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' jHfoxiKT*
From th e Southern Literary Mrs ten <>rr.
BALLAD,
nr e. r jc.
The ring is on iny hand,
And the wreath is on my brow—
Satins and jewels grand,
And many a rood of land,
Are all at my command.
And I am liappy now !
He has loved me long anti well,
And, when he breathed hi» vow,
I felt iny bosom swell,
For—the words were his who fail
In the battle down the dell,
And who is happy now !
And h" spoke to re-as-uro m*.
And lie kissed my pallid brow—
Hut a reverie came o’er me.
And to the church-yard 1 o rne,
And I sighed to him before me,
O, I am happy i.ow *”
And thus they said I plighted
An irrevocable vow—
And my friends are all delighted
That his love I have requited—
And my mind is much benighted
If I am not happy now !
Lo! the ring is on my hand,
And th" wreath is on my brow—
Satins arid jewels grand.
And many a rood of land.
Am all at my command.
An ! I must be happy now!
I have spoken—l have spoken—
They have registered the vow—
And though my faith be broken.
And though my heart be broken,
Behold the golden token
That proves me happy now !
Would God I could awaken !
For I dream—l know not how !
And my soul is sorely shaken,
Lest an evil step be taken.
And the dead who is forsaken
May not be happy now !
From the Philadelphia Visitor.
THE FRIAR’S TALE.
In several convents situated among the rr.oun
tains which divided Franee and Italy, a custom
prevails that does honour to human nature: in
these sequestered cloisters, which are often placed
in the most uninhabited parts of the Alps, stran
gers and travellers are not only hospitably enter
tained, but a breed of dogs are trained to go in
search of wanderers, and are every morning sent
from the convents with an apparatus fastened to
their collars, containing some refreshment, and a
direction to travelers to follow the sagacious ani
mal : many lives are by this means preserved in
this wild romantic country. During mv last visit
to the south of France, I made a trip into this moun
tainous region, and at the convent of . where
I was at first induced to prolong my stay by the
majestic scenery of its Environs; as that become
familiar, I was still more forcibly detained by the
amiable manners of the reverend Father, who
was at that time Superior of that monastery ; from
him I received the following pathetic narrative,
which I shall deliver, as nearly as I can recollect,
in his own words.
About two years ago. (said the venerable old
man) I was then in the 57th year of my age, and
second ot my priority over tnis house, a most sin
gular event happened through the sagacity of one
<o( these dogs, to which, I became mvself a wit
ness. Not more than adoz.cn leagues front hence
•here lived a wealthy gentleman, the father of
Matilda, who was his only child, and whose his
tory lam going to relate. In the same village
lived also Albert, a youth possessed of all ihe
world deems excellent in man, except one single
article, which was the only object of regard in
the eyes of Matilda's father. Albert with a
graceful person, cultivated mind, elegance of man
ners, and captivating sweetness of disposition, was
poor in fortune; and Matilda's father wn« blind to
every other consideration; blind to his daughter’s
teal happiness, and a stranger to the soul-delight
ing sensation, of raising worth and genius, de
pressed by poverty, to affluence and indepen
dence. 1 hereton* on Matilda's confession of un
alterable attachment to her beloved Albert, the
cruel lather resolved to take advantage of the
power which the laws here give a man, to dispose
both of his daughter and of his wealth at pleas
ure ; the latter he resolved to bequeath to his
nephew Conrad, and Matilda was sent to a neigh
bouring convent; where, after a year’s probation,
she was to be compelled to renounce both Albert
and the world.
Conrad, whose artful insinuations had long
worked on the mind of this misguided father, was
not content with having thus separated these lov
ers, but by inciting persecution from the petty
creditors ot Albert, drove him from his home ;
and, alter many fruitless endeavours to communi
cate with his "lost mistress, he lied for sanctuary
to this convent. Here (said the hoary muuli) I
became acquainted w ith the virtues of that excel
lent young man, for he was our guest about ten
months.
In all h s time Matilda passed her days in
wretchedness and persecution; the abbess of her
convent, Sister Theresa, who, to the disgrace of
her profession and our holy church, disguised the
disposition of a devil in the garment of a saint;
became the friend and minister of Conrad's wicked
purposes, and never ceased to persecute Matilda
by false reports concerning Albert, urging her to
turn her thought from him to that heavenly
spouse to whom she was about to make and ev
erlasting vow. Matilda scorned her artifice, and
iove for Albert resisted every ellirut of the abbess
to shake,her confidence in his fidelity.
