Newspaper Page Text
BY C. R. HANLEITER.
IP © E T ® ¥ „
For the “Southern Miscellany.”
HOME.
And what is Home ? Go ask the Mariner,
As lie rocks upon the wide and rolling deep;
His time-worn brow soon softens at the word—
His bosom heaves with rush of youthful thought—
He points to the dim line where cloud and sen
Blend in the distance —and he tells you, There!
So, by the roaring reef and howling storm,
He thinks him of his home--that lovely spot
Which lies not on the welcome lee—and sighs.
Ask now the Classic youth, who, free from school,
Has left h's Alma Mater’s sacred walls,
And roaming o’er the wide-spread prairie’s plain,
Or, climbing up the mountains of the West,
Secs far away the reaching distant vales,
And, far as sight can reach, encircling hill,
And lake, and upland slope, and winding stream —
Ask him, we say, if ho e’er thinks of Home ?
And lie will tell you, that the farewell rays
Os each departing sun brings Iresh to mind
His plaee of birth—and he is instant there !
0, sacred breathing thought! the soul is lost
lii sea of memory. Village— and w elling—grove,
And all the pleasing haunts of youth appi ar,
And childhood’s joyous days are passed again.
Scene after scene comes rushing on the mind,
And in a moment life is all re-past!
Who can forget that parent’s last farewell?
That look—that parting kiss—that lov’d one’s tears?
The costly mansion, or the humble cot —
The fertile plain, or cold und barren rock 7
All— *l.l.—arc hallowed as we backward look
Thro’ length’ning vistitof receeding years.
E'en tho’ ;fle footprints of decay are there,
And village Church has crumbled to the dust —
Paternal dwelling into ruin sunk —
Yet Home is there, and there our memory dwells :
‘l'uere we begin to live, and there we die !
MARO.
Madison, March, 1844.
§[£ LIE©T 1© TALiia
G RAND MOTHER’S GRAVE.
A Si'quel to “ Poor Bridget.”
BY 11. HASTINGS WELD.
CHAPTER I.
TIIE SYCAMORE TREE.
A gtoop are seated lien nth the spread
ing In .incites of a svVumore tree. It is the
beginning of autumn, and the livery of
oieen Begins tube spoiled with ‘he beauti
ful shades of nil Ameiican forest, as the
leaves tend to decay. A house, buried in
green, is just near enough to the fluty to
suggest the idea that it is their residence,
amfto throw the picture of comfort for
ward in the strongest relief. A colt, shag
gy in the absence of the jockey’s sheers, is
looking very sagaciously over the neighbor
ing Virginia fence ; and a lat Ohio hog, of
colossal dimensions, has studied up from
his feast of mast and acorns, and is watch
ing the process of tea-drinking, as it con
scious that the same parly would one day
eat him. He is holding an ant e-mot tem in
quest upon his own destiny.
On every hand, around the.pavly, are the
marks of haivest time on the faun. Ihe
wagons and implements peculiar to that sea
son tire standing about, as if late m use,
atid soon to tie resumed again ; and the out
houses already begin to look bursting wilh
plenty. The cider mill shows marks of re
cent activity, and tho well, with the long
bar balanced in the crotch of a tree, com
pletes tho picture. All looks like plenty,
welcome, and peace.
The snow-white cloth, upon which stands
the substantial yet plain tea equipage, is
covered also with accompaniments of sol
ids, more liberally provided than for many
a city dinner. About that board ate seated
a woman of thirty to thirty-five by out
chronology, but. ir. health, and bloom, and
youthfulness of appearance, scarcely twen
ty-five. She might easily be taken for the
sister of her daughter of sixteen, who sits
at her right—ami could not be suspected as
a mother at all, but for the roguish Buckeye
boy of some eight years of age, who keeps
her maternal authority ir constant demand,
to restrain his gaticheiies. All the test
seem to feel an air of subdued and melan
choly happiness—if we may be allowed the
expression. The boy knows no restraint,
and has just evaded bis mothers vigilance
fcnd thrown his slice of the griddle cake
with unerring aim, at a bird on the tree
above him.
