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miles, the carriage which bore me to her,
wound along the course of a silvery and pla
cid river, oordered by gently sloping banks,
upon which green lordly elms, whose pendu
lous branches dipped into the water. On all
•udes of us were meadows, well-tilled fields,
and well-laden orchards. When we drew
near our place of destination, we saw neat
looking barns and corncribs; then we enter
ed upon a graceful carriage sweep, and in a
moment, were before the old farm-house. —
Was ever anything greener than the grass of
the lawn before the house, whiter than the
geese which gabbled out a welcome to us,
more rosy than the apples which bent down
the trees, more fragrant than the stocks and
other late blowing flowers, or sweeter than
Aunt Mary Alford’s smile of greeting. That
smile showed how handsome she had once
been, and so irresistible was it, that 1 wonder
any heart could ever have defied its power.
When I had been at Alford farm a few
weeks, I was one day surprised at seeing a
splendid carriage drive up to the house, and
a stately gentleman alight from it, and take
out two little girls, all clad in mourning garbs;
but my surprise was breathless when I saw
him ascend the steps, and fold to his heart
with affectionate warmth, the prim form of
Aunt Mary. I soon found out he was the
distinguished Henry Alford—the Statesman
and Diplomatist, and good reason had he to
love his sister Mary. She had been the men
tor of his youth, and her own hands had as
sisted in procuring the means for his educa
tion. She had been his sympathising, appre
ciating friend in every event of his life, and
now he came from a foreign land, wearing a
widower’s weeds, and he had brought the
motherless little girls to the devoted sister,
begging she would supply to them the place
of his lost Annie. Well did she supply a
mother’s place to the orphans, and well have
they repaid Aunt Mary’s care; and if ever
there was a woman loved, honored and vener
ated, it is that golden hearted “old maid,”
Aunt Mary Alford.
With what unfeigned reluctance do I turn
from such a memory, to that of Miss Ann Or
ton, whom, when I commenced this paper, I
particularly purposed to portray. She lacks
most, if not all the qualities which make Aunt
Mary so loveable. She has not her strength
rs mind, her devotedness of affection, or her
v weet simplicity of character.
I know not that I ever heard any one des
cribe her in her youth, which was indeed be
fore the recollection of any but the grandmo
thers of our times, for Miss Ann cannot be
less than fifty, and may be older than that.—
Her personal appearance, when I knew her,
might be thus described : tall, erect, and of
rather a good figure, apart from the detrac
tion years had made, and the assistance art
gave it; her hair still black and abundant;
her eyes equally dark, piercing and unquiet
m expression; the nose sharp and rigid in
outline, lips thin and compressed, complexion
dark but clear; in short, had she been any
one else than Miss Ann Orton, she would
have passed tor a fine looking woman, for
she was certainly “well preserved,” and
seemed not to carry more than forty years.
In the gay colors and fashionable make of
her dress, she affected the most interesting ju
venility. It is true, her hair was concealed
n the morning, by a coquettish little cap—but
in the evening, it fell in luxuriant ringlets,
and then the delicate muslin wrapper was ex
changed for the low cut brilliante or barage.
I first made her acquaintance in a little vil
lage in the interiorof my native State. I was
there simply as a summer resident, but so
were others, and a kind of exotic gaiety re
lieved the humdrum existence otherwise led
there. 1 was standing with a friend by the
window of the hotel, watching the arrival of
passengers from the cars:
‘ See, I exclaimed,” those well appointed
trunks and carpet bags—and the owner has
on the prettiest travelling dress I have seen
SQSUFffISI&EI Qa II ‘if SIB j& IB © & 8 SIT ITU .
this summer; were not the tones of her voice
so loud and shrill, and her manner so imperi
ous to the servants, and so petulant in settling
her fare, I should be inclined to call her a la
dy.”
My friepd turned, laughing at the distinc
tion which had transformed the handsomely
dressed lady into a coarse, vulgar woman,
when her eye rested on the new comer.
“ Angels and ministers of grace and charity
and peace towards all men, and women too,
defend us!” was her involuntary exclamation.
“Farewell, peace and comfort, and all hopes
of privacy, for there comes the universal
news-monger, and state gossip, Miss Ann Or
ton. In three days our incomes, and connex
ions, and wardrobes, and tiniest faults will be
as well known to her as they are to us.”
I made some enquiries touching her per
sonally, for her renown had long since
reached me, but my friend simply replied —
“I will tell you nothing; you will see her at
the dinner table, for she would not miss an
opportunity of seeing the company there,
were she half dead with fatigue—and you
must form your own estimate of her person
ally.”
