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duced to Mr. Graham, nothing could exceed
his politeness.
‘“Merry Christmas to you, massa!” he ex
claimed, “Long life and crossperity!”
“Well, old Tom,” said Frank, “how does
the world go with you now ? lJow does that
hov of yours come on ?”
“Oh, he comes on middling, massa: he no
good for much, but I lick um heap, an 1 1 spec’
1 mek um good for someting one of dese days ;
de Lord knows I had for lick um heap, mas
sa ; I lick um no longer an las’ night.”
“You did !” said Frank, “what for?”
“ Somebody bin gib um one letter for gib
to massa, and he bin loss um; so I lick um
for he kayless ; (carelessness,) and den when
he sway he no bin loss um, I lick um for de
lie he tell! ”
“But he’s a big boy, old Tom,” said Frank,
“I wonder he lets you whip him.”
“Big hoy for true,” answered Tom, “but I
lick um for all dat; big boy for true; entv he
married ? he ! he! he ! ”
“ Married!” exclaimed Frank, “you do n't
say so; do tell me all about it ? ”
“Why, you see’ Mass Frank,” said Tom,
putting on a most mysterious air, and rolling
up his sleeves by way of preparation for an
important communication, “he bin axe me one
night for let um go to Jane nigga-house; and
1 tell um yes, he kin go. Well, you see, I
bin mistruss he bin guine for pay he tention
to Jane dahter Sally, so I follow um sofTy,
for see whathebinarter. Well, Mass Frank,
by de libin’jingo ! I bin tink true. He gone
in de nigga-house, an’, as de Lord would hab
it, dey was Sally sitting down all by heself,
bilin homny. Well, de boy go in. an’ he sit
eber so long eyein’ Sally, but he no say nut
tin. He kep so long for ’spress he min’, dat
I was jis’ guine way ’bout my bisness, when
1 hear um speak. Den I tek my eye way
from de hole, and put my ear to um. Well,
he begin, “ Sally, I come for tell you someting
bin weighin’ pon my min’ for some time ; but
I sway, Sally, I no know how for tell you.”
Den Sally, she laugh, and say : “ You want
for axe me for hab you, enty ? ” “ Dat’s it,
dat’s de bery tingr,” de boy say; “granny j
how de nigga bin know what 1 come for ?•”
” Lord!” Sally say, “ent’ you tink I kin see
de flash oh you eye when you look at me ?”
Den dey no bin say nuttin for long time. At
last, Sally say: “Well, what you hab for say,
Mingo? ” “I cla’, pon my soul,” Mingo say,
“I no know how for talk um.” “Well, I
kin tell you, Mingo,” Sally say; “ you jis say,
“Does you lub me well nus for hab me?”
Den de boy say um right strait arter um,
“ Does you lub me well nus for hab me ? ”
“Yes,” Sally say; “yes, sir: I tenk you.”
Den de boy kiss um, and kum right way, an
1 hab for hide behin’ de pig-pen till he pass
by.”
“ Well, that was certainly a droll courtship,
Tom.” Frank, “and we’re much obliged
to you tor telling it; it may be of service to
us some day or other.” As for poor Mr. Gra
ham, he nearly laughed himself into convul
sions during the recital.
CHAPTER 11.
After an early dinner, the two friends,
started on horseback to pay their projected
visit to Harriet Banks. Anthony followed on
a mule. They came to the swamp, and found
it, as Emily had forewarned them, quite full
of water; but what was that to young, ad
venturous spirits, full of hope and excitement ?
Mr. Graham, it is quite true, more unaccus
tomed than Frank and Anthony to such ad
ventures, looked sometimes a little alarmed,
and held up his feet rather higher than was
necessary to keep them out of the water ; but,
considering his inexperience, he maintained
his equanimity remarkably well. By-and-by
they approached the vicinage of the so much
dreaded ghost. It was, it must really be con
fessed, a fearful, mysterious looking spot.