Hotv his joyous laugh rings out! H,s
sister laughs too—so does his uncle, a man
scarce less a boy than the lad. His fatliei
says nothing—being like a wise man, un
willing to divide between himself and bov,
tho scolding which the mother freely ad
ministers to the tampant urchin. 1 here is
•me more in the group. Deep in a reverie,
he has just noticed the interruption which
‘he little incident created —and collected
himself again. He is old —some sixty-lire
years, or it may be seventy. Age lies light
on the hardy and temperate farmer. His
amnio forehead towers into one of those
magnificent bald heads upon which it is a
pleasure to look, with strong determination,
teverencti, and benevolence unerringly
mai kud upon it. His features are btousted
by the sun, up to the line where his heiw is
uiu dly covered. The dark hue there fades
into the while of the upper part of his bead
—•it is mi autumn study—that old mans
face. About to be gathered by llm Client
Koa per, it seems as if be bote where the
mu had kissed his cheek', like noil
Jk W®3Mj 3KT®ws3]pa]p©ff s E)®v®4®<3l 4® 3P®M4i@s a N®W3i, 3Li4®ffm4isiir® a Ma®lhaiana Air4s s San®ia®3 s to.
about him, the evidences of being fully
ripe, and ready for the garner. His bat is
carefully placed on a mound beside him.—
That mound is Grandmother’s Grave ;
and lie whom the gitl of sixteen is just ad
dressing as ’‘Grandfather,” is <lur old
friend, James Carleton. To those that
have lead “ Poor Bridget,” the party need
no farther introduction.
Fiteen years have passed since we left
“ Poor Bridget” the blooming bride of two
or three years’ standing. Another Btidget
had just joined the family then, and she has
made good use of her time, to grow up into
the beautiful gitl we now sec; her—so like
her mother too. Uncle Henry lias grown
to a man of thirty—but he still a bachelor,
and as before remarked, still a boy. John
Carleton has learned life’s responsibilities
and duties ; and in their fulfilment, as the
son of a patriarch, the husband of a woman
every way worthy of him, and the father of
childien in whom his heart is nroud, be en
joys all the satisfaction which the peiform
unee of a man’s duties in these natuial re
lations can give. His character is fully de
veloped—his mind knows no want of occu
pation, his days are never spotted with en
nui, and his nights never know a restless
pillow. Man is never a whole man until
ma tried
The sycamore tree had always been a fa
vorite haunt of the senior Carltton. It
seemed as if he thought that when seated
by his wife’s grave, he still enjoyed com
munion with her. It was his grand-daugh
ter's attention which spread the table be
neath the sycamore upon this, the annivei
sary of her grand-mother’s death. In re
turn, for this thoughtful kindness, the pa
triarch answered the thousand questions of
the favorite boy—his namesake. How end
less aie children’s inquiries! To answer
but suggests new questions, arid the wis
dom of age is baffled by the curiosity of in
fancy, which knows no teason why any an
swer should he denied, and will admit no
profession of ignorance in those whom its
childish reverence invests with ull knowl
edge.
James Carleton was betrayed into more
than the usual garrulity even of his age.—-
Little James wished to know why grand
mother was buried then—and who buried
her. The elder mem bets of the family
were insensibly led into participation in bis
inqoiiies, and the patriarch found himself
giving a history of Ids past life, of the jour
ney from New York to the West—of the
privations of the toad—of the labors of the
settlement —of the illness and death of ids
wife. His beautiful grand daughter had
seated herself on the sward at his feet, anil
disputed possession of his kness with little
James. As her blue eyes dwelt upon bis
countenance, he was forcibly reminded of
the youth of her mother, *• Poor Bridget,’’
ami his grateful heart whispered a silent
prayer of thanksgiving to the God who had
blessed iris humanity, in the mother and
children who were the solace of his age.
Long they sat in the mild twilight—
breathlessly they listened to the old man’s
low voice, as it detailed incidents so deeply
interesting to them. Each felt more knit
in heart to a spot so sacred, as, with all the
fervor of young love, that aged pilgrim
spoke of the departed. He seemed in
voice and in enthusiasm to have renewed
his you'll—as if he had laid it down in the
grave with het and look it up again, only,
when on this spot, and discoursing on this
theme, lie recalled her companionship. Is
it hard to believe that her spb.it, if not with
that little group, still smiled upon it, arid
imparted a purer mental joy than would
have been given by her presence in the bo
dy among them 1 We know not how we
love—we do not learn all that is lovely in
our friends, till death lias consecrated them
in our hearts.
