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Bs* j§| cmpmuice <{£ ! rn&iuSiT. JOHN H. SEALS, Editor and Proprietor. gabies’ Department —■ ■■= MARY M. BRYAN, Editresa. FINLEY JOHNSON AGAIN. We have on file for publication, two articles — “ The Death of Rosabelle,” and “ Christian Res olution,” from the pen of Finley Johnson. Our our criticism of him a few weeks previous—will perhaps be surprised, that he should send us these. But Mr. Johnson has afforded us a refreshing example of rare candor and genial good nature, by accepting the castiga tion in the proper spirit, admitting its justice and attributing its publication to our real motive —a wish to induce him to bestow more care upon his composition, and pique him into doing as well as he can. Authors who have written as much as Mr. Johnson, and who, from having been so frequently in print, have grown indifferent to praise, are prone to fall into a careless habil of writing— throwing off page after page without previous thought or mental digestion of the subject. This hasty manner of composing can hardly be avoided by newspaper writers—especially those who are every week required to furnish so many pages of sense or—nonsense from the store-house of the brain, without time being granted them for counterbalancing this constant drain upon the mind, by reading, reflection or observation. But the habit of careless writing is very fatal to genius, and should be earnestly guarded against, or, like it will soon acquire such influence as to render careful and correct composition im possible. It is also by no means conducive to popularity, for the public resent the want of res pect for their taste and judgment, shown in the crude effusions of authors, who, they very well know, are competent to do better. Mr. Johnson has written a great deal, both for northern and southern publications; he has seen his name upon the pages of almest every promi nent newspaper and magazine in the country ; he acknowledges that he has lost all desire for praise or fame, and that it is “ Only to snip his locks, he follows The golden-haired Apollo.” In other words, that money, and not fame, is now his inspiration. Consequently, he has, of late, pais more attention to the quantity than the quality of his compositions, and if our humble criticism has, as he tells us, had the effect of “ stinging his ambition and his talent into life again,” we shall be truly glad of having written, it. He says, in his letter, with playful good nature, that he means now to write occa sionally for our paper, and that his articles shall not be “ namby pamby” ones, either. He cer tainly begins well, as our readers will have an opportunity of judging. Meantime, he has our warmest sympathy; for filial affection—the desire to make comfortable the declining years of a parent, whose life haaheen devoted to him—is the stimulant of his daily toil. We do not feel at liberty to disclose the beau tiful and touching story of his private life, which he has related to us, or we feel sure that it would ■create an interest in him, at least in the hearts of •our gentler readers. * REAL AND COUNTERFEIT ARISTOCRACY. Charles Reade divided society into two equal portions by the laconic sentence, “There are nobs an 4 there are snobs.” Those acquainted with the elegant language of the Bowery will not need the explanation, that by snobs are meant the com monality—the canaille, as the French term them, and by nobs the bon ton. But Mr. Reade’s classification is too general. divisions have numerous shades of dis tinction, which amount to different classes. The “ upper circles” (our aunt Sukeys would call them the “ top of the pot”) are divided into real and bogus aristocracy. Both of these you will often find moving side by side in the same society, but the difference between them is quite as great as betwptn the eagle of the Andes and that car uiverous and highly oderiferous bird over which Mr. Willis went into such raptures during his recent tour through Virginia. And this differ ence will make itself apparent, notwithstanding all the glitter and glamour which wealth, high connections or other purely adventitious circum stances may throw .arpund those who have not obtained from nature or education a true patent Pinchbeck jewelry, in its attempts the lustre and color of gold, overdoes the mark and betrays itself by being too yellow; the long eared animal of Esop, who, disguised in a lion’s skin, succeeded in frightening the flocks, mijJht have sustained his character very well, had he not attempted to rear; and so, by its -strenuous’ endeavors to appear highly genteel and superior, counterfeit aristocracy reveals that the character it acts is only an assumed one; that its plumes are not furnished by nature, but borrowed from circumstances. The asinine ears will protrude from beneath the ermine cloak of gentility. A real lady or gentleman requires no affecta tions of dress or manner to prove their claim to the title; it is unmistakably stamped upon the brow, the step, the eyes, the voice. It is only the innately vulgar who, unconscious of no su periority in themselves, resort to the artificial K&axilliaries of dress and what are called air* — a very expressive little word which has a good dear more meaning than Webster assigns to it. Airs are never observed in the perfectly well bred. Those who “ feel a nobility within themselves” have no need of adopting such means of impress ing tkeir superiority upon others. When at a concert, while the music is thrilling you’with its divine sweetness, you hear a mincing, affected voice behind you languidly pronounce it all a “stupid humbug,” and wonder how “these can listen so delightedly to such vile Wnds,” you may, me*ntally, draw a pretty accu rate portrait of the speaker, without troubling yourself to look around. A face profusely cos meticked and ornamented around with double rows of little spiral twists, fresh from the curling tongs, as their odor indicates; a lip, with the indispensable curl considered as indicative of haughty contempt, but which, in reality, only proclaims a dearth of brains, thick wrists, hooped with bracelets quite up to the