As an unprotected lady like myself, Miss
Ann was sure enough my vis-a-vis at table,
beside our hostess, who was an old friend of
General Orton, the lady’s father.
“ You have a great crowd here this sum
mer, Mrs. Hanson,” she commenced over her
soup, “I saw quite a group of fashionables at
Anderson’s new hotel, where the omnibus
stopped to leave some passengers, and there,
Mrs. Selwyn was standing on the upper pi
azza; I suppose she still leads the fashion
here; a flaunting girl from Medford was
leaning familiarly on her arm. I wondered if
she was tolerated in good society here ! why
I remember when her father came to Med
ford ten years ago, he clerked it for a confec
tioner there, and her mother made candies
and pies of a week day, and read her Bible
upside down, when Sunday came and she
saw other people reading! This young lady
ran in and out the dirty shop barefoot and
clad in homespun ! Fine doings truly, when
people of good family must see such as she
ruling the roast. The ladies here cannot be
aware of that girl’s family, or, is it enough
for them that she has plenty of money at
command, and is supported by Mrs. Selwyn’s
favor 1 I shall make it my business to let
the truth be known.”
And so she did, and had her words told as
she intended they should on the inoffensive
and well bred girl she sought to injure, she
would have been cast out of society, but all
were prepared and guarded against Miss
Ann’s venom.
I frequently heard the lady expressing her
surprise that such, and such a friend whom
she had formerly visited, did not invite her to
their house, knowing her to be in town.
“It is so strange and ungratefu 1 of Mrs.
Lee, for when she was so sick last summer
did I not go into her family, and take all the
care of it upon my shoulders, nursing herself
too day and night, and now she does not ev
en call on me!”
Ah! Miss Ann you forget, what Mrs. Lee
well remembers, that during her illness you
pried into all their family affairs, and have
since gossiped them over the country, wound
ing their sensitiveness very sorely, and their
delicacy to an incurable degree.
That very impulse to compassion and
kindness v/hich would make her an invalua
ble friend in sickness and trouble, is thus
rendered of none effect, or is accounted only
as officiousness, because her propensity to
pry and gossip is so irresistible, and the least
reserve assumed as a protection against it,
makes her your bitter enemy. Especially
can she never forgive those who marry well,
and live happily, unless she has been con
sulted and her advice considered, though per
chance, you may gain her grace in this case,
if you will admit her into your family for as
long a visit as she may incline to make, and
if you have no real disagreements with your
husband, assume some occasionally and
pour out the sorrow they bring you in her
sympathising ear. Then she will pity you,
protect you, and only speak of the matter to
a “few particular friends.”
1 do not know whether an affair of the
heart, induced her to live an old maid, or
whether she is an unfortunate one for whom
none ever sighed. I heard her once giving
some advice to a party of young girls, to the
effect that when a gentleman drew his chair
up towards them they were not to dash him
by drawing away from him, but must en
courage him by kind words and sweet smiles,
and perhaps they would hear—a declaration!
I inferred that she might thus perhaps have
“dashed” her own cup of happiness, and
now be ever tormented with remorse for the
same. Poor Miss Ann! she has “outlived
love ” —her own family have all gone down
into the grave, and her own generation are
departed too, or only live in and for their
families, a suitable existence for those who
have attained the age of half a century.
She stands alone —no kindred claim her, no
friends love her—the new generation know
not either her family’s or her own claims for
respect and affection. She has “spunged”
on the whole world, and gossiped about them,
or put them on their guard against her by
what she tells them of others. I am sorry
for her that such is the case: that she never
learned the art of “growing old gracefully
that she is an old maid!
Original soctqi.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
GOD IN NATURE.
Come, climb with me this mountain top,
Thou unbeliever in Eternal Good !
And look upon the wide, outstretching scene,
That from the summit meets the eager sight !
Far as the eye may reach, a varied map
Os earth and water, upland, mead and vale,
Os flowery fields and forests wild ;
Acres which bless the thrifty farmer’s toil,
And barren peaks, where not a leaflet grows.
This varied scene in solemn beauty lies,
On which the heart with just conceptions fraught,
In admiration muses, and turns mute.
What say'st thou, unbeliever, dark of soul !
Did chance accomplish all 1 Does chance maintain
The graceful harmony in constant round 1
Come thou most learned of unbelieving men,
Whose deep Philosophy has mastered Art,
Will all thy skill create a simple flower
Like this sweet Blue-bell, that amid the crags
Looks up in beauty, smiling to the sun—
Thou canst not! —Then, perhaps, thou canst
unmake:
Take this —an atom; exercise thv power!