And on such occasions as this, his adopt
ed daughter’s own mother was not forgot
ten. James Chi leton had repeated the tale
of that melancholy May-day so often, that
his little auditory could anticipate evety
word of his narrative. Still the recital nev
er wearied. The very words seemed to
come like old friends to the ear. and the
tale, as it was all they could have of the de
parted, became, to the mind, more than a
spoken narrative. It seemed a reality, and
while the family listened, it appeared that
the unknown, but well beb'ved. formed one
of the twilight circle. Imagination was
recked to invest the shadow with circum
stances —fancy created events in her life for
memory to dwell upon—till memory assum
ed them as facts, and deluded itself into a
connected narrative. Mrs. Carletnu’s in
fant reminiscences were repeated again, and
again, and her daughter’s heart glowed as
she felt how happier was her lot, than had
been the earlier years of her patents,
“ And now, Grandpa,” little James ask
ed, “isn’t father’s mother, and mother’s
mother, in Heaven 1”
“ So we trust.”
“ And they can tell each other all about
it, can’t they, Grandpa ? oh. how I wish
they could tell us ! IfGrandma Carleton is
in ileaen how can she he here 1” he ask
ed, placing his open hand upon the grave.
•• You will know, when you go to heaven,
James.”
•• And then, Grandpa, can’t * tell you, if
you wunt to know V
” 1 shall go first, my child.”
•• And will you be laid down litre, whim
MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, FRIDAY MORNING, MARCH 15, 1814.
you co to Heaven—and shall I too—and
will falhei and mother 1”
“ So 1 hope—for 1 would part with every
acre I possess, rather than grandmother’s
Ciave should pass from the possession of
her kindred. But 1 fear it may.” And the
party slowly and sadly moved from the spot
weighed down wilh the impression I hut
the patriarch’s fear might prove prophetic-
CHAPTER 11.
SPECULATION.
The seven first years of the decade we
have just passed, fbim an epoch which can
not be soon forgotten— at any rate, not
while those are living who participated in
its scenes of hourly increasing excitement,
and who, when at the extravagant altitude
of trading madness and visionary wealth,
found themselves suddenly plunged to the
hopeless depths of depression. The Eas
tern allegory was realised. The magician
Speculation filled men’s coffers with what
seemed bright gold—and when they would
have applied it to actual use, it proved mere
chaff.
How wonderful seems the retrospect —
how like a fiction—a figment of a roman
cer’s brain. We can scarcely realize the
possibility of scenes in which, mayhap, we
bore an active participation. We cannot
look back and convince ourselves, without
an effoit. that where the axe should have
been sounding, the report of the champaigne
bottle was echoing in ambitious pine Astor
arid Trernont Houses among the forest-trees.
’I hose houses still stand—the magnificent
cities in which they were placed by the fic
tion of the crayon and the stone, are still
swamp, or prairie, or forest. Like the
drunken reach of a staggering man, the
whole nation plunged forward, only to fall
hack—prostrate. The debility consequent
upon debauch, has not yet left the business
interests of the country —but we have all
the good resolutions of the first return of
sobriety. Heaven help us to keep them !
The golden vision had just began to fade
and be distrusted at the period at which
our talc* opens. Hence the elder Carleton’s
expressed fear—lienee the silent misgivings
in the heart of the others by which it was
answered—the fear that the proprietorship
of the Sycamore, as they called their hap
py home, would pass into other hands.—
But what, the reader may ask, was specula
tion to them 1 What ? They had not liv
ed removed from the spirit of the hour,
when “ madness ruled.” Not even their
quiet home could escape the subtle spirit of
speculation, which pervaded evety city,
startled every hamlet, visited every farm
house. Their very love of home had aided
the unfortunate delusion. They forgot the
associations which made the spot clear.—
They lost sight of the fact that it was to
them alone*, and toothers, who, like them,
had won'lie garden from the wilderness,
that the spot was dear. The value of the
land was vested in themselves—and r.o in
tiinsic pm petty of the mere soil. They mis
took this—and fancied all the world would
fall iu love with it at first sight—forgetting
how dreary at first sight it had been to
themselves. Imagination built a city for
them on their grazing and tillage lauds.
