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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.