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VOLUME It | BY C. R. HANLEITER. P @ lE T U Y • AUTUMN. *Y MRS. n. SICOCRSET. Ha* it come, the time to fade 7” And with a mtirmurinE siah The Maple,in lua molely robe*, Wna the first to make ret-ly; And ‘he queenly Dahlia* drooped Upon their thrones of ata'e ! For the frost-kin? with his baneful kiss, Had well forestalled their fate. IJydrangia, on her telegraph, A hurried signal traced Os treason dark, that fain would lay Bright Summer's region waste. Then quick the proud exotic peera In consternation fled A refuse in their greenhouse sought, Before the day of dread. The Vine that o'er my caeernent climbed, And clustered day by day, I count its leaflets every morn ; See how they fade away ! And as they, withering, one by one, Forsake their parent tree, I call each tear and yellow leaf A buried friend to me. Put on tby mourning,” aaid my soul, “ And with a tearful eye, WalK softly inid the many gravea Where thy companions lie; The Vide', like a toving babe. When the vernal sune were new, That met thee with a soft, blue eye, And lip all bathed in dew. Tlie Lily, as a timid bride, While summer aims were fair, Tlmtpui her snow y hand in thine, To bless thee fr thy care ; The trim and proud Anemone; The Daisy from the Vale : The purple Lilac tow'ring high, To guard its sister pale. i“ The ripened Rose—where arc they now ?” But from the rifled bower There came a voice— 11 Take head to note Thine own And let tlie Grange “PfSmver hair, That o'er thy temple sire ye, Be as a monitor to teli The Autumn of thy days.” iIEIEGTEP EMMA CARLTON: OB,THE DEVOTED LOVE*. ’Twaw at the close of a sultry day in ilie month of August, The earth was teeming with her varied products, and the balmy -zephyr wafted on its breath the perfume of a thousand springing flowers. In a roman tic spot in the southern part of Maine, over looking a small hut neat village, were seat ed a youth and maiden apparently absorbed in the contemplation of the beautiful scene before them. The sun’s last rays lingered on the lovely spot, gilding tlie burnished spiie of the village church, and crimsoning the light clouds that floated like specks mid the blue horizon; while at the base of u gentle declivity its glancing beams rested on a sheet of water, softly mirroring beneath its blue depths the branching foliage of the overarching trees and the massy bnnks that : encircled it. Over the surface of the crys tal lake sported, in happy existence, swarms of insects of every varied hue, while beneath its transparent waves the rapid attd graceful KCotiou of its finny inhabitants answered gai ■]y to the joyous life above. On either hand •you might behold fertile fluids snd rich .meadows, pastures with their bounding flocks, and orchards with their ripening fruit; the neat farm house, and the rural cottage, interspersed with the elegant and tasteful mansions of the rich, while in the tmek ground, rose successive lines of irregular hills, whose dark green foliage gradually changed to a fainter and faintei blue, till their receedinjj tops were mingled with the clouds. The maiden at length broke the silence. “So yon must leave to-morrow, Charles 1” said she in a pensive tone. The youth rais ed his dark eyes at the voice of the beauti ful girl who was beside him. Ho seemed about twenty-two years of age. His per son was nob'e. Hi* stature above the ordi nary size, and bis features moulded to exact symmetry. His face, though not strikingly handsome, bespoke the intellectual mind, and his dark locks shaded a lofiy blow of .surpassing beauty. Yes, my Emms,” replied he, taking the hand of the gentle girl. “ to-morrow I must leave this lovely spot, endeared to me by so many sweet associations—by the successful toil preparatory to more exalted studies, and the sweet friendships that have been form ed. But weep not my love,** He looked at the suffused eyes of the maiden ; 1 shull fondly cherish your sacred imago in my bo gyro, and the consciousness of your love shall bo the guerdon of ntv increasing toil. Four vetl r 9 W *N soon pass; anil then my Emma, we wiU ** *eparated no more.” Charles G raham era* a student. For three years he had assiduously devoted himself to study at a distinguished lnaDtution locater in the village above alluded to. H pre possessing deportment, and native kuidness had won him universal