Their hills of coin grew to steeples as
they looked at them—potato patches swell
ed into squares, maikct places, and piles r,f
architecture. People do not cultivate stee
ples, squares, or granite blocks—the Carle
toiis and their neighbors took that for pres
ent which was at best but in the future, and
which is not yet. They parcelled their
farms into building lots—bought, sold, ex
changed, all grew; rich in theory*—and grew
poor in fact—for all not only neglected la
bor, but acquired a distaste flu it. This is
no fancy sketch, and is restricted to small
district. Reader remember that, within a
few yeats, breadstuff's have been impotted
into a count -y, in w hich careless cultivation
will produce more corn than can be eaten,
or even stoted.
The moral injury which I lie American
people suffered during this period of spec
ulation, has not been sufficiently dwelt up
on. We are too prone to count mere dol
lars and cents; and to forget the weightier
loss, in the wearing away of habits of ap
plication, and the acquirements of a distaste
and disdain for labor, and of a fondness for
every tiling which smacks of adventure and
excitement. The elder Carleton was too
old to have his character essentially chang
ed, and his was the conservativespiiil which
held the household to any thing of its old
habits of industry. John the husband and
father, bud a character formed, and though
both the seniors preserved something of
their original sobiiety—Henry—uncle Hen
ry—crazy Henry—what shall we say of
him ?
From the hour that the Sycamore liegan
to” i ise iu value,” Henry liegan to depre
ciate. The newspapeis told him too much
of the worth of land to permit him to la
bor upon it. He read too much of the “re
sources of tin? country,” to stoop to the
win k of developing tlu-m. He seemed to
act upon the principle that the lauded es
tate of which he was proprietor of an un
divided share, would, by some unexplained
and not understood process, go on and sup
port them nil. He was the orator of the
house, und persuaded his brother and fnlher
into the purchaser und nominal possession of
tract alter tract.until a township came into
their hands, ull of which they were resolved
to hold,till it was bought of them by an equal
surface of hank notes, They felt that they
had forestalled the universe, and that the so
lar system could hardly go on in its revolu
tions without eniiching them.
And how was the outlay made ? Dear
reader, can you ask 1 Have you forgotten?
It is ten to one that you speculated. Ranks
vveie liberal. A endorsed for B, C, D, E,
and F, to the end of the alphabet, and eve
ry letter endorsed back und forward.—
“Mercantile” papei was like a boarding
school miss’s letter—written across, then
perpendicularly, and then transversely.—
Not a souljCould feel a gr ipe that it did not
nip every fine of bis nrquaintance. This
answered very well, till a certain undefined
something which nobody never knew, ex
cept by beaisay—a something railed “con
fidence” was lost. Then came an epidemic
of fear. The whole alphabet swamped to
gether— banks—capitals—and all! But we
are anticipating.
Harry grew too proud to work. It cost
him some trouble to find any body who was
not like himself, a “ land owner,” to do the
labor which he should have done—but be
did find such persons, and borrowed bank
promises to pay them, or ran iu llieir debt.
If their charge was inordinate, it was so
much the better, being the evidence of “un
exampled prosperity;” and in proportion
as labor was dearer, the necessity for him
to labor was less. But he was great on bu
siness. He was fond of the busy idleness
of “ examining land,” and making excur
sions, an occupation which be flattered him
self was in some way forwarding his fortune
while it was only killing time. It came
near killing him.
But a few days from the date at which
our story opens, he started with two other
hairhraius. to “locate a tiact,” which is to
say, to define a lot for purchase, for in his
sanguine and reckless mind, the fire of spec
ulation was not yet extinct. Having reach
ed their destination, and paid more atten
tion to the picnic temptations of their ex
cursion, than to the land or the trees, the
madcap scheme came into their heads, of
rafting down tho tributary of La Belle Ri
viere, upon the banks of which they found
themselves. To the proper appointments
of a voyage, the prog and proven, was ad
ded the somewhat unusual aid of a cracked
violin, to which they had made love during
their excursion—and bought “at a specula
tion price,” from an emigrant party, who
saw little chance for the violin in log ca
bins.