elbows, .and a dress as much too long in the skirt as it is too short in the cprsage, which is lamentably scanty about the shoulders and bosom. •fils picture, drawn with the pencil of fancy, you may look around and find to correspond al most exactly with the tout en tembie of Miss Elise Dominique, of Madison Square, (Eliza Dominick before her ascension to her present social eleva tion,) whose father made a fortune at soap boil ing, and who has consequently stepped forth from the chrysalis of snobism into the full grown aris- the glass of fashion and the mold of form.” See her how negligently she uses her opera gl asß handling it so that observers may have the full benefit of the rings, that sparkle on her fingers; hear her criticising the scenery, pro- Bouncing it in shocking bad taste, and none of the performers worth notice, except a savage loqkiag brigand, with hair enough on his upper ike a respectable clothes brush. Him -“perfect love,” because he has You will meet the same young lady in Broad street next morning, a perambulating pyramid of rainbow silk and laces, making the pavement ring with the chatter of her high-heeled boots, as she sails on with her aristocratic nose elevated in the air, a3 though scenting out everything plebian. Watch what a contemptuous glance she bestows upon the poor apple woman, whose basket her voluminous flounces has just upset, and with what an air she draws her skirts from their contaminating contact with the somewhat worn black silk of a lady whose intelligent coun tenance, quiet grace and neatness proclaim her one of the true gentle women of nature. The grandmother of Miss Elise Dominique car ried eggs and vegetables to market in a poultry cart; Miss Elise and her fashionable mama take their airing on the battery in a magnificently panneled carriage, decorated with the “family arms,” which should be a soap stick and cooler, but which are a nondescript combination of shield?, swords, stars and garters. Poor Mrs. Dominique has not the most remote idea what it means, except that it is considered haut ton to sport the “ family arms,” and she is not going to be behind Madame LaMode and Mrs. Fitz Thing ummy. Her education is limited to a confused notion of the world’s being “round and like a ball,” which she learned from Parley’s Elemen tary Geography, and lately she has acquired from her accomplished daughter the additional infor mation that there is another city beside New York, viz. Paris, which is a very delightful place, indeed, and whose staple products are bonnets and robe silks. As for Miss Elise, dress and matrimony are the only two ideas inside the little cranium upon whose outer adornment she spends so much time and money. She has emerged from a “Finishing School,” highly accomplished in the art of entering a carriage or a room grace fully, and having also learned to dance a little play a little, paint a little and murder French a good deal. Moreover, Miss Elise has taken the highest degree of gentility by spending a winter in Paris with her exquisite brother, Augustus Fitz Gerald Dominique, the only apparent results of the visit being an increased crop of sandy hair on the upper lip of the latter, and a more aristo cratic elevation of the nasal organ on the part of both. This is counterfeit aristocracy on a large scale. You may find it on a smaller or a similar scale in every city, town, village or neighborhood in this so called democratic country. It may be readily distinguished from real gentility by its general attributes of arrogance, ignorance, pretentious ness and supercilious affectation, and by its par ticular characteristics of huge watch guards, showy jewelry, gaudy dress and equipage. It has been satirized and ridiculed adnauseum; but spite of sarcasm and satirism, it still flourishes, for its roots strike deep in the rank soil of na tional error, and it will never be eradicated until the elements of true nobility—worth and intelli gence—are properly appreciated and made to overbalance gold in the scale of popular opinion. The scheme of general equality—which is such a favorite dream of reformers—is simply imprac ticable in the present state of society. There will be divisions, and society will naturally separate itself into classes; but virtue and intellect—not wealth and impudence—should be the qualities essential to social elevation. Honest industry, and poor—but virtuous talent—instead of being crushed under the heel of purse-proud arrogance, should be honored and commended, and placed upon the topmost rouuds of the social ladder. The sweat of hard, honest labor stains many a brow which nature has stamped with the true signet of nobility, and many a lady, in the high est and best acceptation of the term, wears six pence calico and toils for her daily bread. What if the garb be faded, if the brow be sun-embrown ed and the hand hard and horny, so the mind is refined by piety or by innate purity aud delica cy, aud the heart is true and honest and gentle ? “ The man’s the man for a’ that.” Aye, and the gentle man, too, if he does wear fus tian and use his own sturdy arms and strong muscles, in toiling for himself and the dear ones dependant on his labor. * NOW AND THEN. Unclasp an old miniature or daguerreotype of yourself, taken in childhood or early youth, and look upon it to-night while the footsteps of the mournful rain are wandering over the housetop, and over the sodden ground. Look upon it, if you can, for it is hard to stand face to face with even the pictured semblance of ourselves, as we were years ago, as we are not now, for we change so rapidly, so wonderfully, so fearfully, that paus ing sometimes, and looking down into the magic mirror of memory, we start at beholding ourselves as we were in time gone by, and almost doubt our own identity. I speak not now of the outer, so much as of the inner being. The eye fades, the lip sheds its roses, the hair loses the glory of its lustre and luxuriance, but what are these to the changes that go on within ? Time plows deeper furrows upon the heart, than upon the brow. Tears may be effaced from the cheek, but they are mildew and canker upon the soul. If the likeness