esteem, and his un tiring devotion to his studies hac gamedhim ; high rank in his class. Me had become acquainted with Emma Carlton, whose tastes and sentiments were congenial to his own. Art ftitacb inept had sprung up between them a jpamtli) 32,ctS5>a*!fv : ©roctra to JUtcraturr, agriculture, jHectisnlta, 25c.itioit, JToretgH ana Somrsttt IntrlWficncc, set. . ~ ‘ _ _ , _ r .. , . . * ** which imperceptibly ripened info love; and they mutually plighted their vows of eter nal fidelity. Charles was now upon ihe point of entering a college in the State of Connecticut, and Emmn who loved him with true womanly devotion looked upon the teim of his absence us about to be almost u blank in her existence. She did not doubt the constancy of her lover, for she believed him incapable of duplicity; but when she felt the void in society which bis absence would cause, her endeavors to suppress her emo tions of grief were unavailable. Until she had seen Chailes Graham she h-rd never lnved. Though rhe was a general favorite in her native village, attd many noble and devoted ones had bowed in homage to her beauty and worth, yet her heart had never been subdued by an unconquerable iltuch ment. till captivated by the winning graces of him to whom she made a complete sur render of her love. As they *at at that still, calm hour, in the place which had so often marked their meetings, ar.d the bright vis ions of memory floated by them in living colors, Emma vividly felt how lonely would be her musings, and how gloomy the pleas ures she had ever shared with so much de light, when Charles would no longer form a bright link in the circle of her associates.— Her sensitive heait gave vent to its sorrow in tears, while Charles, though it ivere in deed a sacrifice to forego the sweet attrac tions of her loved society, strove to calm her agitated feelings and soothe her grief by as surances of bis continued love and frequent letters. The morrow beheld Charles’departure, anil Emma's calm adieu. He entered col lege with distinguished honor to himself, and eagerly looked forward to the realiza tion of h:s ambitious hopes. Emma again mingled with her cheerful circle of friends, where her presence ever brought delight; for the gentleness and sweet tempered vi vacity, which uniformly characterized her deportment, empowered her with an h re sistible charm which found its way to every heart, and made her the admired unJ belov ed of all. Nor was her presence alone con fined to those polished circles, where refine ment and pleasure abed their softened glow over every object. She was the friend of tlie poor, alleviating tlieir wants, and partic ipating in their sorrows; cheering the gjootn of misery, and assuaging the woes of the unfortunate by the softening balm of unob trusive friendship. Time, which in antici pation seemed to move on “ leaden wing,” passed rapidly on, and Emma found, though she deeply regretted her lover's ahs< nre, that there was much of happiness to be en joyed in the quiet discharge of her duties, attd the intellectual pursuits for which her mind had a keen relish. And every passing day too was hastening the time, when her fondest hopes would be consummated by the return of Charles and their consequent union. He had hitherto sacredly kept bis promise to her. His letters breathed an in creasing devotion, and the fond girl cherish ed bis love as the idol of her bliss. Site felt a conscious pride in hi increasing popular ity, and redoubled her efforts to render her self more worthy iiis exalted love. The pursuits which elevate Httd dignify the mind, refine the understanding and heart were her favorite pursuit, and the hours—passed by many of her friends in frivolous employ ment —found her mastering some abstruse principle of science, or culling flowers from the garden of literature. The volume of na ture, with its soul-inspiring intellect gather ed fieri; nr>d boundless stores of elevating thought and wisdom. Two years of Charles’ collegiate course had passed. Emma found in tne objects of her kind attention, ample scope for her be nevolent feelings, and the affections of her heart were every day becoming deeper and purer by the hallowed influence of sympa thy. The happiness she bestowed on oth ers was doubly rewarded by the heartfelt gratitude and b!eings that ever followed her footsteps, and the quiet