Newspaper Page Text
TERMS,S2 PER ANNUM IN ADVANCE. SECOND YEAR. NO. 11).... WHOLE NO. CO.
& SOTTilll Miai iM11 1 ........81¥ef118 ?© MWMfm, fm MU MB SCIM MB T© &M&ML
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
FREEDOM’S BIRTH-DAY.
BY JACQUES JOURNOT.
All hail, thou golden morn !
Thou all tho ages dost adorn !
Beneath thy smiles was Freedom born.
When our Native Land was young—
.“mall earth’s nations proud among,
Upon her limbs were shackles hung.
This roused the patriots on our strand —
Then rose they up on every hand,
To drive Oppression from the land.
Hard was the struggle then, and long,
For our Country's foes were strong —
A trained and many-weapon’d throng.
But for their fire sides and their shrines,
For their orchards .and their vines,
Mood our Fathers’ serried lines.
And when the oontest fierce was done,
And the blood-stained ficl 1 was won,
Cloudless rase tair Freedom's sisl
Oar Fathers sleep in honored grave*,
Where greenly now the willow waves,
Or in old ocean’s coral caves.
To us that Freedom has descended,
Which our Fathers won—defended,
Till their well spent lives were ended.
’Tis our’s to hand the blessiwg down,
Maintain our Country’s (Ad renown,
And Future Times with glory crown.
Athens, July 4th, 1849.
Hi Si®!E]Aiolslslfto
‘THE EXILE OF THE ALLEGHANY:
(OR NATIONAL GRATITUDE.
BY JAMES G. BROOKS.
II have always been an attentive, if not
( an intelligent observer of human character,
•''as displayed in the various situations of
1 life. Whether it has been a study more j
t fraught with pain than with pleasure, I am
‘'not prepared to say; but if it be a pursuit
that needs justification, it is enough that
i I have found it a source of moral instruc
tion. I have learned to despise the fool of
1 unbridled and insolent prosperity ; to hate !
a and contemn the profligate of successful
< cunning,, and to bow respectfully before
t virtne and honor, which the world is too
busy to seek out, or too vile to appreciate.
A mind, naturally restless, and untrammel- j
a ed bythe ties or connexions which ordina
i rily render imen stationary, has urged me
■ over “marry a shore and many a sea.’’—
In the course of my wanderings, I have of
ten witnessed scenes that might well claim
the.interest.of those (are there any’ such?)!
v who can fedl for sufferings which do not
i form a partiof their own destiny ; in other
words, who are sincerely philanthropists,
w-ithout vanity or ambition beneath the
loak of benevolence. The subject of the
“•nt narrative will not flatter individual
fliciency', nor pamper national pride:
. may excite asperity by recalling
an some u . r , . f
. ecollections of violateu laitn
‘unwelcome i. . , .. , „
, , *or: nevertheless, it shall
-and spatted hoi. ‘
•be fearlessly told j wag travelling
In the winter of 1. r , , ..
1 reached the
.in Pennsylvania, Wl . ,
. . ‘ le, 1 my horse in
base of the Allegtiames, A , . ,
6 >d ascended on
the charge of a peasant, at. , ,
foot. I climbed ridge after n. ‘^ e \
tiy the pure air, and excited by thv r
ing majesty of the scenery, until I “ 1
forgot the flight of hours and my ren.
ness from the habitations beneath. V’ ht
I attained the summit, the day was fast,
waning, and the rising wind, moaning
through the defiles of the hills and shak
ing the bare branches of the trees, warned
me of a coming storm. I immediately be
gan to descend, in the vain hope of reach
ing the foot of the mountain before night
fall. Darkness had already gathered in
the eastern vallies, and the last ray of light
was leaning on the western ridge, when I
observed a rude cabin, sheltered beneath
the branches of a hemlock. I approached
and raised the latch of the door, which was
not barred, although on my entrance I per
ceived the room to be unoccupied. The
desertion, however, seemed only tempora
ry, for a few embers were decaying on the
hearth. I threw some pieces of wood on
the brands, and seating myself on the rough
bench, began, by the dim and imperfect
light, to scan the apartment. All around
me spoke of barrenness and destitution; it
seemed the very temple of poverty, where
she had gathered all the symbols of her wor
ship. “ What miserable outcast,” thought
I, “can be the tenant of so comfortless a
habitation 1 What could have induced the
most poverty-stricken wretch to abandon
the crowds of life, where the overflowing
of the rich man's table may find their way
to the poor man’s board, and to dwell in
this mountain solitude, whither the foot
steps of charity cannot pursue him ?—ls
it a crime, is it pride, or is it misanthropy ?”