She was in the last week of her noviciate,
when her father became cbu>vN'coUsly ill, and de
sire.l on-e mme to see her. Conrad used every
endeavour to prevent it, hut in vain: she was sent
for; and the interview was only in the presence
of Conrad and the nurse; but when the dying
father perceived the altered countenance of his
once beloved child, Isis heart condemned him, he
reflected that the wealth which he was going to
quit for ever, belonged to her, and not to Conrad,
and he resolved to expiate his cruelty by cancel
ling the will, and consenting to the union of Al
bert and Matilda. Having made a solemn dec
laration of his purpose, he called for the will;
th"n taking Matilda’s hand in one of his, aud pre
-1 seating the fatal writing with the other, he said,
“Forgive thy father! destroy this paper, and be
happy: so be my sins forgiven in heaven!” The
joy of his heart at this first effort of benevolence,
was too much for his exhausted spirits, and he
expired as he uttered the last words, letting fall
the will, which he was going to deliver.
Matilda’s gentle sou! was torn with contending
passions, she had lost her father at the moment
w neit he had bestowed fresh life; and in the con
flict betwixt joy and grief, she sunk on the life
less corps, in an agony of gratitude and filial ten
derness.
Meanwhile Cmead did not slip this oppor
tunity to complete his plan, which, by the dying
words of his uncle had been defeated; he secured
the will, and corrupted th" nurse by promises and
bribes, never to reveal what she witnessed; halt
pursuading the interested clouting old woman, that
it was only the effect of delerium in the deceased.
This iriea was but too well supported by the first
question of Matilda, who exclaimed as she came
to herself; “Where am I sure ’tis a dream! iny
father could not say I should be happy, he could
not bid m: tear that fatal will ? Speak !am I
really awake, or does my fancy mock me with
such sounds ?" The artful Conrad assured her
that her father had only mentioned Albert’s name
to curse hint; and, with his last breath comman
ding her to take the veil at the expiration of the
week. All this the perjured nurse confirmed;
and then Matilda, being perfectly recovered, first
saw the horrors of her situation. It was in vain
for her to deny what they asserted, or remon
strate against their combiueJ perfidy. She was
presently, by force, again conveyed to her nun
nery, in a state of minil much easier to imagine
than describe.
Here she felt more violently than ever There
sa’s persecution, who urged with increased vehe
mence, the pretended positive commands of her
dying father; ami by the advice of Conrad, used
severities of conventional discipline, w hich almost
robbed the devoted victim of her reason: still
pleading that Religion justified her conduct.—
Can it be wondered, that such cruel treatment
should at length disturb th t piety and faith of
poor Matilda? and induce her to exclaim,
with presumptuous bitterness, against the holy
institutions of our church, and brand the sacred
ordinancer of c ur religion with unjust suspicions.
‘Why! (said she) why are these massy grates
permitted to exist, why are these naked walls sad
prisons of innocence and youth, where fraud and
cruelty have power to torture and coniine the
helpless? Religion is the plea; Religion which
should bring peace, and not affliction to its vota
ries; then surely that religion which justifies
these gloomy dungeons must be false, and I will
adjure it; yes! I will fly to happier regions
where prisons are allotted only to the guilty;
there no false vows to heaven are exacted but Al
bert and Matilda may v**t be happy.” The pos
sibility of an escape had never before presented
itself, and indeed, it could never have occurred
but to one whose reasons disordered, for she well
knew that the doors w ere secured by many bars
and looks, and that the keys were always deposi
ted beneath the pillow of the Abbess.
Her imagination was now too much heated to
attend to any obstacles, and wish a mixture of for
sight inspired by insanity, she packed up all her
little ornaments of value, carelesly drew on her
cloaths and put in her pocket some bread and
provision which had been laid in her cell; then
wrapping round her elegant form one of the blan
kets from the bed, she iighted a taper, and fear
lessly walked tow ards the cloister door, idly ex
pecting that it would fly open of its own accord,
to innocence like lu re—and now methinks I see
her, w ith hair dishevelled, face pale and wan, hrr
| large black eyes wildly staring, and the whole of
FLORENCE, GA. MONDAY, APRIL 2, 1838.
her ghastly figure, lighted by the feeble glimmer
ot her taper, majestically stalking through the
gloomy vaulted hall ; arrived at the great door,
she found it partly open, and scarce believing
w hat she saw, she quickly glided through it; but,
as she passed, an iron bar which she had not ob
served, and which projected at the height of her
forehead, slightly grazed her temple; and though
she scarcely felt the wound, yet it added new hor
rors to her look, by covering her ghost-like face
with streaks of blood.
