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©riginal £alcs.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE COUNTRY COUSIN.
by miss c. w. barber.
Charles, are you going to Mrs. Smith’s
party to-night ?”
“ No, Ellen, I am not.”
‘•Now did the sun ever shine upon such a
provoking fellow before ? Here papa has been
sending you to college, and no sooner did you
complete your course there than of! you went
scampering all over Europe, like a creature
half wild, hunting up antiquities, and plung
ing into half-buried cities. At last you are
back again, finished , —polished up by travel
and books until polishing can do no more for
vou. Your voice is like an Italian’s—you
have the politeness of a Frenchman —the
scholarship of a German—the complexion of
an Englishman —the wit of an Irishman, and
last, though not by any means least, the im
>period whiskers of a Russian. You are fitted
to go out into society, and dash about as nev
er mortal being dashed in this town before.
The Goldings, the Ledyards, and the Stan
vans are half dead to get an introduction to
‘Charles Lincoln, Esquire, recently from Eu
rope but, alas! —do I hear’ rightly ? You
resolutely and determinedly refuse to gratify
them. You will not even condescend to hon
or a little social party, gotten up expressly
on your account, with your august presence.
Now, tell me why you refuse to gratify some
of our most brilliant belles this evening.”
“ Pshaw! Ellen, you run on like a crazy
creature. lam not half so important a per
sonage as you would make me believe myself
to be, and, moreover, I am tired of balls, par
lies and assemblies. I have seen and admired
beautiful, amiable, witty and artificial crea
tures called ladies , and belles, until I am hear
tily sick of seeing and admiring. I had ra
ther take a nap on the sofa, than chat about
French Novelists or Italian vocalists. I have
heard those themes discussed a thousand
times —I am weary, tired to death, of fashion
and noise, and I am determined to go down
to-morrow into the country—clear off down
to Glenwood —where our third cousin’s cous
in lives, old Ephraim Gilbert. I remember
how happy I used to be there, when I was
a boy, making dandelion-chains for Grace,
and setting bird-traps for little Sam. By the
way, Ellen, is Grace married ?”
“ I don’t know nor care,” replied Ellen
pouting out her pretty lip, and kicking an ot
toman half over by her feet. “You are so
provoking! I had set my heart on cutting a
dash with my lion-brother, but 1 find myself
bitterly disappointed.”
“Can’t help it, sis! I have made up my
mind to go off among sensible, every-day,
common-sense-sort-of-people once more, and
go I must. I want some of Aunt Pamelia’s
garden strawberries, and fresh cream. I want
to hear the birds sing, and the brooks purl,
and the lambs bleat, and the cows low, and a
thousand other heart-cheering sounds, which
used to come to me down at Uncle Ephraim’s.”
“ And Grace churn, and Sam halloa and
whistle, while following the plough,” said
Ellen in the same petulant manner.
‘‘Yes, yes,” said the young man, running
his white fingers through his French whiskers
carelessly, “ above all things I want to hear
Grace sing at her churning, and Sam whistle.”
“ Well, then, I suppose the die is cast —the
*hing is settled. Miss Grace Gilbert is to be
come Mrs. Charles Lincoln. They will be
married about three months hence, out in
Pamelia’s sitting room, upon a nicely
sanded floor, by Parson Littlejohn, and afte r
! he ceremony is through with, Aunt Pamelia
will herself hand about the refreshments —
n at-cakes, apples, cider and cheese, and such
like substantial things. May the Lord deliv
€r me from the sight!”
§©IS If SUE IE El &, aTFSIE AIB ® ASSMII,
“No, no, Nell, indeed I shall not dispense
with your services on the occasion. Sam
will be bride’s-man; you will be bride’s
maid.”
The picture drawn by Ellen’s imagination
of a country wedding, finished out by her
brother’s allusion to herself, struck her so lu
dicrously that she could not restrain a hearty
laugh. Her ill-temper vanished away, and
rising she drew the sofa, upon which she was
sitting, to the window, and sat down where
the rich light of the setting sun, tinged with
a more golden hue her flaxen hair, and lin
gered and played upon the rich furniture and
fine old pictures with which the room was
decorated. “Charles,” at length she said ab
ruptly, after a long silence, during which both
had apparently been lost in thought; “You
were not in earnest just now?”
“I was in earnest when I said I was not
going to the party, but was going to the coun
try,” replied he, pulling out his gold repeater
very deliberately.
“What has possessed you with the idea
Charles?”
“ Why?- is there anything very incompre
hensible about such an intention, Sis ?”
“What amusements do you propose fol
lowing there ?”