only of our face makes us shrink as though we looked upon the ghost of one we had seen dead and buried, how would we start if there rose before us a picture of our inner selves, of the heart and the feelings that Time has so strangely transformed f There is not one of us who cares to sit down, in the solitude of midnight, and deliberately face a memory of himself—compare his present feel ings with those that filled his breast in some for mer time. We do not like to contemplate the changes that heart and brain have undergone. It oppresses us with a vague uneasiness ; we feel as though we were slipping away from ourselves, as though the very earth we tread was uncertain and might slide away from beneath our feet. Across our forward path loom shadows cast by events yet to come; behind us walk spectres in the misty twilight of memory. Richard quailed before the Past; Macbeth before the Future. And as you Bit, gazing upon the picture of your self, so altered, more in its expression than its features, from the lace reflected in yonder mir ror, memory holds her magic lantern, and the Camera Obscura of the brain gives a train of phantoms that go gliding by, and look at us with so strange a meaning in their eyes, that wetrem ble as did the King in his haunted tent on Bos worth’s field of battle. There is a smile on that pictured lip that tells of a joy which has since flown from the heart, like a bird from its ruined nest. You may smile still; but the smile does not leap up from the very soul and light upon the lip like a sunbeam upon a rose. There is a look in those clear eyes that tells the old, old story which is written upon the leaves of every life book —on that page marked with the passion flowers of youth. A tale oflove, of mur mured pledges under summer twilight skies, ot delicious dreamings, of days that glided by with the halcyon’s downy flight to the young heart, wrapped in the rosy mantle of its own sweet thoughts. You smile now at the silliness of that drsaiu; you flush with shame at the memory of * that seem now to burn upon your FOR THE CULTURE OF TRUTH, MORALITY AND LITERARY EXCELLENCE. cheek ; you wonder if it can be yourself, your present self, that was then so led away by the hand of passion, and you smile again to think how you have changed since then, how indiffer ently you could now meet the eyes that were once all the Heaven you cared to gaze upon, how coolly you could take the hand whose passionate clasp once sent a thrill of delight through your frame, how calmly listen to the voice, whose every murmured word once seemed sweeter than the harp of Israfil. How indignantly you would then have repelled any doubt that such a love would not last for ever; now, you wonder that you ever bowed in worship to the broken and discrowned idol that now lies before you —the Eidolon upon whose shrine you poured all your heart’s rich, wasted wine, and lavished all the fresh flowers of youth ful feeling. Look again upon the picture: there is a holy trust —a pure truth upon the brow, that is not stamped upon yonder image in the glass. Alas, for the trustfulness of early youth! You have gained worldly wisdom since then ; but at what a price—the loss of the sweet faith that made life so beautiful—the unsuspicious, guileless spirit that saw its own innocence reflected in every face; the simplicity that believed the world and men what they appeared, viewing all through the medium of its own purity. Alas, that this loving faith should give way to bitter cynicism—that you have learned to hear the hiss of the serpent in the murmured protestations of love and friend ship, and see the snaky gleam in the smile that wreathes the lips of those around you ! And, alas, that you, too, have learned to weave the tangled web of deception, to mask the face and school the voice, to utter words you feel not, and smile when you wish to weep, and look sad when you are simply indifferent! Ah ! you have lost the perfect truthfulness of earlier days, and after life‘has nothing to repay you for the lost treasure. You hardly dare look at the calm, re buking openness of that pictured brow. The wind, before whose blast the old oak shivers and wrings piteously its brown and withered hands, seems the voice of an accusing spirit. You shut the picture, which has been the charm to call up all these phantoms, and the panorama ofthepast, with its ruined hopes, its blasted joys, its dead loves, its withered friendships and shattered faiths, fades from the Camera Obscura of mem ory. * THE FOREST RIVER. BY MARY E. BRYAN. Stream of the forest, wild and lone, With solemn trees above thee bending, Through whose stirred leaves, with joyous tone, The iark his matin hymn is sending. Voice of the wood, wild echoes waking, Laving thy banks with kisses pure ; Now, into laughing dimples breaking— Now, mirroring Heaven’s own changeless blue. Wrapped in deep memories, once more, I stand thy lonely banks beside, And watch, as oft in days of yore, The changeful beauty of thy tide. And pure as thy own waters clear Was then this saddened heart of mine, And on the echoing morning air, My voice rang free and blithe as thine. I’ve seen thee when thy banks were clad In all their gorgeous summer bloom ; When strange bright birds, with voices glad, Called from their bowers of rich perfume; And thou, pride of the forest, rolled, Fringed deeply by the bending willows; And then I sighed not to behold The Ocean, with its heaving billows, And deemed Earth had no fairer sight, No stream more beautiful and bold Than thine, bathed in the glorious light, That turned thy waters into gold ; And when pale, musing Autumn, fraught With a strange beauty all her own, Stole o’er thee like a spell, and taught Even thy glad voice a plaintive tone. And high her rainbow banners hung Upon thy lofty forest bowers, While low the wailing breezes sung The requiem of the fading flowers. I’ve stood and gazed where round thee lay The woods, in warm, rich billows rolled, (The imperial shroud of Earth’s decay,) Os mingling crimson, brown and gold, And dreamed thou wert some fairy stream, Winding through an enchanted land, While Fancy lent a golden gleam To thy pure