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Forll>** Southern Literary Car.ette.
THE CHRISTIAN KNIGHT AND THE MOSLEM.
A BALLAD.
BY TSJA AVINTA.
The sun in his glory was sinking
Behind thA.Hla in the west,
Ilis mighty beams tlashed no longer on high,
Atnl bke warrior laying his armour by,
lie was going down to his ro^t.
A single Knight was riding,
Biding with might and main,
Unsafe was the way and weary ami long,
And (■_ Dent his swift course towards a castle
strong,
Which t the A.duight he must gain.
An-.* ihrou.'b a 1 the mountam
”*Stcti.Uei'st?k and •him the way, ~
When sudden as thought, with a rapid hound.
An a /tiled troop and J the Knight surround,—
No time lor a blow or hay.
Gailopn ig onward they hurry,
Unt.l t't’.e moon doth arise.
And then tile captive’s face to see,
From ft’ visor of iron they set ii tree.
And gave a shout of atirpiT-e.
Tin* was a hand ot Chii tiaus,
Right well might they joytul be,
They had seized a foe whom well'they knew, j
A noble Ibe, but a Modem true,
And brave as a lion was he.
To ‘heir noble Commander's castle,
•With weariless speed they go;
And the Christian Knight cried —“Now thanks
to Hca|fn,
Which thus in a wonderful way hath given
To my hand this noble foe!
I know thee well, Sir Moslem,
I know thy terrible blow,
In battle given with furious ire;
Thy courage and might 1 well admire,
But 1 cannot let thee go.
I cannot let thee depart,
But this will I gladly do—
I’ll keep ihee a guest m honour great,
Till Peace spread her calm wing over the State,
And this will I do for you.”
The foes each other embraced,
But the Moslem sad was he,
And the Christian Noble kindly said—
“ Sir Moslem, why is your joy Hed?
Pray, tell your grief to me.”
And the Moslem made this answer,
“ Not for my freedom l grieve,
But ray word was passed this night to see
A lady fair of mine own eountree,
And now she will think I deceive.”
Then spake out the Christian Noble—
“ Now Heaven iorefend, Sir Knight,
That a spot on your Knightly fame should rest,
Or a doubt becloud your lady’s breast,
Or loat hope dim her eye so bright.
But give mo your Knightly promise
That >ou will return lo me,
And born yuurTfgfi?,*v/.v turn never aside,
But straight to your lady and back again ride,
And ray gates are open for thee.”
“ Even so as a Knight I promise,'’
The Moslem mournfully said ;
Then his steed was brought, and he neighed
with pride,
To see his brave master once more by his side,
And an arrowy course they sped.
So he reached his lady’s castle,
And in feigned wrath, but glad,
She chid the Knight for his long delay,
But he was sad and had naught to say,
And she bid him not be sad.
Than he said with mournful voice,
“ My Lady sweet and true,
I thought this night from these castle walls,
To bear you away to my father’s halls,
Ami happily wed with you.
But now are my hopes destroyed,
For here as I bent my flight,
A Christian Knight’s band did in ambush lay,
And they seized and bore me a captive away,
And I must return to-night.
For my Knightly word have I given,
And a Knight’s word binds like a spell—
And thus to tell my lot to thee,
Have I gained this mocking liberty.
And just to say farewell.
Forget me not, sweet Lady !”
But then she cried—“ Right loth
Am I to leave thee, and away
With thee I’ll speed, nor say me nay,
Thy steed will carry us both.”
The Moslem made sad answer—
“ Alas ! my Lady fair,
Shall 1 carry thee to prison ?” She
Replied—“ If you must prisoner be,
Thy fortune will I share.”
Behind on his noble courser,
Her arms locked round him tight,
The Lady with the Moslem sped,
And reached before the stars had fled,
The halls of the Christian Knight.
*• My noble guests, right welcome!”
With joy the Christian cried,
•• I’ll feast you here ’till to-morrow e’en,
For a prison is no fit place I ween,
For a young and blooming bride.”
So he feasted and gifted them royally,
And freely let them go ;
Tw.isa generous Knightly deed, and long
Was praised in Moorish ballad and song
The fame of the noble foe.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
SONNET.
ON HEARING “ ACT.B LANG SYNE.”
BY WX. C. RICHARDS.
Tis Auld Lang Syne ! Oh! sweet relief to I
hear—
In these degenerate days, when all our strife
Is but for novelty—a strain so dear,
So fraught wiih memories of early life !