approval of her own tender conscience. Rut a change came over her radiant prospects. The sunshine of her bliss was dimmed by gathering clouds, and hope even seemed to sink beneath ob scurity. She received a letter from Charles with a request that she would henceforth consider all intercourse between them as dropped ; and forgetting the past regard him as only a common friend. He told her, that, when he won her heart, it was with the expectation of funds sufficient to enable him to commence business for himself, as soon as his term of study should expire; hut by an unforeseen occurrence, he had now become penniless and even bankrupt: “ years will pass,” said he, “ ere 1 can by successful toil gain a competency, and think not Emma, that I can see you share mv pov erty. Do not upnruid me with coldness, for Heaven is my witness that l regard you, with the same feelings, as when I parted with you, ami love you with a devotion, that time nor circumstance can diminish. But duty to you demands me to make the sacri fice. There are many of your acquaint ance*, honorable, noble and wealthy, who would gladly sue for your band and crown your life with every earthly good. Forget me then, Emma, and bestow your worthy heart, where you may gain not only o return of love, but that affluence which will place you in a sphere where your beauty, injelli gence, and modest virtue, will be duly ap preciated. Again I repeat, that you are the only object that my heart cherishes, and my MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, OCTOBER 14, 1843. ptayers shall ever nseend to Heaven’s throne that unsullied happiness may crown all your days,” Emma’s senses were well nigh bewilder ed, as she read again and again this unpleas ant message. She remained for some mo ments lost in gloomy reverie, til* suddenly, as if anew thought flashed across her mind, she started from her seat and exclaimed, “ He does not know me yet, nor with all his devotion can he fathom the depth of wo man’s love. But”—and she grasped a pen. and the next moment was tracing her rapid thoughts in answer to his letter. She faith fully delineated lhe events of their former acquaintance, and brought in review the scones through which they had passed—the blissful moments when happy in each oth er’s love they had conned their daily task* of study, forgetting the toil in the pleasure of social intercourse, or wandering through the woodlands of her native home, or seat ed on the mossy margin of the beautiful lake, they had formed various delightful plaits for the future, entwining them with the bright garlands of hope and love. “ Dear Chat les,” added she, “ you must deem my love an idle thing, that amid so many cherished re membrances it could wander, or like the friendship of the world veer with the breadth ol popular applause. The treasured affec tions of my heart can never again become my own. Tlieir wealth can only be lavish ed on one object, arid if forbidden to rest upon that, they must wander like a waste of waters fertilizing no verdant spot; or like the plant without the kind culture of some friendly hand and the genial rays of the sun, they must wifhetand die. Your misfortune has only served to strengthen that love which before bid defiance to every blast.” Emma bel eved Cbm les sincere in bis as surances of love, and she calmly awaited his answer to her letter. She could not be lieve bis feelings towards her wavered, else she would hove discovered in his former let ters some indifference.’ Hence she natur ally supposed that his motive in this one letter hud been partly to teat the sincerity of her affection, and partly from the trouble occasioned by bis poverty. But Charles was inexorable. He still persisted hi bis protestations of undying love, but his refu sal to see her share bis poverty was *o prompt that site could no longer su|fpresß the fear that other motive* than those men tioned urged him to the decision lie had made. A sense of propriety fothade her to attempt a charge in bis feelings, though she charitably yielded to bis request* in believ ing bim actuated purely fin her welfare. It W!