wave rnd sparkling strand. And when upon thy slumbering Stream- Lulled by the south wind’s soft caressing— Stole the sweet “ Indian summer dream,” The dying summer’s parting blessing, How sweet in those delicious days Os softening passion, soothing power; Os mellow light and silvery haze, To dream away some noontide hour, While at my feet thy eddies curl, And fitful shadows o’er thee quiver, To watch the sky’s soft clouds of pearl, Deep in thy bosom, peaceful river. And even when Winier’s icy hand, Thee, of thy leafy pride has shorn, And leaves and flowers —a faded band Adorn thy darkened stream were borne ; When swayed the sad festooning moss, Like mournful fun’ral banners trailing, And threw a gloomy shade across Thy waters, that were wildly wailing. When on thy banks, devoid of bloom, Was heard the night owl’s ghostly shiver, Yet, even amid thy dreary gloom, Thou still wert dear, my Forest River. And now, although long years have flown Since first I watched thy gentle motion, And on its heaving bosom borne, I’ve gazed upon the shoreless ocean. I’ve listened to its thunders loud, And, mirrored in thy mighty stream, Father of Rivers, bold and proud, I’ve seen the fading sunlight gleam; Yet, not less lovely seem’st thou now— More dear and beautiful than ever Stream, that hast laved my infant brow— My own wild Forest River. LETTER TO A YOUNG LADY. HOW TO BB HAPPY. BY MBS 80S P. FRANKLIN. Wk all know that the persuit of happiness is’ the one great object of man’s existence —the end and aim of all his desires, and many and various are the ways and means used to acquire this val uable prize. As none are more eager in the per suit than young maidens, I would, without vainly argoating to myself superior ability, point out to the very young some of the avenues leading to the treasure. Would that I had the power, not only to point out the way, but to lead your eager footsteps therein ; would that I could re veal to you vividly the mighty maelstrom upon whose verge you ‘stand, and induce you to turn ere you are plunged into its dismal vortex. Ah! young maiden, full of hope, of youth, fcf happiness, you are just about entering society; pause a while on the threshhold and heed a voice of warning. You are in the morning of life; visions of happiness glitter in the brighest color ing before your mind; everything seems bright, and you are living only in the present; life is a beautiful glowing picture; no shadows flit o’er the sunlight; joy and hope carol merry lays in your delighted ear; leaf and flower and tree are all bright, all -beautiful; bird and insect, and all of earth’s million of voices seem engaged in a grand concert for your benefit; the blessed air and the bright sunshine woo you like loving friends; every where joys spring up around you —even the water brooks laugh a merry song as you pass ; earth and life seem naught but a bless ing and delight. But maiden, time’s chariot wheels which are rolling on, unheeded by you, I will crush much of the beauty out of this picture Atlanta, Greoirgia, IVtarcli IS, 1859. Your life cannot, then, be always bright and glowing, but it need not be so dark as some would make it. If, then, young maiden, you would avoid much unhappiness, endeavor first and above all things to cultivate a contented spirit; for, without this, there is no pleasure in life, but constant heart grief and repinings ; aggravations that sour and envenom the disposition; earnest longings for the unattainable, that end in disap pointments and vexations; but the possession of this jewel will give you a bed of down and pil lows of rose leaves ; will gild life’s pictures in glowing colors, give a relish to every enjoyment and enhance every blessing. Try always to be like the Persian poet Saadi, who never complain ed of his condition but once, and then he had no money to buy shoes to cover his bare feet. About this time he met a man without feet, and became contented with his lot, thinking, like a wise man, that it was better to have feet without shoes than to have no feet at all. You may inquire, how am Ito obtain this contented spirit ? I answer, not without an effort. Do not wrap yourself up in pleasant dreams and wait for the future to reveal them, for you will hardly realize the most sober one of them. Spend no time in the pursuit of gilded trifles; no matter what be your position in life or how high the order of your genius, there is still much for you to do. Always have before you a worthy object of pursuit, and prosecute your aims with vigilance and untiring energy. Nothing worth possessing can ever be gained save by exertion. Unceasing effort is worth more than rare genius; for that, however feeble, will at last accomplish its end. The ceaseless effort of tke coral insect builds a mountain in the ocean constantly dropping water wears away the hard est rocks, constant employment can alone accom plish great things, and is the best antidote for unhappiness; the surest means of gaining aeon tented spirit. The mind constantly employed has no time to murmur and find miseries in every passing event. First, then, let the object of your pursuit be a worthy one, and upon it concentrate all your energies; let the motives which urge you to action be founded upon virtue. Though an oft quoted maxim, it is, nevertheless, one of much truth, that virtue is the only road to hap piness. Cultivate it, then, and treasure it more than the rarest diamonds, for it can bring you a contented spirit. Obey the dictates of your con science and crush every thought and wish which is the offspring of idleness and vanity. Another way, young maiden, to avoid unhap piness, is to beware of the flatterer’s tongue, for it is covered with delicious poison, which will be sweeter to the taste than “ honey or the honey comb,” but you will find it most unsavory in the end—worse than gall or wormwood. It may now be most delectable to the taste, may charm and ravish you with its sweetness, but mingled with the sweetness is a sting that will lacerate you; a bitterness that will disgust and nauseate you, should you quaff too greedily the poison. And no one meets with more venders of this poison than young