Musing on this theme, and fatigued with
the toils of the day, 1 sunk into a reverie.
The forest storm was now raging without
j in all its destructive violence, which, added
: to the loneliness and desolation of the spot,
produced a feverish excitement of mind
that encouraged wild and fantastic ideas,
j Shade after shade flitted across the dream
of my imagination, and I could hear in the
bowlings of the gale, the cry of distress
and the shout of rapine. All the vague
apprehensions of an overheated fancy came
crowding and pressing on my heart, and
although reason struggled for the mastery,
yet she could not overcome them. While
thus wrapped in a waking dream, with my
eyes bent downwards, a shadow like the
form of a man suddenly darkened the door;
I sprang hastily upon my feet, and the ac
tien recalled my scattered senses. A man. j
coarsely clad, but of a majestic and vene
rable bearing, stood befoie me. In one
hand he held a hunting gun, and in the
other some forest game, which, little as it
was, seemed a heavy burden to his aged
frame. “ A stranger in my cabin,” he ex
claimed, in a tone of surprise, but not of
apprehension. “A stranger,” said 1, “who
is in need o f hospitality.” A slight flush,
apparently of pain, rose to his cheek, as he
replied, “If a seat by my hearth-fire and a
repast of mountain game, deserve the name
of hospitality, you shall freely share them;
they are all it is in my power to offer.”—
With these words, he laid aside his bur
den, and divested himself of his outer
garments, kindled a light, and sat down by
the fire. I had now an opportunity of
studying his appearance more narrowly;
it was remarkable and interesting. His
form was tall and graceful, though bent
with years; his forehead high and bold,
and his temples partially covered with locks
that rivalled winter in whiteness. His
clear grey eye had a military quickness in
its motion, and it seemed as if it should
belong to one who had watched the move
ments of armed bands, rather than the flight
of the forest bird, or the bounds of the for
est deer. His face had that educated ex
pression which invariably characterizes
the cultivated man, and that well-bred as
pect which can only be obtained by habit
ual intercourse with polished society. —
Struck by the incongruity between such a
man and such a habitation, I determined to
learn, if possible, the cause of his situation
and the history of his life.
With this design, after our frugal repast
was ended, and conversation had inspired
mutual confidence, I ventured to touch the
string. The character of his mind, as it
became developed, and the style of his re
marks, had awakened an intense interest,
which I had neither the power nor the de
sign to conceal. I was confident that I
was in the presence of no ordinary man.
“How happens it,” I said, “that you have
chosen this solitude, so bare and so com
-1 fortless, for the asylum of your age ? Me
thinks that splendid mansions and courtly
society, might claim, and proudly too, a
form and mind like yours, for an inmate
and an ornament. What can have driven
you across the circle that encloses a social
t life, to this solitary abode ?”
“Young man,” the stranger replied, “it
is but a common tale; and why should I
obscure the fair light of youthful feeling
with the shadow of aged suffering ? My
j tale is one which, when told, will leave a
| .dark remembrance, that will hang like a
1 cloud on your brightest and happiest hours,
p t is i>ne which I shall tell in sadness, not
; n wrath, but which you will hear with
feelings swelled by both. Listen to my
words, .and if, while I speak, your voice
should break /orth in curses upon injury
1 and ingratitude, rsmember that I curse not,
but forgive. You ask what has made me
| a n exile for life, and a tenant of this wild
spot; my answer is, the ingratitude of
1 others and my owe just pride. Could. I
have tamed my own high spirit, to bear
insulting pity and scornful charity, I would
never have forsaken the haunts of men;
buts prefer the savage independence of a
mountain hunter to the polished servitude
of a courtly parasite. You will under
stand the reason of my exile from the
events of my life.