Going down the stream was easy—but as
Henry afterward dcclaied, “ a heap mois
ten than it was easy.” The crazy viol rung
out buckeye songs iu right hilarious, if not
very harmonious notes ; ar.d the tunes of
Ole Virginity were not forgotten. Some
times they drifted down stream to the tune
of ‘ Such a getting up stairs.” and some
times the Oiplieus afloat touched the notes
of a ditty still inure appropriate to his po
sition, “ Setting on a rail.” “ Jenny is your
hoe-cake done, my darling I” minded them
of the homes they hardly cored to tench
while the fun lasted; and iaft and boat
tur.es were played in all their variety. Not
even a backwoodsman, however, can stand
every thing. A day and a night of this
amusement was considered good qualifica
tion and endorsement for the fever and
ague, and when,Henry readied the latch
string at his father’s door, his fingers shook
at it, as they say in the West, “ with a per
fect loosness.”
CHAPTER 111.
SICKNESS OE BODY —SICKNESS AT HEART.
Ague receives little chaiity at the West.
There is an air of low comedy about it,
which, despite the misery of the disease,
makes the spectator laugh, and so it would
the sufferer, if lie could keep his teeth still
long enough.
Oh, what’* the ma'ler, #lint’s the mntter,
Whai is’t dun nils young Harry Gill;
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still.
One could almost fancy ihat the little poem
of Wordsworth, from which the above lines
are quoted, had been shaken out of him in
the Dismal Swamp—so pet feet is the pic
ture of a man whom the shakes is on. All
the fleece, of all the flocks on the Grampi
an Hills, would not warm a poor fellow one
moment—in the next, ull the icebergs of
Nova Zernbla would not cool him. But
Harry got no pity, lie expected none.—
Even his niece, Budget, w ho loved her un
cle as the apple of Iter eye, mocked his
ague ; and little Jem, tauntingly asked him
if he could not “keep still a shaking.”—
There came sluutly something more potent
than morphine—and it settled his nerves.—
it was tho sudden news that the Carleton
Family were beggars—the landed pioptie
tors—tlie owners of a city in prospect could
not even claim longer proprietorship of
“ Grandmother's Gtave.”
The Rocky Mountain Rniltnad and Katn
schatkun Mining and Banking Company
had Jailed. Assets—six dollars in specie,
sixty thousand iu other Wild Cut Notes,
und half u million iu the alphabet business
paper, before referred to. Liabilities—an
enormous and unknown circulation, much
of it in the hands of Iroldrrj, clamoring for
the “ prcie’’—the teat divided among other
Wild Chi Banks, who nil affected a holy
horror of the mismanagement of the Rocky
Mountain Railroad and Kamachatkan Min
ing and Bunking Company, in order to hide
their own delinquencies, and keep the pub
lic from fulling upon them also.
Blow did this affect the Carletnns 1 Bless
your soul, sir, didn’t it tuin confidence 1 —
And what can people do, who have more
promises to tedeem could accom
plish in eternity, without confidence I But
there was something mote tangible than
even this. The Corletnns were, in the first
place, large stockholders. Next, they were
large debtors to the Batik, in their own di
rect capacity, aid next, they had been so
’’ accommodating” that their names as en
co sets, were upon nearly every promissory
note which had been done. Not a note, so
so far as the mmmissinneis could discover,
which had ever been discounted by the
Bank had ever been paid. When they
reached maturity, the uniform custom was
to renew them,or accept otheisin exchange.
Tim directors could not bring their minds
to afflict the debtors of the institution—the
more.particularly as the offireis of the Bank
represented the great bulk ofthe debt them
selves.
Batik commissioners have no such bow
els of compassion ; and if they had, as the
case usually stands, tliey could not exercise
mercy. The public has an awkward habit
of prying into the affairs of an institution
whose demise has touched their pockets,
and that awkwaid cimit) stance compels
debtors to walk up—if they can, and if tint,
to follow the example of the hunk and sus
pend. The Carletnns hud a note due, for
more than they were actually worth in the
world. They had secuted the promise of
(lie Directors for anew discount, and were
just ready to receive the money ftom the
paying teller of the Rocky Mountain Rail
road and Kamschatkan Mining and Bank
ing Company, when the news t>f the fail
ure foil upon them like a thunderbolt. Dis
counts in other quat lets could not be had
—fi r as before letnarked “ confidence” was
gone. The whole alphabet of drawers and
endorsers were exposed ; and the etedit of
any otic of them alone w as not worth a bar
rel of flour. Combined, ibeir credit was
not woi lit a loaf of bread. There aie some
good things, of which the more you have,
the worse you are off and of that charactei
is the credit of a batch of insolvents.