ladies, particularly those who have any pretentions to beauty; and should your purse be filled with gold—that glittering god that men worship—you will be surrounded every where by these flatterers—vain sycophants, who would lure you to ruin—not always through a premeditated design, or from a desire to injure you, but oftener for a selfish gratification, that they may win your favor, attract your attention and be enlisted in your train as a satellite. Ofliers flatter because they take a heartless pleas ure in deluding the young and unsuspecting. Both of these classes you will find principally among the young men whith whom you associ ate. You will meet them on the street; they watch your coming and are ready with a forged smile and a fascinating bow to assist you over crossings, to walk with you, to fan you, to take your bundles home for you, to tell you how well you look, how much attention you attract on the street, and to mention what a disappointment it was to every body that you were not at the last ball, or what interest your presence added to the theatre or concert. You will find them at church, peeping at you boldly, but in a way they wish you to imagine is done slyly; they will gaze half an hour, waiting to catch your eye and then turn suddenly as if they had been detected against their will; they will often sigh audibly, look again before you have time to fix your attention on the sermon, and then whisper to the nearest friend and cast upon you another admiringglance; they will be at the door to assist you out, to hand your hymn book or handkerchief, should they chance to fall; they will come into your parlors dressed at the tip of the fashion; in cloth, fine linen and showy jewelry; will be well supplied with choice compliments and all the news of the day, with which to make themselves agreeable; they will praise your home, your dress, your flow ers, your books, your good taste, and use every means to flatter you; will often remain until the clock begins to tell “the short hours,” only to make you believe that your company is so pleas ing as to cause “ time to steal by on downy feet.” even as the fatal car of Juggernaut crushes life and beauty out of its deluded victims. In your happiness, all this is unheeded until the change comes—time’s wheels have crashed out all beauty. The picture, once so bright, has grown dark and gloomy; shadows obscure the sunlight; the sombre spirit of gloom presides over everything; hope’s syren voice is hashed; tree and flower present no beajuty to your weary eyes ; the music of nature which floated by in soft Eolian strains is now but a discordant mur mur; friends smile aroand in vain ; their cheerful voices no longer give pleasure; the brook only murmurs a song of discontent; earth seems for the time a prison-house, and life a dull drudgery. This seems a gloomy change, but such changes must come; there is no life without change. It hovers with blighting wing over everything; even the beautiful flower that unfolds its delicate pe tals to welcome the first ray of the morning sun, often withers ere that sun has reached its merid ian. The proud forest oak which has withstood the storms for ages and still stretches its giantarms to the winter blast, seems to defy the touch of time; but even here, change is daily marking lines, and soon it will lie a blasted wreck among the ruins of the tornado. The proudest monu ments, the most gorgeous palaces, the greatest achievements of human skill or genius can not be made to last forever. Does not the Partheon one of the greatest works of art now lie in ruins? And thus change is written on everything, from the tiniest flower that adorns the forest to the proudest work of art. Even the earth upon which we live is constantly undergoing changes. In many deep caverns lie buried shells and stones that once lay upon the earth’s surface; high pro montories now bathe their summits in the storm cloud in places where once only a broad plain met the eye. Petrifying waters roll over soft substances and change them to hardest stone, while other waters roll over rocks and wear them away, changing even the beds of rivers. If all these things, then, are subject to change, can man, “ that pendulum ’twixt a smile and a tear,” hope to escape a like fate? Is he not sub ject to even more changes? Ah! young maiden, appear not well pleased at the arts of these flatterers ; it will only add in terest to the story they have already planned to amuse the first friend they meet. They pour out flattery as easily as the breeze shakes dew from the forest leaves. Maiden, let it not be honey to you; they would sip all freshness from your heart, even as the sun drinks up the life-giving dew from the fresh opened violet. Let not the honeyed words and smooth sentences —which his tongue has so often practiced that they roll forth with ease—be recorded in the “red-leaved volume of your heart 5” they will sear the bright leaves and spread a poison over them that will change your whole nature, so that you become no better than he who deceived you with vani ties. Listen not with pleased ear and smiling lips; those words may yet write lines upon your now young brow, and cheat the roses of their resting place on your cheek, for you are but mor tal, and not the angel of loveliness he would make you believe yourself to be. To win your sympathy and affection, some of these flatterers will tell you that “ ’Tig his fate to love and only m’et with hate.” To such, be ever ready to make the same reply Marian did— “ No, ’tis to sue—to gain—deceive— To tire of—to neglect and leave; To other maids thou’lt fondly swear, As thou hast sworn to me.” All these things you will meet with in life. Young maiden, will you be warned in time, or will you be, like the u Silly nestlings, warned in vain, Until your heart’s young joys are flown ?” Moniicello Oa. PAUL DESMOND. A STORY OF SOUTHBRX LIFE. BV HAST E. BRYAN. (Continued from last week.) CHAPTER X. In the loneliest and loveliest spot of the city cemetery, where the drooping cedars sprinkled the turf beneath plentifully with shadow, rose a plain slab of white marble, its motto a lily bud, broken from its