“Y'oung stranger, you see before you
one whose name once sounded far and
wide across the fields of America; one,
whose banner your fathers followed to bat
tle forty years ago; one who afterwards
presided in the councils of your nation,
and whose head was raised high among
the great ones of the land. In the tenant
of this wretched hut, you behold a man of
lofty ancestry and once a princely fortune
—the last of a time-honored family, on
which the cloud of misfortune has settled
darkly and forever. What boots it that I
should tell you that years and years ago,
long ere the freedom of America was yet
•in embryo, the name which I bear was
| made famous by my gallant ancestors, on
I fields where the British Lion waved blood
ily and triumphantly; that the war-cry of
j our family was loudest in the conflict, and
( its flag foremost in the charge of the brave ?
To the young and untamed spirit, such re
collections are like the rays of morning
which herald a glorious and shining day;
but on the old and withered heart they fall
like sunset beams, fraught with memory
but not with expectation. But to my sto
ry. My father left his European home for
America, when America was yet an appen
dage of Britain. His wealth and his influ
ence descended to me. I was in the prime
of my days when the aggressions and ty
rannies of the English ministry gave birth
to the revolution of the colonies. Although
my inheritance placed me high in the aris
tocracy of Britain, and my fortune pleaded
strongly against the perils and chances of
such a struggle, I did not hesitate for a
moment. I embraced the righteous cause,
ardently and firmly ; and from that instant,
ancient ties were severed, and America
was the land of my allegiance. I became
one of the leaders of her armies. My
country was then poor, and I was rich—
the brave men whom I commanded were
suffering for the necessaries of life; the
treasury was bankrupt, and 1 advanced
from my own purse the means of support
to my soldiers, who would otherwise have
been compelled to disperse. The events
of the revolutionary contest I need not re
late to you, for they must be familiar to
every man between the Mississippi and
the Atlantic. After its triumphant termi
nation, as the fortunes of my country were
on the increase, my own were on the wane.
11l crowded on ill, and that destiny which
overturns the haughtiest and the proudest
families, decreed that mine should lie pros
trate in the dust. When the last and dead
liest vial of fate was poured upon me, and
the last leaf of my prosperity had wither
ed, and not till then , I applied to my coun
try, not for charity, but for the re-payment
of a sacred obligation. I asked from her
abundance a return of the money I had
loaned her in her destitution; and how,
think you, was I paid?”
“ Surely,” said I, “ with heartfelt grati
tude and boundless liberality.”
“ With inhuman neglect, and with heart
less insensibility!” exclaimed the aged
man. “The men who then represented
the nation, were nursed in prosperity until
their hearts were hardened, and they scorn
ed and neglected the veteran warriors who
had trampled the bravest and the best of
England's chivalry to the earth, that their
sons might be free.”
“ What,” said I, 11 were not such claims
as your's, which stood on the double foun
dation of justice and gratitude, promptly
acknowledged and cheerfully cancelled
“Promptly acknowledged !” he replied,
with mingled grief and irony, “know you
| not, that an American Congress is a delib
! crative body, and that deliberation is never
prompt? Cheerfully cancelled! know you
| not, that its ruling principle is economy,
and that economy is never cheerful in part
ing with its ore ?”
“But surely,” I interposed, “the nation
I was just, and paid its debts fully, if not
with good will ?”
“ Listen to the sequel, and marvel at na
tional justice,” was the reply. “When I
exhibited my accounts against the govern
ment, there were some trifling items not
sufficiently authenticated, which required
examination. This examination was post
poned from time to time ; more interesting
questions arose, on which members dis
, played their rhetorical abilities; Congress
j did not choose to be hurried in itspioceed
j ing; the importunities of an aged, forlorn,
i and famished man, were considered as fro
ward obtrusions. I was friendless and un
influential; I could neither uplift the aspi-
ring, nor prop the falling ; my prayer was
as ineffectual as that of the oppressed Is
raelites to the stem Egyptian, and Heaven
did not interpose in my behalf its supernat
ural afflictions to force them to their duty.