Although Matilda had never considered the im
probability of passing this door, she now reflec
ted with wonder how she had passed it, and fear
of a discovery began to operate, as she with more
cautious steps moved silently through the clois
ter towards the outer gate; which when she ap
proached, she heard Therca’s voice whispering
these words: “Adieu, dear Conrad; but remem
ber that your life, as well as mine, depend on the
secrecy of our conductthen tenderly embra
cing each other, a man ran swiftly from her, and
the Abbess turning round, stood motionless with
horror at the bloody spectre firmly approaching.
Tha guilty mind of Theresa could only sup
pose the horrid vision to be the departed spirit of
one whom she thought her cruelties had murder
ed ; and while the panic seized her whole frame
a gust of wind from the gate, extinguishing the
taper, Matilda seeim'd to vanish, as she resolute
ly pushed through the postern door still open.
Theresa was too well hackneyed in the ways of
vice, to let fear long take possession of prudence:
the night was dark, and it wotdd have been in
win pursue the phantom, if k«r recovering
courage had suggested it; she therefore resolved
to fasten both the doors, and return in silence to
her own apartment, w aiting in all the perturbation
of anxiety and guilt, till morning should explain
this dreadful mystery.
Meanwhile Matilda, ennscious in her innocence
and rejoicing in her escape, pursued a wandering
course through the unfrequnted paths of this
mountainous district, during three, w hole days and
nights; partly supporting her fatigue by the pro
visions she had taken w ith her, but more from a
degree of insanity, which gave her powers beyond
her natural strength; yet, in her distracted mind,
this last instance of Theresa’s wickedness, had
excited a disgust and loathing, bordering on fury
against every Religious or Monastic institution.
During the whole twelve months of Matilda’s
noviciate, no intercourse of any kind hid passed
betwixt her and Albert, who continued under
the protection of this house, alike ignorant of her
father’s death, and of all the other transactions
which I have now rebated; yet know ing that the
term of her probation was about to expire, he re
solved once more to attempt some means of gain
ing admittance to her convent. With this view
he made a journey thither in the disguise of a
peasant; and, on the very morning in which his
mistress had escaped, he presented himself at the
gate.
C’onrad, who had by letter from the Abbess
been informed that her prisoner was fled, was de
sired to conic immediately, and devise some ex
cuse to the sisters for what had happened; for al
though both to Conrad and Theresa the fact was
evident enough yet the sister nuns were distrac
ted in conjectures; till, by one of those artful
stretches of assurance, which consunmto villany
finds it easy to exert, Conrad recommended a
plausible story; —And now Religion (that con
stant comfort of the good, and powerful weapon
of the wicked) presented itself, as the only re
source in this emergency. Theresa was taught
to say (for the present,) that she had no doubt the
sinful reluctance of Matilda to receive the veil
had excited the wrath of Heaven; and that she
was mimculosly snatched away, or perhaps anni
hilated, to prevent the dreadful profanation of the
holy ceremony at which she must that day have
assisted.
This plan had been settled, and Conrad, was
going with all haste in pursuit of the fugitive,
when, at the outer gate, he met the pretended
peasant.—The penetrating eye, either of Love or
Hatred, soon discovers a friend or enemy, how ever
carefully disguised. Conrad and Albert knew
each other.— Instantly the flames of hatred, jeal
ousy and fury, kindled in their bosoms; and Con
rad seizing Albert by the throat, exclaimed, “I’ve
catlght “the villain, the sacrilegious “ravisher!”
—A severe struggle ensued, in which Conrad
drew his sword; but Albert (who had no weapon)
dextrously wrenched the instrument from the
hand of Conrad, and plunged it in his bosom—
The villain fell; while Albert fled w ith the ut
most precipitation from the bloody scene, and re
turned in the evening to this convent.