\s fodefil a saddening disappointment to Emgria. Her hopes of present and future earthiv Miss bad been centered in one ob ject—-her idolized lover. His gentle atten tion and unwavering devotion to her happi ness. through so long a period of time, bad gained her entire confidence, and she had never formed .u plan, or imagined a picture of earthly fwcility, but Charles stood out the most puiAjincnt object to the view,— Her love bad onJtwined itself so closely about him that to separate it were almost to bid its life-spi .t :t- with*v. Emma’s friends be held. with the ,iuef.ct anxiety, this blow to her cherished hopert. J hey feared, and with reason too, that her grief would prey upon her spirits, enervate her delicate con stitution, and prostrate hsr health. Hence they exerted every mean# to divert her thoughts from dwelling o.’i onbjrcta calcula ted to keep afresli the remetrebrnnee of their former intercourse. They ev’en attempted to roust; her indignation at whirl tliej’term cd l.n nriust conduct. Not one in tlit ori ole • f hci friends could reconcile the r curse he bad, put sited with tlieir pritu-ip us of hon or, tind tiis professed legnrd for Emma s welfare was deemed a mark, assumed to conceal hi* treat heiy under the gvb of magrinnimitv, and attain his own ‘dfirir end* without meeting tlie censure be justly Tru i ited. It was very soon repotted tbrr, his affections werelie*towed -n a Indy of wealth at and taicnf, in the immediate vicinity of the college, thus confirming tie f olief that be had sacrificed the pure affections of a wot thy heart, for fame and show. But vain was every attempt to change the curient of Emma's feelings. She could not, or would not. believe tlie thousand ill reports that were daily bi ought to bei ears, and her ear nest pleadings that all censure night be spared him. evinced that her love for Charles letained all its burner purity and freshness. Time rolled on. Emma, coiitinry to the fears of her friends, lose superior to her griefs. She still maintained her uniform gaiety of spirit, at the same time evinc ng a chastening flow of feeling, and a linn trust in God. Her duties were discharged with unwonted zeal, and her pleasures seemed to partakeof that purity which shone through all her actions. The gay, the noble and the wealthy, were alike suitors for her hand, but none among the throng ot her admirers could gain the least shadow of encourage ment. All found her the agreeable com panion, the affable friend ; but it was vain to hope that from the recesses of her own heart, she could again call forth its former deep abiding love, and bid it fasten itself on another cherished object, and her own no ble nature scorned the idea of bestowing a hand where the heart must forever remain a wanderer. She still loved her former haunts, and many were the hours that she passed wan dering amid the scenes of her blighted hopes. She had roamed one evening to the very spot where Charles poured forth his pas sionate love the evening before his depat lure for College. She was m- re beautiful than ever. Theexcitetement ofher thoughts gave a heigbter.ed glow to her cheek, con trasting beautifully with her white face and polished brow, while the tear trembled in her mild blue eye and glittered like a dew diop on is silken lashes. She turned to a retired spot, and in the still calm of twi light, knelt and poured forth a fervent prayer to her Heavenly Father. As she prayed for submission to his unerring Providence, a settled calmness came over her features, her vyice grew firm, ands holy trust lighted up her soul. Then in “ deep impassioned ear-, neatness,” she prayed for him whom she still loved ; he who though recreant to bis vows. W'as M.iil the object of her pious re gard, that be might never possess n lonely, unsympattiizing heart—inn ftal a pang of unrequited love. Her petitions were interrupted by a slight rustle, and a voice, husky with emotion, ex claimed, “ Emma, my ow n Emma, will you, can you forgive your erring Charles]” It was indeed Charles! He bad completed his studies, graduated with honor, and the world was now before him to choose s path to distinction. He felt strong in his own powers, tnd his bouvant hopes rose superi or to his want of funds. He felt that with in himself, his own mind, he possessed re sources that would wiu him a way to wealth; arid be trusted to his own bright genius to reap the lauiels of fame which his laudable ambition earnestly coveted. His thoughts again turned to Emma, whom he had never ceased to love ; and be hastened to her home to receive if possible, her pardon, and possess