“0! amusements will not be rare. lam a
geologist and mineralogist, and I shall find
specimens of mica, crystal, slate, and nobody
knows what not. lam a ..botanist, and ex
pect at this season to find ‘the woods full of
wild flowers, as well as game, fori shall take
my fowling piece along. Then I shall talk
with Uncle Ephraim about importing stock,
&c.—help Aunt Pamelia about her cheese,
and ride horse-back with Sam and cousin
Grace.”
“You will be ashamed to be seen in the
company of cousin Grace I dare to assert,”
said Ellen rather spiritedly.
“ Not unless she is a different being from
what I expect to find her,” said Charles.
“ She will be a different being, brother.—
She has grown up, I dare say, tall and awk
ward —her hands will be embrowned by do
mestic labor, and her dress will excite your
laughter. What opportunity has she ever
had of mingling in polite society, and becom
ing a lady? None Charles. Her father is a
country farmer—ours is a city banker. We
may be distant cousins, but we are not asso
ciates.”
Charles did not reply, but wound and re
wound his watch-chain about his finger.—
He thought of Grace Gilbert as he had last
seen her —a child of nine summers, with rosy
cheeks, auburn hair, blue eyes, and a fore
head which bore the impress of more than
childhood’s intelligence. He had thus thought
of her a thousand times. In the fine old stu
dios of Italy, where forms of almost angelic
beauty looked out from the canvass, and
whispered seemingly of Heaven, the image of
that child came up between him and them, and
he turned away with a home sickness about
his heart. In the circles of Paris, where he
had moved among the most courtly of beau
ties, the face of the child still followed him—
he could not rid himself of it. Again and
again as he moved about, he said to himself,
“ if I ever live to reach America, I will see
Grace Gilbert; the bud was fair—the flower
will be beautiful.”
At last he turned back with a glad heart
towards the home of his childhood. He
reached it, and found that Ellen, his only sis
ter, had grown up in his absence, to be what
the world called, “a brilliant woman;” he
found his father’s house the centre of fashion
and gaiety, and then his heart yearned more
than ever after the one being whose remem
brance had tinted his life, with all the rosy
colorings of Hope.
True to the resolution he had formed, he
departed the morning after the conversation
related, alone, for the residence of Uncle
Ephraim Gilbert, down in Glenwood. When
he arrived near his journey’s end, his anxiety
to know what kind of a creature Grace had
become during the years of his absence, be
came almost painful. Every thing in the vi
cinity of the farm as he passed hastily along,
served to remind him of his childhood—there
was the crooked tree where he and Sam had
once hung a swing, and tossed Grace upward
until she came near fainling from dizziness—
here was a brook where he had culled moss
for her to weave into baskets—there he had
angled, and further on he had chased the
hoop. What a change had come over him
since those glad days! then he was ignorant
of the world; now he was intimate with all
of its most subtle ways.
As he drew near the fine old white farm
house of the Gilberts, his ear w*as attracted
by a strain of piano-music, which stole sweet
ly through the half raised windows of the old
fashioned parlor. He paused a moment and
looked eagerly towards them, but they were
so completely covered by an immense white
rose tree which was trailed along the case
ment, until a mass of snowy flowers and
thick green leaves hung like a curtain over
them, that he could discover nothing that was
passing within. He passed on to the gate
where an elderly gentleman was standing,
whom he immediately recognised as Uncle
Ephraim. He announced himself, and was
received with a perfect outburst of joy.
“ I never should have known you in the
world, Charles,” said the old man surveying
him from head to foot. “ Bless me! how you
have grown. But come into the house wherfc
your Aunt and Cousin are sitting.”
Charles followed, mechanically, the foot
steps of the old man over the stone-paved
walk, which wound among the shrubbery in
the front yard, and then up the stone steps
leading into the house. He had often entered
the palaces of the old world, more self-pos
sessed than he now followed the footsteps of
that old farmer into his parlor. As he en
tered the room, a young lady of seventeen or
eighteen, was leaning gracefully with one el
bow” revsting upon the piano, while with her
other hand she turned over the leaves of a
new piece of music. She w r as below the or
dinary size, and her delicate form was clad
in a dress of purest white. Some of her hair
had escaped from the comb which should
have confined it, and hung in fine auburn
ringlets around her cheeks. One glance told
Charles Lincoln that his fairest dream was
more than realized. Grace Gilbert had ri
pened into beautiful womanhood.
* * * * * * *
Summer had passed aw*ay, and winter had
brought nicely-piled grates, and heavy car
pets —thick clothing and furs into the comfor
table parlors of the Lincolns. They w r ere
rich; they knew nothing by experience of the
pinching cold and want, of utter destitution.