Completely overgrown with mammoth cy
press trees, their gnarled and knotted trunks
obstructing the road in every direction, it seem
ed precisely the spot to suggest to the excited
imagination deeds of darkness and circum
stances of horror. Anthony pressed closer
and closer to his master, set his teeth togeth
er, and scarcely dared to breathe, lest he should
by some mysterious magic, conjure up the
spirit of the murdered man ! Being a light
mulatto, it was easy to perceive by his un
wonted paleness that he was frightened near
ly out of his wits ; and if at any moment the
ghost had chosen to make his appearance, he
would have had nothing to fear from Antho
ny’s skepticism. But his ghostship was dis
creet enough not to appear by daylight, and
consequently they passed the dreadful spot
without let or hindrance of any kind..
Harriet Banks was delighted at seeing her
old inend and playmate, while a rosier blush
than often visited her cheek, made her look
§®®IfEEB IS El IL> aITISIE AIE U ® A&ls If IT Hi ♦
still more brilliant than usual; and she was
at ail times an uncommonly pretty girl. Frank
scolded her in good round terms for not being
at his fathers house to welcome him, and
though she did not appear at all vexed or
grieved at being thus soundly scolded, the
flush upon her cheeks was evidently deepen
ed. After an hour or two spent in pleasant
conversation, in recalling by-gone days, and
recounting many a youthful adventure, Har
riet caught up her gingham sun-bonnet, and
invited the gentlemen to a stroll over the
grounds, a proposal to which they joyfully
assented. They wandered hither and thither,
forgetful of the lapse of time; and finally, as
they found themselves in the neighborhood
of the negro houses, and heard the scraping
of a fiddle —or, I beg pardon, a violin—they
went in to see the negroes dance. Double
shuffle, pigeon-wing, the apron dance, were
all executed after the most approved negro
fashion, each dancer entering into the amuse
ment with his whole heart and soul. Here
they found Anthony, who, notwithstanding
his exquisite enjoyment of the dance, could
not divest himself of a certain degree of ap
prehension when he thought of the swamp
and its mysterious occupant!
The instant he saw his master, he came to
wards him, and inquired if he did not think
it was time to get the horses. “It gittin’ dark,
massa,” said he, “ and de swamp mighty deep.”
“ And the ghost ,” said his master, with a wick
ed smile, “the ghost, you know, Anthony!”
Anthony looked on the ground with a very
serious air.
“We had better wait awhile,” said Mr.
Graham, “ I am anxious to see the ghost, and
therefore the later we go the better!” An
thony instatly raised his head and cast glan
ces of horror first at Mr. Graham, and then at
his master, upon whose face his large black
eyes finally rested with a most imploring ex
pression. Frank’s heart could not resist so
mute and touching an appeal, and he accord
ingly told Anthony that he might get the hor
ses, and taking out his watch at the same time,
he found, to his surprise, that it was much
later than he supposed. As they emerged
from the negro-house, they perceived also that
a heavy storm was rising, which hurried them
so much the more.
But the fates were against them ; Frank's
horse had got away, and it was some time be
fore he c ould be caught, and when finally
they were all ready, it was, what with the
heavy clouds which had gathered in the west,
and the real lateness of the hour, so dark, that
Anthony was almost in despair. Mr. Banks
and Harriet did their best to prevail upon the
young men to stay all night where they were;
but to this arrangement Frank would by no
means consent, knowingthathismotherwould
expect him home, and might, in her feeble
state of health, suffer seriously by his non-ap
pearance. Accordingly they bade Mr. Banks
and Harriet an affectionate adieu, and started
gaily off, putting their horses immediately in
to a brisk canter.
They had five miles to ride before reaching
the swamp, and it was growing darker every
moment. It was evident too, that they could
not escape the storm which was rapidly ap
proaching, and which threatened to prove one
of those winter thunder-storms which some
times happen in southern latitudes, and which
seem so fearful because they are rare and un
seasonable . Onward they rode, pushing their
horses to the utmost, but when they entered
the swamp, overgrown as it was with trees
and interlacing vines, it was really so dark
that they could scarcely discern an object
three yards before them. Now and then a
sudden flash of lightning brightened for an in
stant their homeward way, but this, of course,
only rendered the succeeding darkness more
deep and fearful. Frank, however, continu
ed for some time to converse in a merry tone,
and occasionally burst forth into a lively song,
which awoke the distant echoes, startling al
so from their resting places the lazy screech
owls, and causing them to flap their wings,
and fly to a little distance uttering their hide
ous screams.