stalk, and beneath this, only the words, “Little Charlie, our bud, gathered to blossom in Heaven.” This was all to remind the world of one who had been an actor on its mighty stage, but whose role had been a brief one, and whose little life had been, indeed, the “flower of an hour”—living in beauty, dying in fragrance and purity. His mother, after a few days of hysterical weeping, had turned for consolation to the society of “ cousin Elliott,” and the comforting reflection that black crape was becoming to her delicate complexion. His father’s stoical philosophy bade him look indifferently upon everything, but there was one who, although she made no violent de monstrations of grief, was yet desolate and lonely enough, since the death of the little one whose sweet face had brightened her study like a stray sunbeam, and who was never so happy as when his head lay next the heart to whom its every silken curl was dear. Mis. Atheling thought Myra cold and unfeel ing; she did not see, as I did, her eyes fill and her lip tremble when she came suddenly upon Charlie’s little plaything, or was reminded of his sweet, thoughtful ways. To Charlie’s grave I had gone oife evening, hoping that its tranquilizing stillness and solem nity might calm the spirit of unrest in my heart. The soft turf deadened the sound of my footsteps, and it was not until I had approached quite near, that I discerned Myra’s dark dress through the foliage and caught a glimpse of her pale, sad face. Her Bible lay open on the slab before her —a handful of wild flowers placed upon it to mark the page, for she was not reading now, but sitting, with arms crossed on the marble before her. and eyes looking out in that far vacancy at which we always gaze when our musings are at once sad and deep. The chirp of a bird over head broke upon her revery. She closed the book, taking out the flowers and placing them upon the tomb. “ Ah Charlie!” she said, “it would be sweeter, it seems, to lie here and sleep by your side the sleep that knows no troubled waking, than to go back to my lonely, loveless life, walking the tread-mill of daily duty without one to care whether lam sad or happy. I have no one in the wide world to love me, now that you are gone.” I came forward now, and, kneeling down be side her, I told her of one other love that had been faithfully hers for years; of one heart that would ask of Heaven no better boon than the privilege of making her happy. She did not withdraw her hand from mine. She did not repulse me when I bent down and pressed my lips to the forehead that was bowed upon the marble slab. Reverently was that kiss the first I had ever given a woman—laid upon her brow; for, with my love for her was blent much of respect and veneration for her purity and elevation of character. Ah ! how fair to me seemed that 3tilly Sab bath evening; how beautiful appeared the fu ture, viewed through the sunny medium of the happy present; how suddenly life seemed rich with blessings, and earth almost an Eden of bliss and beauty! “ And you loved me withal,” I said, as we walked slowly homeward; “ but I should never have guessed it—you were so indifferent and so reserved. I know you are not naturally demon strative, but to me you were sometimes positively cold. How could you so mask your real feel ings?” “It was because I did love you,” she said, and wished to conceal it, fori believed you were soon to return and marry Mrs. Allingham.” “ Is it possible that you had not forgotten that old suspicion ?” “Not that. I was not thinking of ‘Hang Syne,’ for your explanation, at the time, was amply sufficient; but I remembered that you formerly admired her, and soon after we met here, I learned from you that Mrs. Allingham and yourself cor responded.” “She had written to me—a letter, half gossip ping, half sentimental, and I had replied to it in a commonplace manner and informed her that I had met’ you, though not mentioning my belief that ahe knew of your being here before ; because there is a bare possibility that the servant never delivered her your note. Was that all your grounds for such a fancy ?” “Not quite. She wrote to me, also, inviting me to Allingham Place, mentioning an intended change of circumstances, and adding, though not exactly In the same connection, that she expected to leave New Orleans as soon as you returned. My inference, that you were to be married to her, was a very natural one, particularly when I re membered your former admiration of her. But let us not talk of this any longer. I understand it all, and am perfectly satisfied. What else is it you wish to ask me now?” “About my rival; you have not forgotten him —Herman Rodenstein.” Old Series, Volume XXV. —New Series, Volume IV. No. 12 She flushed a little beneath my half smiling, half serious look, but turned her clear, candid eyes full upon me. “He is not forgotten,” she said. “I thiek of him often, with a prayer for his welfare and a hope that he is prosperous and happy. I wish I knew that he was ; but I do not care to see him again. Ido not love him, Paul; I think now that I never did; my heart was not mature enough for that. Admiration and passion are of sudden growth, but it requires time and riper judgment and deeper experience for the develop ment of love.” We were at the door of her chamber. She said goodnight as placidly and gave me her band as quietly almost as ever ; but I could olad her eyes now, and I knew that, though calm, she was not cold. Two days afterwards, a letter came to me from my aunt, speaking of loneliness, of failing health and imploring me to return. I gave the letter to Myra for perusal. “What shall I do?” I asked, after she had finished it and was folding it again, with a thoughtful look upon her face. “ Go, by all means,” she said, after a pause. “It is your duty. I shall miss you, of course, but Petranello and I will mutually console and take care of each other until your return.” I smiled to think how differently Nettie Gris wold, or almost any other young girl, would have spoken under the circumstances; but I under stood Myra so well, that the slight tremor in her voice, when she bade me go, was more eloquent than tears and