once more her noble heart. Emma was again happy, One year from that time beheld their muon, and the congratulations of numerous friends, and in the undeviating devotion of her husband, Emma yet leaps the reword of her unchanging confidence and deathless love. From the Citizen Soldier. THE MAN OF PAOLI AND OF STO NY POINT. Tale vision, whs; art thou 7 Lo, loom lime’* dark tet[ Like a wind it awe. pe, Like a wind when ihe tempest* b'ow ; A shadowy form — ns a giant cheat It eland* in the midst of an armed line!! The dead mnnV shroud on its awful limb* ; And thraldom of its presence the daylighi dims, And the trembling world looks on achast — All hail 10 the Sou, or tee Miui.ty Fast ! Jubilate! . (FBOM.RiE.IZI.) Hist! It is still night,The clear sky aich rs above, the dim woods are all around the field, and in the centre of the meadow, resting on the grass crisped by the autumnal frost, sleep the worn veterans of tlie war, disheartened by want, and wearied down by the day’s march. It is still night, and the light of the scan ty file falls on wan faces, hollow eyes and sunken cheeks; tin tattered apparel, mus kets unfit.foruse, and broken erms. It is still night, and they snatch a feverish sleep beside the scanty fire, and ley them down to dream of a time, when the ripe harvest shall no more be trodden down by the blood stained hoof, when the valley shall no more be haunted by the Traitor-Hefiigre, when Liberty and Freedom shall walk in broad cloth instead of wardering about with the un slmdden feet, and the tattered rags of wont. It is still night, and mad Anthony Wayne watches while his soldiers sleep. lie watches beside the camp-fire. You can rnnik bis lowering form, his breadth of shoulders, and bis face by the red light of the fire—that manly face with the broad forehead, the marked eyebrow*, overarch ing the deep liH2el eye, that lightens and gleams as he gazes upon the men of hi* band. You can note the uniform of the revolu tion. The wide coat of bine, varied by ihe buckskin *word-be!f, ftorn which depends the sword that Wayne alone can wield— the facings of huff, tho buttons rusted by the dews of night, and the march-worn trooper'* boots, reaching above his knee, with ihe stout iron spur standing out from each heel. Hist ! The night is still, but there is a sound in yonder thicket! Look ! Can you sec nothing I No. The night is still, the defenceless Continentals sleep in the centre of the meadow—all around is dark. The sky above is clear, but the stars give forth no light. The wind sweeps mound the mea dow—dim and indistinct it sweeps and all is silent and still. 1 can see nothing. Place your ear on the earth. Hear yon nothing 1 Yes—yes. A alight sound, a distant rumbling. There is thunder glowing in the bosom of the earth, but it is distant. It is like the murmur on the ocean, ere the terri ble white-squall sweeps away the commerce of a nation —but it is distant, very distant— Now look forth on the night. Cast your eye to the thicket —see you nothing 1 ’ y es —there is a faint gleam like the light of the fiie-flv —Ha! It lightens on the night, that quivering gleam ! It is the flash of swords—the glittering of arms ! The night is longpr still. “ Charge upon the—Rebels! Upon them —over them—no quarter — no quarter /” Watcher of the night, watching over the lend of the New-World, wstching over tho fortunes of the starved children of Freedom —wh;.t see you now ] A hand of armed men, mounted on stout steeds with swords in their uplifted hand*. They sweep from the thicket, they encom pass the meadow, they surround the Rebel Host ! The gallant Lotd Gray rides at their head. His voice rings out clear and loud upon the frosty air, “ Root and branch, hip and thigh, cut them down. Spare never a man —heed ne ver a cry for quarter. Cut them down—- Charge for England and St. Gtorge And then there was uplifting of sword* and butchery of defenceless men, arid then there w'as riding over the wounded, and trampling over the laces of the dying. And then there was the cry for quarter and the response—“ toyour throat take that—damn ed Rebel !” There was a moment whose history was aftcrw aids written with good sharp swords, on the visages of dying men. It was a moment when the defenceless Continental sprang up from bis hasty sleep, into tlie arms of the merciless death 1 It was the moment when Wayne