How shall I describe (said the good old Monk)
the contrast betwixt the looks of our unhappy
youth at this moment, and on the proceeding
morning when he left us!— I Then iuuoccnce faint
ly enlightened by a gleam of hope, smiled in his
features, as lie cheerfully bid us adieu, and said
“perhaps I may again hear tidings of Matilda,
should the will of Heaven deny me happiness with
her, I will cotne back resigned, and dedicate, my
future life to holy meditation void of guilt.” But
now, he returned breathless and pale, his hands be
smeared with blood, his limbs trembling ; he could
only utter, in faultering words, Save nte, reverend
Fathers save me from justice, from myself, if pos
sible! Behold a murderer!”
‘Some hours elasped before we could collect
from him, the circumstances of a crime, which
had produced this extreme degree of horror aud
compunction in mind so virtuous and iunocent as
that of Albert; and, having heard the whole, in
which he took all the blame to his own hasty con
duct, we promised him protection; and endeav
oured, though »n vain, for two whole days to speak
comfort to his troubled mind, and to inspire con
fidence in the boundless mercy of his God. On
the third day we were diverted from this arduous
task, by the return and behaviour of one of our
dogs; the poor animal, who had been out all day,
was restless,and shewed evident marks of a desire
that we should accompany him to the relief of
some poor wretch, who was unable to reach our
eonvent.
*Faorcf Jerome and 1 resolved to follow him;
and we proceeded about half a mile when we turn
ed from the beaten track guided by our dog, to a
retired glen where human feet had hardlv ever
trod bclore.—Here, on a rock, which projected
over a dreadful precipice, sat an unhappy half dis
tracted object; 1 need not tell you, it was Matilda.
She had crept with wondrous difficulty up a sleep
ascent to a ledge of rock which overhung a fear
tul chasm (the very recollection of the place free
ze* my blood !) when we first discovered her. she
was eagerly clinging to a branch of yew which
grew from a fissure in the rock above, and which
shaded her melancholy figure.
* r l he dog followed her steps; but Jerome and I,
unable to ascend a path so dangerous, stood unob
served by her, at a little distnucc on the opposite
side the glen.
‘Y\ hen Matilda first perceived the dog, she look
ed with wildness round her; then fixing her eyes
with tenderness on the animal she said, “Are you
returned to me again ? and are you now my friend
Fie fie upon it! Shall even dogs seduce the help
less ! —Perhaps you repent of what you have done,
You look piteously. Alas! Matilda can forgive
you !—Poor brute you know 1 followed you for
ever, but that you lrd tne to a detested convent
Thither Matilda will not go—Why should you
lead tne to a prison ? a dog cannot plead Religion
in excuse for treachery!” She paused, then taking
a rosay of pearls from her side, she fantastically
wound it about the dog’s neck saying, “I have a
boon to?sk, and thus I bribe you, these pre
cious beads are yours : now guide tne to the top of
this high mountain, that 1 may look about me, and
see all the world.—" Then I shall know whether
my Albert still be living—Ah, no! it cannot he!
for then Matilda would be happy! and that can nev
er be!” She then burst into a flood of tears, which
seemed to give her some relief.
‘When I thought she was sufficiently composed,
Jerome and I discovered ourselves. On this she
shrieked, and litd her face; but calling to her I said
“Albert is still alive.” fc-hr looked at us, till by de
gress she wildly examined us from head to foot;
then turning to the dog, she si i/.ed hint by the
throat and would have dashed him down the' pre
cipice, saying, Ah, traitor! is it thus thou hast be
trayed me?”—But the animal struggled and got
from her. She then firmly looked at us, and cried,
“Here lam safe, deceitful monsters! safe from the
tyranny of your religious persecution; for if you
approach one single step, I plunge into the yaw
ning gulph, and so escape your power.—Ha! ha!
ha !”—Then recovering from a frantic laugh, she
said, “Yet tell me, did you not say that Albert still
lives ? Oil! that such words had cotne from any
lips but those of a false monk! 1 know your
arts; with you such falsehoods arc religious frauds;
this ia a pious lie, to ensnare a poor helpless linnet
to its cage: but 1 tell you cunning priests! here 1
defy you ; nor will 1 everquitthis rock, till A lbert’s
voice assures me I may do it safely.”