It brings again glad visions to the eye
Os scenes and times, alas! forever fled ;
Mirrors life’s chequered page from infancy, j
And cherished forms now sleeping with
the dead:
Oh ! what a power hath e’en a simple strain—
The sleeping chords of Memory’s harp to
wake,
And thrill to exstacy of bliss or pain,
Man’s time and care worn spirit; and lo j
make
It love again the long-forgotten past,
Or ’sunned by Fortune’s smiles, or swept by j
I Sorrow’s blast!
a i'lMf&i imuk mm&ii to litmawm. t m mtl mb scimuhs. mb to ommal iamuaMCE.
(Driginnl (fairs.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE TRANSFORMATION;
OR, MRS. WOOD'S VISIT TO HERCOUN
TRY RELATIONS.
BY ft KM SOUTHLAND.
(•nAFTEII VII.
“A friend hip that in frequent fits,
Ot controversial rage, emits
The spaik* of disputation.”
The week’s visit was draw ing to a
close, and it was time for everybody
to be thinking of going Lome. The i
gentlemen had their business to attend 1
to —and the ladies were beginning to i
feel anxious jtheir dairies, ayfi j
poultry houses, mid Mrs. Felix \V<SoJ i
was heartily tired of “retirement.”
Meanwhile, they had received and
returned calls among their neighbours, !
visited and made presents to the poor I
—looked after their old charity school
—distributed good books—helped at !
the sewing society, ami done as many j
useful things in one week, as would |
have sufficed most people for u life, j
time.
In all this, Mrs. \\ nod could see “no ,
manner ot satisfaction,” and could not |
help wondering “that sensible people ‘
should be content to lead such aimless ;
lives.”
“Y\ hat in the world were they living j
for!” she repeatedly asked herself.—
“They were no more known in the
fashionable world, than if they had
! never existed—they were literally ‘no
bodies.’ ”
And to Mrs. \\ ood, (he term ‘nobo
dy,’ comprehended the sum total of
human misery and degradation.
Only one day remained of the allot-
I led seven, and the old gentleman ap
| peared at the breakfast table with a
clouded brow. It might be that he
was about to part with them all—or,
i it might be that he had not enjoyed a j
good night’s rest, hut certain it is, the !
old gentleman was depressed, and the
depression communicated itself to the
family.
“What's the matter with father?”
said Mary, in a whisper to her sisters,
as they left the breakfast room.
‘Tm sure I can’t tell,” replid Annie,
in the same tone, “I’ve been trying to
fmd out ever since I came dow n.”
“I’ll tell you what I think it is,” said
Sarah, “Aunt Harriet not verv finery
last night, at something pSr.lane said,
and it always worries father to see
anything like qua.idling around.him.
“Oh ! it can’t be that,” said Annie,
“aunt Harriet quarrels with every
j body.”
“Perhaps that’s the very thing,” said
Mary. It distresses father to see her
1 giving way to such tempers.”
“You may depend upon it that's the
tiling,” said Sarah quite relieved, and
the sisters parted.
They had come very near the truth.
The fact was, the old gentleman had
; long had doubts on his mind, as to the
reality of his sister’s piety. The evi
dences which she was continually giv
i ing of a selfislt, and irritable spirit, led
i him to fear that she had altogether mis
taken the nature of the religion which
she professed, and he resolved before
I they parted, that he would have a long
talk with her, and if possible, get her
to think more correctly on such sub
jects.
He knew very well, that if he could
only bring her to clear views of w lmt
her Bible required, she would very
: soon discover the gross inconsistencies
of her daily conduct, and perhaps set
about amending them ; but here was
the difficulty—aunt Harriet was deci
! viedly opposed to anything like advice
i or interference. The (act that her broth
er had supported her in her youth, and
afterwards had given her a home for
j herself, was only conclusive evidence
• to her mind, that he ought to be very
! particular how he presumed on it, and
she actually resented the smallest ap
proach to even an interest in her do
’ inestic concerns. How then was he. to
attack her piety—-on which she partic
ularly prided herself—without rousing
i up the old Adam within her, and rnak
! ing her more irritable and unchristian
r*
like, than ever ?
As to the storm’s breaking on him,
he was quite accustomed to that, and
did not trouble himself about it.
While these thoughts were passing
through the old gentleman’s mind, one
after another of the tamilv went out of
-
the room, leaving him at lust alone,
with the object of his solicitude.