groaned aloud with agony, a* the sod of Paoli was flooded with a pool of blond that poured from the corses of the slaughtered soldiers of hi* band. It was the moment when the cry for quarter was n.ncked, when the rebel clung i his despair to the stirrup of the Britisher, and clung in vain ; it was the mo ment when the gallent Lord Grey, commu nicant of the True Aportoiie Ci ruth of En gland, educated in the faith of Jesus, school ed in the doctrines of mercy, halloed hi* war-dogs on to the slaughter, end shouted up to the starlit heavens, until the angels of God grew sick of the scene—“ Over them —over them—heed never a cry—head ne ver a voice ! Root and branch, cut them down—noqcartkr!” It is a dark and troubled right, ard the Voice of Blond goea up to God, shrieking for vengeance ! It ia morning, and the first sunbeams shiue over the field which was yesternight a green meadow—the field that is now an Aceldenrw—a field of blood, strewn with heaps of the dead, arms torn from the body, eyes hollowed from the f sockets, fares turned to the earth, and buri id in blond, ghastly pictures of deßth and pain, painted by the hand of the Briton, for the bright sun to shine down upon, for men lo applaud, for the King to apptove.furGnd to avenge. It is a sad and ghastly morning, and Wayne stands looking over the slaughtered heaps, surrounded by the little band of survivors, and as he gazes on this scene of horror, the voice of Blood goes shrieking up to God for vengeance, and the ghosts of the slain darken the pm tala of heaven with their forma of woe, and their voices mingle with the voice of Blood. Was the voice of Blood answered 1 • • • at* A year passed, and the ghosts of the mur dered looked down from the portals of the Ur.seen, upon the ramparts of Stony Point. It is still night, the stars look calmly down upon the broad Hudson, and in the dim air of night, towers the rock and fort of Stony Point. The Britishers have retired to rest.— They sleepin their warm quiet beds. They sleep with pleasant dreams of American maidens dishonored, and American fathers, with gray liairs dabbled in blood. They shall have merrier dreams anon, I ttnvr. — Aye, aye. All is quiet around Stony Point; the sen ; tinel leans idly over the wall that turunda 1 hi lonely walk ; he gazes down tlie void of J daikness, until Ins gbiirc falls upon the ! broad and magnificent Hudson. He hears nothing, he sees nothing. It is a pity for that sentinel, that ids eyes are not keen, and Ids glance piercing. Had bis eye-sight been but n little keener, he might have seen Death creeping up that Rsmpait in xome hundred shapes—he might have seen the long, talon-like fingers of the Skeleton-God clutching for his own plump British throat. But his eyesight was not keen—more’s tlie pity lor him. Pity it was, that that sentinel could not hear a little more keenly. Had his ear been good he might have heard a little whisper that W'ent from two hundred tongues, a round the Rampart* of Stony Point. “ Genera/—what shall he the watchword V And then, had the sentinel inclined his ear over the ramparts, and listened very atten tively indeed, he might have heard the an swer, sweeping up to the heavens, like a voice of blood, “ Himkmurn Paoli !” “Ho—ho! And so Paoli is to be re membered—and bo the Voice of Blrs-d shrieked not in the ears of God in valti 1 And so the vengeance for Paoli is creeping np the ramparts of the Fort T Ho—ho ! Pity Lord Grey were not here to see the spmt !” The sentinel was not blest with supernat ural sight or bearing ; he did not see the figures creeping up the ramparts ; he heard not their whispers, until a rude hand clutch ed him around the throat, and up to the hea vens swept the thunder-shout— “ Rf.membf.r Paoli !” and then a rude bayonet pinned hisa to the wood of the ramparts, and then the esplan ade of the Fort, and its rooms and its balls were filled with silent Avengers, and then came Britisher# rushinj from their beds, WM. