions didn’t say much. I was settiu
pretty near Miss Mary, and when he begin
to run on so, I sot in tulkin with her, so she
couldn’t hear the diatted fool, but the fust
tiling I knowd Mr. Crotchet cum and set
rite down between ns.
“ Don’t you think we can swade the old
woman into it, Miss Mary if we lay our beds
together.
1 gin Miss Mary a look as much as to say
I think lie's in a mighty grate hurry to lay
your beds together ; but she jest smiled, and
put her heukercher up to her face and sed
she didn’t know.
“ 1 say, Jones,” says lie, “ won’t you be a
spoke in my wheel, old feller, I’m dying in
love with this butiful young lady, and 1 can’t
bear to see her upper (unities neglected.”
I looked at the feller rite in the face, and
jest had it on the end of my tungto tell him
d—n his insurance. But Miss Mary was
tliar and her mother, and l tried to turn it
off’ the best way I could without lettin’ my
temper rise.
“ I aint no wagin maker, Crotchet,” says
I, “ but I’ve got a liiggei that kin put a spoke
in your wheel mighty quick, if that’s all you
want.”
Miss Mary crammed her hankerclier rite
in her mouth.
“Oh,” says he, “you don’t take—you
don’t take, Junes; I mean can’t you help mo
to court Miss Mary, here, and her mother.”
1 begin to feel sort o’ warm behind the
ears, but I thought I’d jest give him a sort
of a hint.
“ I reckon you won’t need no help,” says
I, “ you seem to git along pretty fast for a
stranger.”
“ I think so too, Joseph,” sed old Miss
Stallions.
“ Then you will give yourconseut, I spose,
madam,” says he.
“ What, sir?” axed the old woman, open
in’ her ise as wide as slio could and drappin
her ball o’ nittiu yarn on the floor at the
same time.
“You’ll by one, won’t you ?”
“ Whew !” says I, rite out loud, for I felt
so relieved.
Miss Mary laughed more’u I ever heard her
afore in company.
“ That I won’t,” says old Miss Stallions,
gwine on with her nittiu—“ not these times,
I’ll shore you, sir.”
“Oh, ho !” says he, lookin’ round to me,
“ I see how the wind blows, Jones, but you
might as well give up the chase, for I dont
think you can shine. I’m smitten myself.
What say you, Miss Mary? The Major
han’t no morgage, has he ?”
“Oh no, sir,” said Miss Mary—“ none at
all.V
“ Any claim Jones,ah?”
I tried to say something but I couldn’t git
a word in edge ways, and every time I look
ed at Miss Mary she kep laughin.
“ Ther aint a morgage on nary nigger
nor foot of ground, thankthe lord, these hard
times,” sed the old woman. She was drap
in to sleep, and didn’t know what she was
sayin.
It was Saturday night and time to go
hut I wasn’t gwine till Crotchet went, and
he did’nt seem like he was gwine at all.
“Wonder what time it is?” sed Miss
Mary.
“Oh taint late,” sed he. “Is ther gwine
to be any preachin here to-morrow I”