Aunt Harriet was seated bolt up
right in a high backed arm chair, and
the old gentleman took a seat near her.
“Sister,” said he. kindly and affec
tionately, “1 have lately been thinking
that you and I are getting very old.”
And he spoke like one who felt that
he had undertaken a very solemn thing,
and that his success, humanly s| cak
ing, depended on his prudence in car
rying it out.
“It’s very rude in you to say so,”
said aunt Harriet abruptly dropping
her knitting, and then resuming it after
taking a good long look at him.
I
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“1 am very sorry you think so,” re-
I plied the excellent old Christian, “but
what 1 want to say is, that in all prob
ability you atxl ! have not much longer
to live.”
“I’d like to know w here you got your
information from.” said aunt Harriet,
looking sideways at him. “It's none
of your business if 1 haven't got long
to live—nor mine either!”
“There you are mistaken,” said the
old gentleman mildly. “It is our bu
siness to see that wc are ready when
our time comes.”
“Do you mean to tell me that 1 am
not a Christian V said she, still looking
j at him, and holding her head very
i straight.
“No, God forbid!” said the old gen
tleman, in tremulous accents, “but I
am very anxious to ascertain what
your views of Bible religion are. Not
what is commonly called religion, but
what God requires of those who pro
fess to make the Bible their rule of
conduct. What do you believe to be
your duties as a Christian ?”
“Love the Lord your God with all j
v .;:r replied aunt Harries, who j
knew a gi cat deal ofherbible verbatim,
“and your neighbour as yourself, on
these two commandments bang all the
law and the prophets.”
“But, I allude more particularly to
the outward actions, and works of a
Christian,” said the old gentleman,
more and more earnestly.
“Be faithful in every good word and
work,” replied aunt Harriet, determin
ed to show him that she knew just as
much as he did.
“All very correct,” said the old gen
man, patiently', “but what does it
mean
“Mean !” cried aunt Harriet, open
ing her eyes at him, “why it means
just what it says, to be sure.”
The old gentleman did not seem to
regard this explanation as sufficiently ;
clear.
“My dear sister,” said he, solemnly,
“it is a very common error to suppose,
that because we are saved by faith, we
have nothing to do. Many a man gives
way to passions altogether opposed to
the spirit of the Bible, and then tells
you ‘lie is not looking to works to save
him, he is to be saved by faith.’ He
does not see that faith must shew itself
by works. Now what do you believe?”
“What do I believe ?” exclaimed
aunt Harriet, beginning to shew pre
monitory symptoms of an explosion.
“What do I believe? I believe exact
ly what you do.”
“Well, then,” said the old gentle
man with a sigh, and determined by
any means to come at her true senti
ments, “what do / believe ?”
“llow am I to know?” cried she bla
zing out in a perfect rage. “1 do wish
vou would ask questions that people
can answer, and not be whipping the
devil round the stump, to come at, you
don’t yourself know what!”
And w ith that she flounced out of the
room, leaving the old gentleman more
distressed and desponding about her
than ever.
CHAPTER VIII.
“Truths, that the team’d pursue with eager
thought,
Are not important always, as dear bought,
Proving at last, though told in pompuusstrains,
A childish waste us philosophic pains;
But truths on which depend our main concern,
That ’us our shame and misery not to learn,
Shine by the side of every path we tread,
With such a lustre he that runs may read.”
The day was just beginning to break
when the family, after taking breakfast
bv caudle light, bid adieu to their ven
erable parents, and set out on their
journey homeward.
The old gentleman and his wife stood
at the front door, and gazed after them,
until in the diin light, the long line of
receding carriages assumed ihe appear
ance of a dark funeral train, and with
CHARLESTON. SATURDKY. MAY 17, 1851.
THE CRYSTAL PALACE, HYDE PARK, LONDON.
[For a Description of f.iw Magnificent Building see second page.]
heavy hearts, and reluctant steps, they ;
went back into their now empt y house. ;
“Ah ! well wife,” said the old gentle- :
man, stilling a sigh, “it’s no use to cry
about what can’t be helped, so wipe
your eyes, and we’ll ‘take a tun. round,’ l
and see the poor neighbours.”
And the two resumed their daily
round of duties as quietly as if nothing
had happened.
Meanwhile, the travellers had reach
ed their usual place of parting —the
cross roads just beyond the village—
and taking a second leave of each oth
er, they turned oil’ in different direc
tions.
We follow Dr. Howard and Mrs.