“You will easily imagine (continued the monk)
the situation of Jercru* and myself. Ignorant
of the manner in which Matilda had escaped,
we could only know by her actions that it was she
herself, and that her senses was impaired; per
plexed how to entice her from this perilous retreat,
and knowing that one false step would dash her
headlong down the dreadful chasm that parted us,
at length I said, “Gentle maid, be comforted; Al
bert and Matilda may yet be happy.” Then leav
ing Jerome concealed among the bushes to watch
the poor lunatic, 1 hastened to the convent, to re
late what I had seen.
“Meanwhile, Matilda looking with vacant stare
around her, from time to time repeated my words.”
Albert and Matilda may yet be happy;” then paus
ing she seem’d delighted with the sound re-echoed
from the rocks, again reprating, “Albert and Matil
da may yet be happy ;” still varying the modulation
of her voice, cs joy, grief, doubt, despair or hope
alternately prevailed in her disordered mind.”
I w ill not long detain you (resumed the Rever
end Friar) with the effect my narrative had on the
dejected Albert, how he at first exclaimed, “Can
there be comfort for a guilty wretch like Albert?”
and eagerly ran towards the place: then moved
more calmly on iny representing how fatal might
be asurprt.se to one in so dangerous a situation;
and at length shrinking back, as he approached the
spot and turning to me, he said, “Father, I will go
no further! Heaven has ordained as a punishment
for the murder I have committed, that I should
become a witness to the shocking death of the
poor lost Matilda; at iny approach, in frantic exta
sy she will quit her hold, and perish before nty
sight.” I urged Him to proceed but it was in vain,
he sit down on a bank,and was silently wrapt in an
agony of irresolution, when he heard, at a little dis
tance,the well known voice of the poor lunantic, still
repeating my words; “Albert and Matilda may yet
be happy. Roused by the sound, he started up,
and cautiously advancing he exclaimed; just
Heaven ! fulfil those words, and let them indeed,
be happy!
“Matildaknew the voice,and carefully treading a
path, which would have seemed impracticable to
one possesed of reason, she descended from the
ledge on which she sat, and approached with cau
tious steps; but at the sight of Albert, she flew
impetuously forward, till seeing me, she as sud
denly ran back, and w ould have again retreated to
the rock, shrieking, “It is all illusion! priestcraft!
it is not real Albert, and I am betrayed.” We
pursued, and caught her; then finding my reli
gious garb augmented th* disorder of her mind.
I withdrew, leaving only Albert to calm her need
less fears.
“But no persuasion, even from him, could in
duce her to come within view of the convent gates;
I provided, therefore, accommodations for her in
the cottage of a labourer, at some little distance;
where for many days, her delirium continued, while
a fever threatened a speedy dissolution. During
this period, Albert was labouring under all the
anxiety which his situation could inspire; the deed
be had committed sat heavy on his soul, and he
dared not hope for an event, which his own truilty
thoughts reproached him with having not deser
ved.
“At length the crisis of the fever shewed signs
of a recovery, and now his joy was without bounds,
even the blood of Conrad scented a venial crime,
VoL. I. No. I
and he triumphed in the anticipation of reward
for all he had suffered ; but this happiness was
of short duration, for at that time I received a letter
from the Abbess Theresa, demanding back the fu
gitive, whose retreat she had discovered. This re
quisition I knew I must obey; and giving the letter
to Albert, I was going to explain the necessity of
my compliance, when he burst out in bitter exe
crations against this and all religious houses; cur
sing their establishment as a violation of the first
law ot nature which demands an intercourse be
twixt the sexes.