The whole party, not even excepting Frank's
grew gradually more and more silent, until at
length nothing could be heard save the mel
ancholy splashing of the water as the horses
slowly picked their way, rendered difficult and
dangerous by the cypress stumps which lay
in every direction. Anthony said nothing,
for he was nearly paralyzed by fear. Occa
sionally, when, from an unusually long ces
sation of the lightning, he had quite lost sight
of his master, he would, indeed, muster cour
age to call out, “Where you, massa?” but
when Frank would answer, in a cheerful
tone, “ Here \ye are; come on, Anthony! ” he
would again relapse into silence.
They were now approaching the fearful
neighborhood of the ghost! And hark! what
sound was that ? Could it be a groan ?
Hark! again ! and yet again! Anthony was
near expiring; and even Frank and Mr. Gra
ham began to feel a little odd. And now they
heard a shriek, a dreadful shriek, which rung
wildly through the woods; but it came from
no ghost. It was plainly the terrified Antho
ny who had thus given voice to his long-pent
horror. What was to be done ? Frank call
ed. and called again, but received no answer;
and he at length began seriously to fear that
the poor boy had been spirited away to keep
company with the ghost of the swamp!
The two gentiemen turned their horses and
rode back a few steps, and there they found
poor Anthony, still sitting erect upon his mule,
while a long and brilliant play of the light
ning showed them that he was pale, rigid and
almost insensible. Ever and anon they heard
faint and smothered moans, which seemed to
proceed from an undergrowth of brushwood,
a few yards upon one side of them, and, as
well as Frank could judge, that was precisely
the spot where the murder had been commit
ted. Was it strange that even Fiank should
feel as he had never felt before in his whole
life ? Was it strange that he grew cold, that
his teeth chattered, and that large drops of
perspiration trickled down from his manly
forehead ? Mr. Graham, too, the skeptical
Mr. Graham, he who was so anxious to see a
ghost, how strange that he should tremble!
and, if the truth must be told, grow pale as a
fainting lady, and nearly totter from his horse!
Frank was the first to rouse himself from
the sort of nightmare into which they seemed
all to have fallen. Laying his hand on An
thony's shoulder, he shook him roughly, and
called his name in an authoritative tone. An
thony, thus roused, answered immediately,
but (lid not move his eyes from the spot upon
which they had all along been fastened; yet,
slowly raising his finger he pointed in the di
rection whence the strange moans were heard,
and distinctly whispered, “Dere he is, sin
dereheis!” Frank gazed steadily through
the darkness, and the next gleam of lightning,
enabled him to see what seemed a tall, white
spectral figure, standing motionless, and with
extended arms. Frank’s courage nearly fail
ed him; but once more he rallied, and collect
ing all his energy he turned his horse and ur
ged him towards the figure. The animal
reared and plunged, but Frank had almost
spent his life on horseback, and was not ea
sily to be thrown.
At length, though with much difficulty, he
reached the spot, and soon his loud, merry
laugh reached the ears of his companions.
“Hallo, Frank!” cried Mr. Graham, “have
you caught him?” Frank’s only reply was
another laugh, still longer and louder. At
length the secret was explained ! The tall,
white, spectral figure w r as the trunk of a dy
ing pine, denuded of its bark ; and the groans
proceeded from a poor old nanny-goat . which
had been lost in the swamp, and having been
for some time up to her neck in the water,
w T as very nearly dead, and was uttering at in
tervals its low and plaintive “ba-a —ba-a—
ba-a! ”
©riginal |j)octni.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE BETTER LAND.
BY WM . N . WHITE.