Destroy ! annihilate! Thou look’st abashed ;
Thy boasted skill is vain! Now answer me:
If the mean dust be of immortal mould,
Why, what art thou, who to the soul deniest
Its immortality 1 Blaspheming man !
Go hide thy pigmy head! In sackcloth weep,
And pray thy soul may be with grace illumed!
J. L*****.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE BRAID OE HAIR.
In the world is nought more lovely
Than this braid of soft brown hair,
Which a beauteous maid en gave me,
O’er my swelling heart to wear.
Hazle eyes were softly gleaming,
Rosy cheeks with smiles were beaming,
When she gave this braid so fair; —
There is nought to me more lovely
Than this braid of soft brown hair.
In the world is nought more lovely
Than this braid of soft brown hair,
Which a beauteous maiden gave me,
O’er my swelling heart to wear.
O ! there came an hour of parting.
And while farewell tears were starting,
Kisses soft were given there :
O, there’s nought to me more lovely
Than this braid of soft brown hair !
In this world is nought more lovely
Than this braid of soft brown hair,
Which a beauteous maiden gave me
O'er my swelling heart to wear.
Often now on life’s broad ocean
Soul of mine feels sweet emotion
When appears this braid of hair :
O, there’s nought to me more lovely
Than, this braid of soft brown hair !
Something is to me more lovely
Than this braid of soft brown hair,
And it is the beauteous maiden,
Who wove for me this braid of hair !
—Come again thou dear departed,
Come and cheer thy broken-hearted ;
Gladly will he then declare
Thou art a thousand times more lovely,
Than this braid of soft brown hair! R AB.
>
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE STORMY NIGHT.
WRITTEN FOR MUSIC.
BY C. L. WHELER.
The lurid night in terror wild
Came down upon the sea,
And th’ Storm-king o’er the welt’ring waves,
Made wildest jubilee ;
The thunder’s roar and lightning’s flash
Gave horror to the night,
But still our barque its pathless way
Held in the fitful light.
With hearts of pray’r and hands of trust,
We trimm’d each tatter’d sail,
And when the morn came o’er the wave,
Our barque still rode the gale.
And thou, oh mariner of life !
That sail’st a fickle sea,
When storms arise with whelming force,
And dash beneath thy lea ;
When Fortune’s dimmest star alone
Is beaming on thy way,
Or when Temptation’s brighter flash
Bedazzles with its ray ;
With heart of pray’r and hanAof trust,
Still trim each tatter’d sail
Still keep thine eye on Truth's lone star,
And thou shalt ride the gale !
Athens, Geo.
(Eclectic of lUit.
DRAWN FOR A SOLDIER.
BY THOMAS HOOD.
I was once —for a few hours only—in the
militia. I suspect I was in part answerable
for my own mishap. There is a story in Joe
Miller of a man, who, being pressed to serve
his Majesty on another element, pleaded his
polite breeding, to the gang, as a good ground
of exemption ; but was told that the crew be
ing a set of sad unmannerly dogs, a Chester
field was the very character they wanted.
The militiamen acted, I presume, on the same
principle. Their customary schedule was
forwarded to me, at Brighton, to fill up, and
in a moment of incautious hilarity—induced,
perhaps, by the absence of all business or
employment, except pleasure—l wrote my
self down in the descriptive column as “ Quite
a GentlemanP
The consequence followed immediately.
A precept, addressed by the High Constable
of Westminster to the Low ditto of the par
ish of St. M*****, and endorsed with my
name, informed me that it had turned up in
that involuntary lottery, the Ballot.
At sight of the Orderly, who thought prop
er to deliver the document into no other hands
than mine, my mother-in-law cried, and my
wife fainted on the spot. They had no no
tion of any distinctions in military service—
a soldier was a soldier—and they imagined
that, on the very morrow, I might be ordered
abroad to a fresh Waterloo. They were un
fortunately ignorant of that benevolent pro
vision which absolved the militia from going
out of the kingdom— “except in case of an
invasion.” In vain I represented that we
were “locals:” they had heard of local disea
ses, and thought there might be wounds of
the same description. In vain I explained
that we w r ere not troops of the line; —they
could see nothing to choose between being
shot in a line, or in any other figure. I told
them, next, that I w r as not obliged to “serve
myself;”—but they answered, “’twas so
much the harder I should be obliged to serve
any one else.” My being sent abroad, they
said would be the death of them; for they
had witnessed, at Ramsgate, the embarkation
of the Walcheren expedition, and too well
remembered “the misery of the soldiers’
wives at seeing their husbands in trans
ports /”