A winter passed, and left my claims unde
cided ; another and another rolled away,
and still saw me neglected. True, I was
lingering out a comfortless old age, obtain
ing subsistence in summer from the game
of the woods, and inhabiting in winter a
miserable lodging in one of the narrow al
leys of the national metropolis. But what
of that ? The men who were to canvass
my claims, fared sumptuously and lived in
splendor, and felt not the wretchedness of
justice deferred. Business must take its
course, and my claim was an affair of bu
siness. One generous man. who had known
me in better days, did not shrink from my
adversity. He followed me one wintry
day from the hall of the Capitol, to my
obscure retreat in the metropolis, and with
a benevolence that the proudest heart could
not resist, forced me to his own house and
gave me the most honored seat at his own
hospitable board. He would listen to no
refusal, and I remained his guest until
spring. If Heaven has blessings in store
for generous deeds, may the eye of Heaven
beam benignly on that generous man!*—
At last my claims were heard, after years
of anxiety and endurance, during which I
was once seized by the fangs of the law,
and thrown, in mid-winter, into a prison
at Georgetown, which would have been
my grave, but for the active and warm
hearted charity of woman.f It is about a
month since a pension of five hundred dol
lars a year was awarded to me, in lieu of
my claim for some thousands.”
“ How,” I exclaimed, “ a pension! Then
government has made a profitable bargain;
for your AxhnustSil fram already leans
over the grave, and long ere the receipts of
the pension can equal the amount of your
claim, the clod will rattle on your coffin.”
Little did l imagine how soon my prophe
cy was to be fulfilled ! Fate had already
given the last turn to the hour-glass of his
life, and its sands were nearly wasted.
“ I came hither yesterday,” continued
he, “to take a last look at my mountain
hut, and prepare for removal a few family
memorials, the only valuables which it
contains. I have pursued the game to-day,
for the last time, in these wilds to-mor
row, when we descend the mountain, I
will acquaint you with other particulars in
my eventful life, and I will then tell you
who 1 am. And now, good night—we
both need repose.”
That morrow dawned upon his lifeless
body! I had observed, during his recital,
that his frame frequently shook, as if strug
gling between mental excitement and phys
ical debility. Paleness and flushes alter
nately crossed his checks as his excited
feelings contended with his languid frame.
An undefined foreboding hung like lead I
upon my heart, as I bade him ‘good night,’
and entered the adjoining apartment. I ‘
wrapped my cloak around me, and threw
myself upon the floor, but I could not
sleep. About midnight I was startled by
a sound which seemed like the groan of
one in pain. Was it the wind sighing
through the trees, or was it the agony of
suffering humanity ? I listened—it was
repeated again and again, in tones that
struck thrillingly on my heart. I sprung
to the door and entered the other room;
the hearth-fire was decayed, and I vainly
stirred its brands for light. I opened the
narrow casement; the night was dark and
sullen, and cloud upon cloud rose in frown
ing masses from the horizon to the zenith.
1 could see nothing, but from a corner of
the apartment the moans came distinctly
to my ear. I groped my way to the spot:
it was, indeed, the moan of that aged man.
[ laid my hand upon his brow ; it was
damp and cold ; I touched his breast; the
heart-pnlse beat faintly and almost imper
ceptibly. “Merciful God !” I exclaimed,
“he is dying! here, in solitude and in
darkness, with no aid to cherish that spark
of life which timely interference might yet
keep burning.” “ Benevolent stranger,”
he murmured, brokenly and faintly, “what
aid can arrest the wheel of death, when it
rolls over a form so aged as mine' 1 My
hour has come, and I have so lived that I
can brave its horrors. The tardy justice
of my country has come too late, and—.”