Henry’s intermittent had changed to a bil
ious fever. The news, which could not lie
concealed ftom him, gave melancholy wild
ness to his ravings. His niece wept, ns in
Itei faithful attendance upon his bedside, site
heard the litterings of his insane fancy—
now revelling in tidies, and anon mourning
in povettv. At one time he would sing
snatches of ribald songs, and in the next
hiealh he would speak of his mother. Now
he spoke of “ lots” and townships, .like a
Czar of his dominions—and t ow ho howled
defiance at those who would desecrate his
mother’s grave!
Mysterious insanity ! Often in its fan
cies is it prophetic, and exceeding sanity in
its wisdom. The maniac occasionally knew
that ALL would not satisfy the demands
against the estate. The well in body were
weak in mind. They fancied that the sale
of their swelled and unproductive accumu
lations of land titles would relieve them of
embaiiassments, and leave the homestead
untouched. But alas ! “ Confidence” was
lost. The holt had sped. The fairy screen
which had shut out reality from the eyes of
men, had fallen with till its gorgeous drape
ry. The truth was revealed. People laugh
ed when land sales at Speculation Prices
were spoken of, and every thing fell back
to iis minimum maiket value. The auc
tioneer’s hammer filled the perspective.—
The nominal properly of the Carleton’* de
preciated seventy-five per cent—or rather
itud returned to its true estimate. Their li
abilities were us large us over—for figures
do not depreciate; and—they were beggars.
House, home, the Sycamore and its cherish
ed shadow over the living and over the dead,
were theirs no longer.
CHAPTER IV.
DAY BREAKS —THE PITCHER IS BROKEN AT
THE FOUNTAIN.
Not a worn of Bii'dget’s lover 1 She had
one certainly —but while so many more
pressing themes were forced upon us, ex
cuse us for forgetting him. Now, that he
will shntily become of use, it is time to in
troduce him. He is a lawyer. To the na
tural shrewdness of the man, he odds the
acquired tact of the profession, and in no
part of his life lias lie shown mote of tine
wisdom than in his choice of a help meet.
He continued Bridget that the golden
dreamsw'f her ft tends would end in poveity
—and when tho blow came he forbore to
allude in a single word to his ptopheeies.
He did not once say, *’ l told you so.” That
trait is wai lanl tl ai he is a gentleman. And
when adversily nveitonk :he luridly Iu: re
doubled his attention. Set him down there
fore, for an honest lawyer. He is her bus
bund now—a fact which wo here record,
as we may not have time to speuk of it
hereafter.
Bridget sat with him ot Henry’s bedside.
A parcel received from the apothecary had
just been stripped of its outer envelope—n
stray half of an old newspaper. Ho took
it up listlessly. Suddenly his attention is
attracted, lie is on the point nt’speukiug but
fin bears. Again lie starts, as something
else has caught Ids eye. He speaks, but
Bridget is too much erigug<*d with her pa
tient to notice him. He has thought better
of it, and m bile his trembling fingers betray
VOLUME IUNUMBER 51.
his agitation, he bat carefully folded that bit
of paper, red placed it in his pocket.
Lover’s leave-takings ate very interest
ing— to themselves. The reader will par
don the omission of the details in this ease.
Bridget ex pres-ed no surpii e when Mr.
Bie’jvster told her that he was railed by bu*
siness to New York, and that his stay was
uncertain. It might be a fortnight—-it
might he a month—it might be more. She
wished him God speed on his journey; and
it may Ire that they exchanged a ktss. If so,
they never have mentioned it. • !