Ellen sat with an open letter in her hand,
while Mrs. Lincoln was busy over a long
strip of ruffling close by. At last Ellen spoke.
“Mamma here is news for us from Charles;
can you guess what it is ?
“No indeed, I cannot.” said Mrs. Lincoln,
looking earnestly up. “ Nothing unpleasant,
I hope.”
“ No, I am sure from the manner in which
he writes, that he regards the matter as far
from unpleasant. He is about to be married
to one of the loveliest creatures in the world,
according to his story. He does not say
where she is from, hut I think from her name
she must be a foreigner—“ Maria Jane Soze
noski.” He became acquainted with her on
the continent. Since his return to America,
he has had the pleasure of meeting with her
in Philadelphia—the acquaintance has been
renewed, and now he brings her home, as
“Mrs. Lincoln.” He says we must be pre
pared to give her a warm reception, for he is
sure we will love her.”
“ I hope we shall,” said Mrs. Lincoln
thoughtfully. “I always had great confi
dence in Charles’ judgment—l believe he
would choose a wife wisely.”
“I do not know about it,” said Ellen with
a laugh. “ Mamma did you know* that the
fellow went down to Glenwood, soon after
his return from Europe, head-over-ears in love
with Grace Gilbert. That is, he fancied he
should be in love with her, for he had not
seen her since she was a very little girl. But
I think the trip sobered him. He came back,
and to all my inquiries about her, he was as
mum as a deaf man. I have not heard him
mention her name since.”
“Grace was a beautiful child, hut she can
not have made much of a woman —her ad
vantages have been too limited,” remarked
Mrs. Lincoln. “I could have told Charles
that before he started.”
A few* weeks after this conversation, all
w*as stir and bustling gaiety in the house of
the bridegroom. Charles came home with
his lovely and accomplished wife. To Ellen,
the slender, fair and graceful creature whom
he introduced, was almost more than human.
She was never weary with looking into her
sw*eet sac tired with the low thrilling
tones of her voice—never fatigued with hold
ing her soft hand clasped in lier’s, or with
following her through the brilliantly lighted
rooms, prepared for her reception. She loved
her from the first moment that she saw her,
w*ith the enthusiasm of a friend, and the pride
of a sister.
Charles watched her narrowly, and every
now and then, a half-formed smile played
about his lips. At length, he took Ellen’s
arm, and drew her into one of the secluded
recesses by the window.
“ What do you think of my bride, Sis?—
Are you ashamed to acknowledge her as your
sister ?”
Ellen turned her eyes full of wonder up
into his face.
“ Ashamed of her, Charles! She is the most
perfect creature I ever saw.”
“ And yet,” said the bridegroom in a teas
ing tone, “ you once told me that I should be
ashamed of her.”
“Never!” said Ellen in astonishment.—
“You jest Charles!”
“No sister, I do not. The fair creature that
you see yonder, is none other than cousin
Grace Gilbert of Glenwood, now my wife.”
Ellen uttered a faint scream, and said,
“ Charles, how cruelly you have deceived us,
—‘ Maria Jane Sozenoski, indeed!’”
“ I knew that you, as well as half of the
world, loved high-sounding foreign names.
So I re-christened Cousin Grace, for your es
pecial benefit. I told you in my letter, that I
first met with her on the continent. So I did
—but it was on the Western; somewhere in
the vicinity of Uncle Ephraim Gilbert’s farm.
You knew the geography of the place very
well when you were a little girl, I after
wards met with her in Philadelphia, whither
Uncle sent her to finish her school education,
and whither I repaired by agreement. Is it
not all as clear as daylight ?’’
“It is,” said Ellen, “ but who would have
thought it ? I shall look up country Cousins
after this.
|| infllTT’ W IITTTWI
PUNCTUALITY.
Industry is of little avail, without a habit
of very easy acquirement —punctuality! on
this jewel the whole machinery of successful
industry may be said to turn.
When lord Nelson was leaving London on
his last, but glorious, expedition against the
enemy, a quantity of cabin furniture was or
dered to be sent on board his ship. He had
a farew*ell dinner party at his house; and the
upholsterer having waited upon his lordship,
with an account of the completion of the goods,
he was brought into the dining room, in a cor
ner of which his lordship spoke with him.—
The upholsterer stated to his noble employer,
that every thing was finished, and packed, and
would go in a waggon, from a certain inn, at
six o'clock. “And you go to the inn, Mr. A.,
j and see them off. ” “I shall my lord; I shall
!be there punctually at six.” U A quarter be
fore six, Mr. A.,” returned lord Nelson; “be
i there a quarter before: to that quarter of an,
hour, I owe every thing in life.’’
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