“Having heard, with a mixture of patience,
pity and resentment, all that his rage or disappoint
ment could suggest, I answered nearly in these
words, beginning calmly, but by degress assuming
all the authority the case required: “My son, blame
not the pious institutions of our holy church sanc
tified by the observance of many ages; nor impi
ously arraign the mysterious decreess of Provi
dence, which often produces good from cviL This
sacred edifice has been consecrated, like many
others, by our pious ancestors, for purposes hon -
ourable to Heaven, and useful to mankind; these
hospitable doors are ever open to distress; and tin
chief object of our care is to discover and relievo
it.. 1 his holy mansion has long been an asylum a ■
gainst the oppression of human laws, which drove
thee from thy home; and, but a few days since,
thou thyself blessed an institution which saved the
wretched Matilda, perishing with madness. Nay,
at this very moment, its mercy shelters frotn the
hand of justice, a murderer! yet tliy presumption
dares deny its general use, front thine own sense of
partial inconvenience, and execrates monastic in
stitution of the sexes, lewdness and sensuality are
checked: but know, short sighted youth, that the
world will not remain unpeopled, because a few of
its members consecrate their lives tu holy medita
tion; nor shall the human species become extinct,
because Albert and Matilda cannot be united ti»
propagate a race of infidels and murderers.” 1
stopped, for I perceived the gentle Albert was
touched with my rebuke; and falling oa his knees,
he cried in the j atlietic words of scripture, “Fa
ther! 1 have sinned against Heaven, and in thv
sight." “It is enough, nty son, I replied,) anil
now I will compassionate your situation; I will do
no more for though I cannot detain Matilda longer
than till she is well enough to be removed; yet in
that time (if Heaven approve my endeavours) i
may contribute to your happiness, by intt rcedeing
with her father, and should I fail in the attempt,
this roof, which thy hasty passion has profaned,
shall yet be a refuge to raise thy thoughts above rh<»
trifling disappointments of a transitory world.”
“I could not wait the reply of Albert, (said tbr»
Prior) being at this time called cut to welcome the
arrival of a stranger, who they said w as dangerous
ly ill; this proved to be no other than the wounded
Conrad. lie, in few worrit, explained the motive of
his visit, telling tne that immediately after the.
recountor, dreading that awful presence tn which
no secret is concealed, and to w hich he apprehen
ded lit was summoned by hit own sword in the in
jured hand of Albert, he hadvov.d (if heaven
would grant him life) to ripuirtke he lad
committed. He had already executed a deed, re
signing all the fortune cf her father in favour of
Matilda; he had declared his guilty commerce
with Theresa, that lie might repent, or suffer pun
ishment; he had paid all the t dcbts of Albert, ant!
justified his character to the*world; and, finally,
he had resolved to implore the prayers of myself,
and the venerable fathers of this house, to mak»
him worthy of becoming one of o-ut holy order;
that if he lived, he inighfbc useful; or if he died,
he might be happy.”
“The prior then concluded this interesting nar
rative, by saying, that Albert and Matilda were uni
ted, and are still blessed In each other’s virtues,
improved by difficulties thus surmounted; that.
Theresa had too far profaned the laws of Heaven
to have any confidence in religion, and died by hes
own hands; but that Conrad recovered slowly
from his wound, and, after living many years an
honour to the order he professed, he' died in
peace : the faithful dog (lie said) was the favour
ite companion of Albert and Matilda, who had
lost their way, but whom he now brought to the
hospital mansion of this virtuous pair.
“He then briefly hinted arguments in favour of
monastic institutions; yet liberally allowing that
the religion of his country might in certain pointa
be wrong, and knowingjne to be a Protestant, I
suppose lie acknowledged more than 1 rutrht in
justice to his candor to relate. For this I have pur
posely suppressed the name and situation of his
eonvent; but 1 shall ever remember these words,
with which he finished this discourse: “True.
Religion (said he) however it may vary to -outward
ceremonies, or articles of faith, will always teach
you to do good, to love and help each other; it
will teach you, that no sin however secret can
long remain concealed; and that when the world
and all its vanities have palled the sated appetite
you must seek refuge in conscious innocence, or
a sincere repentance. Then no matter whether
you choose a convent for retirement, or commune
with your owu heart upon your bed, and be still.”
BOOKS.
There arc several capital mistakes in regard to
books:—First, some persons, tliiriUgh their own
indolence, and others, front a sincere belief in the
vanity of human science, read no book but the
Bible. But these men do not consider, on the
same principle their ought to be no sermons.
Then, there are others, who purchase large li
braries, w ith the sincere design of reading all the
books; a very large library is but a learned luxu
ry. Nations may sometimes become celebrated
by such accumulations—but the individual is like
ly to be overwhelmed with the vastness of his
stores. Book collecting and book reading are
two very different things.— Visiter^
An Irishmen w ent into a store and asked for c
pair of gloves; he was told that the kind he wan
ted would come to one dollar and twenty-live
cents—“Och, by my sow!, thin,” says he, “Pij
sooner my hands ’d go barefoot all tire days of
my life, than give ye that for 'em.”