*A friend of the writer heard this from the lips
ofGeneral St. Clair himself. He mentioned it
in terms of warm gratitude. This benefactor
was the late William Crawford, of Georgetown.
JA fact.
JGen. St. Clair was, in his old age, reduced
to the necessity of keeping a miserable tavern on
the high road of the Alfeghanies, while at the
same time he had demands against the govern
ment, which, had they been promptly met, would
have rendered his situation comfortable. It ie
on this fact the present tale is founded
His voice ceased; I heard the death-rattle
rising in his throat; I raised him gently
in my arms, and the heart-broken veteran
of the Revolution expired peacefully upon
my bosom!
The storm was yet howling without, as
I laid the dead softly upon its pillow, and
approached the window of the hut. “Yes,’
f exclaimed, “on such a spot, and in such
a scene, should an injured hero die ; natuie
at least may mourn his death, though cold
and selfish man will learn it without emo
tion.”
At last the gray dawn of light specked
the horizon, and gradually ascended the
east, ushering in the morrow on which the
old man was to have quitted his rude cabin
for a better home. He had indeed quitted
it, and forever, for a home where the mem
ory of coldness and ingratitude cannot dark
en the brightness of the blessed ; but the
memory of his wrongs may yet, in the
hour of retribution, be a pointed steel in
the breast of each and of all of those whose
neglect traced on his faded cheeks the fur
rows of anguish, amidst those of time. He
forgave, but Heaven will punish.
I descended the mountain, after a last
look at the dead, and stopping at the first
habitation, gave the necessary orders for
his burial; and the hero, whose bier should
have been followed by a nation, was laid
in the ground by a few hireling peasants.
Such is national gratitude. Previously to
my leaving the cabin, I observed on a small
shelf a few books.- I opened one that was
old and worn, and on the inner cover I dis
covered a family escutcheon, subscribed
with these words—“ Arthur St. Clair.”
‘Flail; ia bib ©anair,
CAPTAIN SOPHT.
In the spring of the year 1832, as the
steamer Junius was puffing and paddling
upon the Mississippi, on her way to Lou
isville, her captain became suddenly ill
with the cholera, and though the disease
only manifested itself under its mildest
form, the attack was sufficiently serious
to disable him for some time to come. —
Upon arriving at Louisville, the owners of
the Junius were duly notified to provide
themselves with another commander. It
was a busy season of the year, when the
river-men were generally all in employment,
and despite the most vigilant search, high
and low, they could find no person to sup
ply the vacancy. In the absence of some
more suitable person, therefore, a young
man of steady habits—the book-keeper of
one of the principal commission stores of
the city—was pitched upon, a proposition
made him, and the bargain finally closed.
On that same evening the whole company
walked down to the steamer, and the new
captain was duly installed.
River-men of ten or fifteen year’s stand
ing invariably look upon the green ones,
who are making their debut upon the riv
er, with a good deal of contempt, more es
pecially if the new avocation appears to
sit upon them awkwardly. As the new
commander passed along the boiler on his
way to the cabin, he manifested some de
gree of trepidation—casting his eyes fur
tively about him, as if engaged in reflec
tions on steamboat explosions. A lit
tle group that were gathered in the engine
room, consisting of the mate, pilots, and
engineers, had watched him, as he ap
proached the boat, with considerable cu
riosity ; but when he displayed his nerv
ousness, allowing his greenness to leak
1 out, a significant wink was exchanged from
one to the other, and our new captain for
feited the respect of his officers, without
even having the satisfaction of commiting
a positive blunder.
The day of departure had arrived—the
last package had been carried on board—
the bell has tolled for the third time, and
the new captain, who stood forward of the
pilot-house, surrounded by inquisitive pas
sengers, was reduced to the last extremity
of perplexity. For the last quarter of an
hour he had been giving incomprehensible
orders, which invariably required three
or four minute’s patient explanation. The
difficulties of his new avocation moreover!
were beginning to render him very impa
tient and querulous—a fact not calculated
to advance his progress. Seeing every
thing idle, and everybody looking towards
him for a signal of departure, the captain
advanced and hailed his mate :
“ I say, Mr. Mate !”
