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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