A better land, a better life,
Awaits us when these scenes of strife,
Apd toil, and care, shall close:
There shall this unembodied soul
Its pinions wave without control,
Or fold them in repose. 0
There to its view shall not be brought,
By patient and laborious thought,
The truths but dimly seen:
Exulting in its new-found light,
*T will freely play, a thing of might
And vision vast and keen.
its warm affection shall not rest
Upon a wand’ring, faithless breast,
In those blest realms above ;
Before its unbeclouded eyes
Shall God’s sublime perfection rise,
Ilis deep aud boundless love.
And there temptation is unknown,
The mind is swayed by love alone,
Attracted by the right;
Nor pain, nor death, nor want, nor wo.
The darksome ills of earth below,
Abide the heavenly light.
To that blest land of blissful bowers,
Cool founts and amaranthine flowers,
Oh may rav thoughts extend;
And to that bourne do thou my Lord
My fainting footsteps thitherward
By thy sweet influence bend.
For the Southern Literary Gazette
FANNY WAYNE.
I grieve each day when you’re -away
And sing a sadden’d strain,
Vet breathe a prayer, with faith sincere,
For lovely Fanny Wayne.
Then farewell, then farewell,
Then farewell, Fanny Wayne,
I’ll breathe a prayer, oh Fanny dear.
That we may meet again.
Thy memory will to me impart
Joy, till we meet again—
Thy winning smiles shall cheer my heart,
My gentle Fanny Wayne,
Then farewell, etc.
As I look back upon the past,
And view the lovely train
Os maiden virtues round thee cast,
My beauteous Fanny Wayne—
Then farewell, etc.
’Tis then, ’tis then, with raptures wild,
I clasp your pleasing chain,
And vow to love the fair, the mild,
The lovely Fanny Wayne.
Then farewell, etc,
%
Oh Fanny, sometimes think of me—
’Twill soothe each anxious pain
To feel that I again may sec
My noble Fanny Wayne.
Then farewell, etc.
If Fortune frown, and I should And
My love for thee prove vain,
Still the last thought that fills my mind
Will be of Fanny Wayne.
Then farewell, etc.
Now fare thee well, perhaps we’ll meet
No more on earth again—
If so, in Heaven I hope to greet
Angelic Fanny Wayne.
Then farewell, then farewell,
Then farewell, Fanny Wayne,
I’ll breathe a prayer, oh Fanny dear,
That we may meet again. H.
Montgomery Cos., Ala.
(El)c ©ssarftst.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE MORAL AND POLITICAL EF
FECTS OF THE CRUSADES.
To these wild expeditions, the effects of supersti
tion or folly, we owe the first gleams of light which
tended to dispel barbarity and ignorance !—Robert
son’s Chart.es, p. 21.
Few tilings are more striking to the critical
reader, than the almost universal illiberalitv
with which historians and essayists have re
garded those singular expeditions of which
we are about to treat. A spirit of ungener
ous partizanship, wilful concealment, and de
liberate misrepresentation, appears to have
blinded their judgments and entered into all
their conceptions, concerning, as well that pe
culiar aspect of the social relation, under
which these undertakings took their rise, as
the benefits and the instruction which were
through them imparted to mankind.
Indeed, when we come seriously to consid
er the want of candourand impartiality, which
modern historians display, we feel almost in
clined to agree with Lord Bolingbroke, that
the prejudices and circumstances of the times
in which men live, have ever exercised so
powerful an influence over their judgment,
that not even the most authentic narration,
unsupported by evidence palpable to sight, or
amounting to equal demonstration, should be
received with implicit confidence.
When history, which should be the prepa
ration for experience, the guide through its
mazes, and the beacon-light amidst its obscu
rity, becomes thus perverted from its only
true end and proper usefulness, by an unwor
thy spirit of party feeling , it loses the strong
est claim it has upon the respect and atten
tion of mankind; it falls from that high and
dignified position it has been accustomed to
fill, and becomes the mere tool of a faction,
the exponent or the champion of an isolated
cause.
These remarks may be applied in then
strongest sense, to most of the English annal
ists who have had occasion to touch upon the