entreaties would have been from a Nettie Griswold. So I made hurried preparations for leaving Havanna the ensuing day. CHAPTER XI. Myra had said, previous to my departure : “If it will not be an inconvenience to you, Paul, I would be glad to have you pass by ‘ Rock Ridge,’ on your way, and see what can be done with it. Remember, it is the only dower your bride will bring you.” “My bride will bring me a richer dower than the wealth of the Indias, in her own noble self,” had been my reply, but I nevertheless promised to visit Rock Rridge before my return. It was for this purpose that I took a private conveyance, and went a few miles out of my way, finding myself in a wild, woody, and yet, as I was informed, rather thickly settled neigh borhood. After a few hours’ travel, I crossed, first, a considerable stream, where the waters rushed and foamed over the rocks, and then passed a narrow belt of forest, where the boughs met above me and the interlacing vines shook their purple berries around my head. Emerging from this, I beheld, crowning the high, rocky hill, the brown cottage of Rock Ridge, with a grove of old chestnuts around it, looking like the nest of some sea bird up among the gray cliffs. I was more favorably impressed with its appearance than I had expected I should be. The buildiug and its surroundings, indeed, bore the traces of long neg lect. Part of the paling had fallen ; the rest was only held together by the interlacing vines of the Cherokee rose. The balustrade of the piazza was partly destroyed, windows were broken, blinds were gone and the piazza itself was draped by struggling rose vines, that encroached upon the door, as though Silence and Solitude sought to barr all human ingress to the abode they seemed to have claimed for their own. I left my • barouche and walked around it, noticing that the house was not an old one, and that the slight repairs it needed could readily be made. The land belonging to it was not nearly so bad as Seymour had represented it. A little time and labor would render it very good soil. On the whole, I was rather pleased with Rock Ridge. I even thought Myra might like it for her home. The old chestnuts were magnificent trees, and the air, in so elevated a situation, must needs he pure and healthful. In addition to this, it was scarcely more than half a day’s journey from Valley Farm, for I arrived there that evening about nightfall. Every thing wore a gloomy aspect. The wind swept with a sepulchral shud der through the ancient trees, and the shadows | loomed up darkly around the old mansion, while from the windows of a single chamber came only a flickering light, instead of the cheerful blaze I had expected. Annette answsred my knock, j but did not recognize me in the dim light. “Is your mistress at home?” I asked. “ Yes, Sir, but she is quite indisposed. I will ask her if she will see you.” She went in, leaving the door of the setting room ajar. “No,” I heard my aunt reply, impatiently; “I am too ill to see any one. Business again, I sup pose.”* I stole in and walked softly along the carpeted floor. “ Aunt,” I said, kneeling down by her easy chair, “ it is I—Paul.” In an instant her illness was forgotten, her arms were around me and she was laughing and crying alternately. “ Oh ! I am so thankful that you have come at lastj” she found breath to say, as she sank back into her chair and used her viniagrette. “ I was afraid you would come too late. I have lost all hope of recovering my health. I have had half-’ a-dozen physicians in succession, and dismissed them all. You see how changed I am.” I saw, indeed, that she was slightly paler and thinner than when I left her, but this was all; I could discern no indications of settled disease. I saw that her mind dwelt constantly upon her illness, and I let her describe to me the general symptoms —headache, lassitude, want of appe tite, distaste for everything. I was at a loss where to locate the disease. At length she spoke of loneliness and ennui, and I thought I had found a clue to her illness. Now that she was no longer single, and dress and gayety had lost their prin cipal charm, she had nothing in which to inter est herself, for aunt Bettie superintended the housekeeping, as she had done for years, and every comfort was at her command, without any exertion on her part. While we were conversing, Mr. Green saun tered into the room, in his dressing gown and slippers, with a pen behind his ear and profes sional ink spots on his fingers. “Welcome to the shades of Vallambrosa!” he said, extending those literary digits. “We have been expecting you a long time. The Rud ersheim you sent me, I hoped to have had the pleasure of drinking with you; but it is nearly all gone. It was excellent, and lam under great obligations to you for remembering my favorite wine.” “And the German manuscripts.” “Ah ! yes; I had forgotten. I have not quite finished translating them yet. They are very fine.” “The shells you sent me, Paul, were beauti ful,” said my aunt. “ Come with me to my dressing room and see what an exquisite bijou I have had made of them.” I rose early next morning for a long ramble through tbs dswv fields, greeting the delighted negroes, answering their numerous questions and giving to my old favorites among them the little presents I had brought as tokens of remembrance. On returning, I found my aunt out on the piazza, looking brighter and more cheerful than on the preceding evening. My arrival had afforded her the excitement her dormant faculties needed, but I feared it would not last. “And so you have been very lonely,” I said, passing my arm a~ound her, after I had praised her neat breakfast cap. (I really thought it much more becoming than the false ringlets she used to wear.) “ Oh! yes, very lonely, indeed—especially since Zoe Forrester left. Mr. Green objected to taking our usual pleasure trip last summer, and, to tell the truth, I had too little strength (too lit tle energy, she might have said) for the labor of packing and preparing. Mr. Green is such poor company always in his library. I suppose it : s the way with all literary people; though what he does there, lam sure I can’t