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92 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 /”