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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.’’ 43