“ Ay, ay, sir,” answered a gruff voice
from below.
“ Are you all ready there ?”
“ Ay, ay, sir, all ready.”
“Well, then you might pull that plank
on the steamboat—she’s going to start.
A broad grin spread itself over the
mate's countenance as he received the or
der. The stage plank on board, the cap
tain turned to the pilot:
“Well, Mr. Pilot, the planks are all in ;
what are you waiting for now ?”
“ Waiting for orders, sir,” answered he
who stood at the wheel, as cool as a spring
day in Norway.
“If that’s all, sir, you can let her go !”
“ Why, what do you mean, captain, said
the pilot, assuminga very disappointed ex
pression of countenance, “ aint she untied
yet r
Thereupon the captain crossed his arms
upon his chest and smiled (somewhat ex
ultingly) as he replied r
“ Yes, Mr. Pilot, she is untied ; I got a
man to do it two minutes ago. I mean
you may go—make the steamboat start —
leave Louisville and go to St. Louis, sir.
I hope Im clear now.”
Amid the ringing of bells, the shouts of
the mate, the roaring of the steam as it was
being let off, and the heavy clang of the
engine, the steamer Junius backed out
from the Louisville port, and, much to the
satisfaction of her new captain, was soon
speeding down the stream at a rale which
showed that the commander had not at
least affected her powers of running. Lou
isville was soon lost in the distance: the
canal was gone through, the boat all the
time speeding merrily onwards, and in
three days (a remarkable run at that time,)
she was breasting the dark and swift roll
ing tide of the Mississippi. Everything
connected with the captain’s duties had,
thus far, gone off to admiration, when, on
the night after they had entered the Miss
issippi, about half an hour after the cap
tain had turned in, the watchman hurried
to his room, and informed him that, owing
to some disarrangement in the engine, the
boat could no longermake head way against
the current, but was beginning to drift
down at a rapid late, An announcement
of this character was enough to turn the
captain, mentally upside down. At a
bound he was out of bed, in a minute he
was completely dressed, and the next
found him in the pilot house, wonnd up in
a quintessence of excitement.
“Why, Mr. Pilot, what's the matter
with the d—d boat, won’t she stop ?”
The pilot was invisible in the darkness;
his answers were sufficiently short and
snappish, however, to indicate a sour ex
pression of countenance.
“It seems to me that she don't stop,
captain ; I feel her moving yet.”
“ Well, but sir,” cried the captain, run
ning nearer the pilot-house, “ but, sir.
where will she stop 1”
“Against the trees on the banks, sir, if
there is no intervening snag to stop us
sooner,” answered the voice of the pilot in
a kind of reckless quiet.
“Jam herself against the banks! run in
to snags, why, thunders, sir, she must be
stopped, or we’ll all be drowned!”
“ If you wish to stop her, captain, you’d
better have au anchor thrown out pretty
soon.”
Upon this hint, the captain, whom an in
ternal vision of explosions and sinking,
with a thousand attending horrors, had
rendered nearly distracted, precipitately
left the pilot-house, and hurried forward
on the hurricane deck.
“Mr. Mate! I say, Mr. Mate! do you
hear me ?”
“ Ay, ay, talk on, sir,” answered a col
lected and gruff voice from below.
“ Well, sir, you will please to pitch one
of the anchors overboard. Do it quick,
sir ; the boat’s running foul of snags.
“Very good, captain. Shall I bend a
hawser on it, sir ?’ r
“Bend a what?”
“ A hawser.”
“ No, d—n it; don’t be fooling away
your time—pitch it over as quick as you
can!’’
“Ay, ay, sir. Boys, catch hold of Lit
tle Nance, and heave her over.”
The anchor was dragged to the boat’s
side, and a heavy plash informed the cap
tain that his order had been obeyed. For
a few minutes he stood still to see the ef
fects of his plan, but the motion of the
boat indicated that it was perfectly use
less. Rendered much more anxious now
than before, he hurried back to the pilot.