imagine. I have never seen a page he has published, and the vol ume of poems he wished to dedicate to ms, has never seen the light.” “So your sonnet went for nothing,” I said, laughing. “ But do you never visit, aunt?” “Oh yes, occasionally ; but I find it such a bore to put on my best dress and bonnet, and sit for a few ceremonious hours in Mrs. Loyd’s or Mrs. Daggett’s chilly drawing-room. You know I never was on intimate terms with any of my neighbors. I stayed so little at Valley Farm, and your society was always sufficient. How the old time people could endure to spend an entire day, sometimes several days, with each other, I cannot comprehend 1” “ They always carried their sewing or knitting, did they not?” “ Yes; but why do you ask ?” “ They carried their work, and while their knit ting needles flew with untiring rapidity, they walked about inspecting each other’s gardens, poultry yard and dairy, and holding animated discussions about various branches of housekeep ing. Was not that the way they managed ?” “ les ; but you know, Paul, that is very un fashionable now,” and my aunt colored a little. “You are drawing upon your remembrance of your grandmother and good aunt Hester. Ladies don’t knit woolen socks and feed pigs and chick ens now.” “No; but it would be better for their health and spirits, perhaps, if they did. Did you know that a little wholesome work is the very best medicine in the world for the headache—aye, and the heartache too? It is a sure antidote for en. nui.” We were summoned to the breakfast room, and after the .meal was over, I mounted Grayson, whom I found as graceful and spirited as ever, and enjoyed a delightful ride around the beau tiful environs of Valley Farm. It was joy to inhale the bracing air and look upon the rug ged mountain scenery, after the warm atmos phere and uniform beauty of tropical Cuba. New life and vigor went thrilling through my nerves as I rode up among the hills, where the great pines tossed their arms defiantly to the winds and across little streams, whose leaf-tinged waters leaped and sparkled awhile in the sunshine, then fell over ledges of rock, and stole away with a low laughter to hide themselves in the loiest. I drew up in front of a little log cabin to ask a drink of water of the curly-haired girl,’ who was filling her pail at the well. It was not so much the water I wanted, as a pretext to pduse and admire the very rare and beautiful vine that festooned the paling with its delicate foliage, and reaching up its flowery arms, had clasped them around the elm tree that shaded the well. It was singular, at that season of the year, to see such a flush of luxuriant bloom. “ hat is its name ! I asked of the pretty girl who had given me the water. “It has a name, Sir,” she said, “but I forget it. Miss Zoe planted it here herself, for Effie, my sister, who was sick so long. She said it grew very fast, and, as we had no flowers, Effie might like to lie by the window and watch the bees and butterflies buzzing about it.” “Zoe?” said I, recollecting that I had heard my aunt mention that name before. “Miss Zoe Forrester,” she replied, turning from me to driveaway the pigeon that had perched upon her pail. I rode away from die cottage, but before I had reached home, I again heard Zoe Forrester spo ken of. A pale, fair haired boy of eight or nine summers was sitting on the grass in front of a farm-house as I passed. His crutches, lying be side him, told of his misfortune. He was caress ing a pretty fox squirrel sitting upright on his knee, with eyes that twinkled mischievously, and fur of shining black. “What a pretty pet you have !” I exclaimed, throwing him a handful of nuts I chanced to have in my pocket. “Thank you, sir,” cried the boy, looking up with bright, intelligent eyes. “Here, Zoe, see what a feast for you !” “Zoe?” I repeated ; “why do you call it Zoe ?” “After the lady who gave it to him, sir,” said the pleased father of the boy, leaning over the garden fence, with his rake in his hand. “Miss Forrester, Zoe Forrester, is her name, and a blessed gift has this been to the poor lad. You know, sir, on account of his misfortune, he is not able to play and work about like, his brothers ; but all winter time he sits making baskets by the fireside, and in pleasant weather, he works out here under the shade of the trees. But he took to pining and moping and looking so melancholy and sad-like, till it made my heart ache to see him, until Miss Zoe, bless her kind heart, brought him this squirrel foraplay-fellow. ‘lt will amuse you, Andrew,’ says she, and sure enough I ne ver saw such a change as it brought about in the boy. He has taught it a number of the queerest tricks you ever saw, and I do think sometimes it has as much cunning as a human.” Zoe Forrester again! I had become slightly curious to learn something of this lady, and de termined to inquire of my aunt about her the first opportunity that presented itself. “She seems a person of some sensibility and delicate consid eration,” I said to myself, as I rode slowly home ward. “Doubtless a quiet, motherly spinster, who would prove an interesting acquaintance.” “Who is this Zoe Forrester?” I asked of my aunt that evening, as we sat conversing in her pleasant little dressing-room. “Why, do you not remember ? bo; I forget; you were both small children when you used to play together. She is a distant relation of yours —a third cousin, I believe. You remember old Dr. Fot tester, who lived near you before your father’s death?” “Oh l perfectly; but had he a daughter?” “Yes, and she used to be a play-mate ofyours, though you have forgotten each other, I dare say. Her aunt took her to her home in Nashville, af ter the death of her mother, and kept her until she was nearly grown. Dr. Forres'er moved to our neighborhood about three years ago; but Zoe is as well known as though she had resided here all her life.” “Why is she so celebrated?” I asked ; “is she very accomplished ?” “She does not understand a word of French or a note of music; but she reads the old Latin and Greek authors aloud to her father, in addition to his voluminous medical books, for though too tcsutWsawarH*]