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR. crying for quarter, and then they get quarter of Paoli l And through the smoke and the gloom and tlia bloodshed of that terrible night, with the light of a torch now falling on his fare, with tlie gleam of starlight now giving a spectral appearance to his features, swept on, right on, over heaps of dead, one mag nificent form, grasping a stout broadsword in his right hand, which sternly rose, nod sternly blow, and laying them along the floor of the fort in the puddle of their own hireling blood. Ghosts of Paoli—about 1 £re }'* no > ter ribly avenged] “Spare roe—l have a wife—a child— they wait my return to England 1 Quarter — O,OBI ter !” “ 1 mind me of a man named Slujelmiie—* he had a wife and a child—a mother old and gray-haired waited his return from the. w ars. On the night of Paoli he cried foe quarter! Such quarter I give you—Re member Paoli !’* “ Spare *nc—quarter 1“ How that sword hisses through tho air I “ Remember Paoli!” *'l have a gray-haired father | Quar ter /” < “So had Daunton at Paolil Oh, remem ber Paoli 1“ ” Spare me—you m t haw no word t Quarter !** “Friend, I would spare thee if I dared. But the Ghosts of Paoli nerve my arm— ’ we had no swords at Paoli, and ye butcher ed us.’ they shriek. Oh, Remember Pao li !” HIRING A HOUSE. Many a dml! thing that we never hear of occurs in the house-hunting and house-refit* ing times. Many a good joke dies even in the moment of its birth, with perhaps, tiot a •ingle appreciating spirit near to enjoy tho facetia of the afltiir. We have caught at least one little anecdote, with some humor in it, that happened a short time since. A tall, thin, yellow, half-shrewd, half-sim ple looking non of Yankee land, from some where veiy far “doWn east,” stepped ashore from a vessel at the. levee; end, with a fe male counterpart (his better pert) on one arm, and a little fae simile of liimaelf in the other, lie strolled, for tlie first time, in tmorig the streets of New Orleans. The voesel lay in the third municipality, so that nut Yan kee friend soon found himself in the far off suburbs of “France.’’ His object was to find a cheap little house, etui get into it im mediately, so as to save the expense of spending some days in a boarding imute.— A bill ben; and there caught his attention, which he would anxiously atop to examine, but they all read—” Matson a Lover ,” end this our friend could nnt understand, though he guessed shrewdly enough at what it ought to mein. “ Say, misteer, look here!” said be, call ing to a big whiskered fellow across the street —“ Is this house to let t” “ Je vovs nt comprmd pat, Metneut,” re plied the Frenchman. “ What did he say ?” inquired the pu* zled stranger of his wife. “ Reckon I didn’t bear, nuther,” said she. “ He said something about hi* grand pa.” “ Is tbi* bouse your grandfather’s V’ tail ed out the Yankee again. “ Votre and; scour a nt se suit pat,” bawled the Frenchman, in tin irritable tone. ? “O! I see now—lie’s a parley too. Did yon ever are a live one before, Jemima TANARUS” said the Yankee traveler, examining the h reuchman from head to loot, with a sort of half-grinning, half perplexed stare. ” My ! do see the hair on hia face!** aaid Jemima. “ Let’a go on.” . ‘ i It was nnt long before he encountered a small edifice with the same announcement of “ Matson a Lover” upon the door. this house were resident*, and a woman came to the door toanawer to the Yankee* knock. “Good morning, marra; hope we don disturb ymi, nor nothing. It’s a fine ing, mnrm,” said our house-hunting hero. “Mui dispvesto a set title,” quietly res ponded the Spanish woman. “ Marin!” ejaculated the Yenkoe. “Do you want to hire out y>ur house-” said Jemima, stepping forward with a man ner that seemed to say “leave me to deal with my own sex.” “ Que diet, senora,” blandly replied the courteous daughter of Old Spain; and Je mima turned with a disconsolate air t<* her husband, saying— “ It’s no u-e, Ithabod ; this must be one of the sue parley toot.” V ; Tbev started again, and soon found anoth er “ Mai son a Lout) ,” which was open, and inside was b man white washing the walls. “ Mister, is this house to let ?” said Jcba bod, changing his little responsibility from one arm to the other. The man brushed awsy silently at tho wall, withuut deigning any kind of notice or response. “Say, friend; I reckon you ran giv* a body an answer of some kind, even if;? nint a civil one,” said Ichabrid, in brisk ftftifts tier. “ You folks in this village seem’ tti have about ns much civility for strangers oik* a cow’s tail has for gallinippers. If you’re a parley roo, mister, I don't ask anything you, cause then it’s only your ignonmeu but if you isn’t jest say if this ia tp let.” \ NUMBER 29. f