“ f say, piloi', the anchor's overboard,
and she's not stopped vet.”
“ We have another anchor, captain,” an
swered the pilot quietly. “You’d better
make use of that also.” Here was anoth
er hope.
“Mr. Mate, I say, mate!” shrieked the
captain in a frenzy, “ take hold of that oth
er anchor and throw it over. This boat
must be stopped.”
“ Shall I bend a hawser on that, sir ?”
“Darnation! no!” roared the captain,
“ we’ve got no time to fool away.”
“Good again, sir,” answered the mate,
who to judge from his tone of voice, must
have been choked with laughter.
A heavier anchor was dragged over the
deck, a heavier plunge was heard, but
still the boat floated down. The captain
was losing his'senses fast.
“ Pilot, what the deuce is the reason the
boat won’t stop now ?”
The pilot seemed to labor]) under the
same difficulty of speech as the mate ; it
was only after several attempts that be
answered :
“ I wouldn’t wonder, captain, if Jim had
forgotten to attach a rope to those an
chors.”
“Good God, do you think so ? v Mate, I
say, Mr. Mate, did'nt you tie a string to
those anchors ?”
“ Why, no, captain, you told me not to.”
“Well, by thunders,” bawled the cap
tain, “I thought you were inclined to be
rather soft on this boat, but you're the
darndest fool that I've come across yet.”
At this juncture the boat received a vio
lent shock which almost carried the cap
tain from his feet; three or tour hands
jumped ashore and made her fast to a
large tree, and before the captain had
quite recovered his senses, mates, pilots,
clerks and engineers were grouped in the
social hall, every one enjoying the matter
with the soberest face possible.— St. Loti~
is Reveille.
A THRILLING SCENE.
I passed up the natural avenue and came
upon the green. My feelings were very
poetical as I walked towards the village
church. I entered. A popular preacher
was holding forth, and the little meeting
house was much crowded. Several per
sons were standing up, and I soon discov
ered that I must retain my perpendicular
position, as every seat was crowded. I,
however passsd up the aisle, until l gained
a position where I could have a fair view
of near'y all present. Many of the con
gregation looked curiously at me, for'l was
a stranger to them all. In a few moments,
however, the attention of every one seem
ed to be absorbed in the ambassador of grace,
and 1 also began to take an interest in the
discourse. The speaker was fluent and
many of his flights were even sublime-
The music of the woods, and the fragrance
of the heath seemed to respond to sets- elo
quence.
Then it was no great stretch of the im
agination to fancy that the while handed
creatures around me vvrth their pouting
lips and artless innocence, were beings of
a higher sphere.—As my feelings were
thus divided between the beauties of the
two worlds, and wrapped in a sort of poet
ical devotion, I detected some, glances a*
me of an animated character.
I need not describe the sensations ex
perienced by a youth, when the eyes of a
beautiful woman rest for a length of time
on his countenance, and when)hc imagines
himself to be an object of interest to her. I
returned her glances with interest, and
threw all the tenderness into my eyes which
the scene, my meditations and the {preach
er’s discours, had inspired in my heart—
doubting not that the fair damsel possessed
kindred feelings atHhe fountain of inspira
tion. How could it be otherwise ?
She had been born and nurtured amidst
these wild, romantic scenes, and was made
up of romance, of poetry,-and tenderness;
and then I thought of’ the purity of wo
man’s love—her devotion —her truth; I on
ly prayed that I might meet with her whete
we might enjoy a sweet interchange of sen
timent. Her glances continued. Several
times our eyes met. My heart beat with
rapture. At length the benediction was
pronounced-. T lingered ahoutthe premises
until I saw the daA-eyed damsel set out
for home, alone and on foot. O! that the
customs of society would permit—for we
are surely one in sotri. Crael formality !
that throws up a barrier between each oth
er! Yet I followed her. She looked be
hind, and I thought evinced some emotion
; at recognizing me as the stranger of the
j day. I then'quickened my pace, c.nd she
actually slackened hers, as if to let me
‘ come up with her.