Henry slowly mended. He returned to
health with p. stronger heart, and with firm*
er purposes than his friends possessed who
had not yet been sick. A full knowledgs
nl their destitution had come to him, while
he was yet weak arid indifferent to the world
—its fortunes or misfortunes. He awoke
from his delirium slowly to receive anew
the tidings which had thrown him into it,
and which had passed nwav with his insani
ty ns a painful dream. With the moibid
feeli.ngs of an invalid, he tegnrded himself
as no longer for the world, and of course
considered the loss of this world’s pelf a* no
misfortune. As hope gathered strength;
and ns he looked forth from his window on
glotious nature—now in the melancholy
grandeur of the sere and yellow leaf, ha
gained strength ot mind as well as of body.
Winter, lie said, approaches in ito turn—
without it we could not welcome Spting.—
Misfortune must visit us—else would w
never know joy.
The elder Carleton was the most unhap
py. curl he had reason. The little world
about him seemed us one of his own crea
tion. He hud by the sweat of his own
blow won a paradise from the wilderness.
Every object, the most insignificant was
dear to him, as having been absolutely the
work of his hands, or as having in some
manner received improvement, culture, or
direction from him. He knew that in the
ordinary course of nature he could not long
associate with those familiar objects—but
he did hope that his children would live,
and their children would grow up among
them. It seemed to him like dying twice
to give them up, and then go away from the
grave of his wife to lay his hones down
among strangers. He wandered about like
a stranger in his own home, and the anx
ious observation of aflectinu could detect
an increase of ten yeats in his age, in a lew
short weeks.
The elder son was more firm. He was
yet in the prime of his strength— at the
very age when his father commenced life
in the wi'derneap. His manly hearing, and
the kind attention of Mrs. Colleton, of
Bridget, and of Her.ry, often deceived the
old gentleman into calmness. Invaluable
indeed to him now, were the kind <>llsooß of
his early protege, and her daughter. More
than ever did he delight to watch them with
the covetousness of after tion, as if they did
him n wrong, and robbed him of a light
when they left Iris sigh*, a moment. The
fancies of dotage were strong in his old
heart—and in his second chiluhnod he liv
ed over his first ; only that he was some
times puzzled by the close resemblance of
the mother and daughter. He could not
comprehend two sister Bridgets; as the
likeness of the departed playmate of hie
infancy was reproduced to him twice.
It is another autumn twilight. Six week*
have elapsed since the opening of this sketch,
and the same family are again seated in the
twilight, under the Sycamore, They ara
more melancholy now than they were then,
for no shade of hope passes through their
thoughts. What was then indistinct (ear ia
to them now sobre reality. The worst ia
known—tire worst is felt. They are no
longer under their ow n shade—and they
almost wish to hurry the forms of law, that
their fate may he settled at once, and their
expulsion consummated.
A step approaches. It it Brcwstei’s—
and he looks, too, the bearer of good ti
dings. Bridget's face reflects his, lor she
thinks Iris is the mere joy of meeting, and
in the sincerity of a Buckeye gill she lakea
no pains to conceal hers, and (or the mo
ment forgets nuTotlune. The mother looks
up half reprovingly —hut the expression of
displeasure passes from her fine counten
ance, ond she rother seems to rejoice that
anv|oue of the afflicted household con forget
the woe that suirounds them.
Little Jem bounds to meet Brewster, and
has seized a packet from his hands, being
suspicious of confects. While he discuss
es that package, let Brewstei open his mi
sion—for he lias one. The oIJ man haa
risen !<> extend his bund. Brewster takes
it, arid placing ill it the hard of his adopted
daughter, says—“ Mr. Caileton, in ‘ Poor
Bridget’ ernhiaee your sister'* cli'lcl.”
“ 1 knew it—l knew it*--1 ‘old you so,
over nud often f” exc'aitned the old man,
sinking on his knees beido the grave, and
apostrophizing his wife. “But how did
you find it out, sir 1 at.d are you sure? J
bid.”
•• Yes sir, sure. On this hit of newspa
per, which 1 found in Henry's chamber, I
read nn advertisement, culling upon Bridg
et Carieton, or her legal representatives, tu
coire foi wind and prove their identity.—
She was your sister Bridget, who emigrated
to America before you, and win m you sup
posed dead, long before you witnessed her
death without knowing it,” The old man
had seated himself on the grave, and buried
his face in hit hands. The family gathered