W ood, whose carriages were to journey
most of the way in company—the
Doctor himself and Fred,“ridingalong”
on horseback.
Their route lay through a part of
Georgia, where—a one a few years
ago curiously expressed it—“the eye
rested upon decaying villages, and
sweeps of deserted hills, protruding
their bald heads and furrowed cheeks,
| fit emblems of the reckless and dissi
| pated culture, which had so soon cov
ered them with the marks oi'deefep.,
tude.”
Rail-roads now pass through that sec
tion of the country, and the scene is
rapidly changing: but at ihe time of
which 1 write, everything seemed run
ning to waste. Whole “dealings”
skirted the way side, and the tew culti
vated farms appearing in the distance,
only served to render the desolation
more apparent.
Nevertheless, our friends as they
rode along, found a great deal to inter
est and occupy them. There were gar
nets on the hill side, chrystals sparkling
under their horses’ feet, and large sheets
of mica glistening in the sunbeams.
There were heavy laden orchards
which nobody claimed, and clusters of
i wild grapes that brushed against their
| carriage tops, flowers that “bloomed
unseen,” and clear waters that “sweet,
harmonious nnisic made.”
Ravaged and despoiled, as the soil
had been, it still retained vestiges of
its former wealth, and travellers who
had an eye for the native ornaments of
“mother earth,” could always find
enough to beguile a long day’s journey
of its proverbial tediousness.
“Will you get out?” asked Doctor
Howard, alight ing at the foot of a long,
shady hill, and going toward Mrs.
Wood’s carriage, after having lifted
out the inmates of his own. “We are
going to walk up.”
“Oh! dear me,” said Mrs. Wood,
yearning, “what labour-loving people
you are ! I’m tired half to death, and
so are the children.”
“But this is ‘Diamond hilly*” said
the Doctor, opening the door, “come
Laura, we are going to take a hunt.”
“No 1 thank you,” said Laura, retir
ing into the corner, “1 am not fond of
climbing hills —pass bye, if you want,
to Lucy.”
And Lucy sprang out quite delight
ed.
“You had better come,” said Fred,
leading his horse up, “see what, a clear
Amethyst.”
As he spoke, he held out a bright
lilac-coloured ehrystal.
“Amethyst 1” cried Laura, seizing it.
“Oh! mamma, w hat a splendid broach!
Do Fred give it to me.”
“It’s mother’s,” replied Fred, “she
and Lizzie are collecting a cabinet
come jump out.”
And Laura, whose head was now
still of finding an amethyst brooch,
got out w ithout any further urging.
Mrs. Wood and Edward, followed
slowly in the carriage, and looked list
lessly out upon the merry ehrystal
seekers, who kept calling to them from
the road side gulleys, to “come and
join them.”
Nevertheless, Mary and the Doctor
entered upon “the hunt” with as much
eagerness as any of the younger ones,
and the Doctor found a mineral of
higher order, upon which he seemed to
set considerable value.
Lucy was so perfectly happy at get
ting among them, that when they were
about returning to their carriages, Ma
ry begged leave to substitute Charley
j and tiike Lucy with her. Mrs. Wood
I acceded to the proposition, and Fred,
pitying Charley’s long face, arranged
things to the satisfaction of all parties,
by taking Lucy’s vacant place, and
making his hoiseoverto Charley, whose
countenance instantly lighted up, and
assumed its usual good humour.
Die exchange thus effected, pleased
Laura amazingly, and for the rest of
the way, Mrs. Wood amused her drow
sy faculties, with watching the well
enacted “flirtation” carried on between
the novel-read child, and her lun-loving
cousin.
“We are going to dine at Mrs. Mor
gan’s,” said Fred, stopping in the midst
of a merry repartee, to address Mrs.
Wood, w ho, as usual, had very little to
..if WoT* exclaimed she, starting
with surprise. “1 did not know that.”
And she looked as blue as if some
i thing dreadful were about to happen.
The fact was, Mrs. Morgan was
Mrs. Vane’s disowned sister, and it was
not very convenient to make her ae
-
| quaintanee. Suppose she should hap
pen to come to town. If Mrs. Mor
gan’s house was a common wayside inn,
it would all have been well enough,
but she was going to a private house,
to see the mistress of the mansion, as
one of the Doctor’s friends, and just
suppose she should happen to come to
town!
Mrs. Wood was perfectly aghast—
but she had not much time to delibe
rate, and before she had made up her
mind how to act, the carriages turned
out of the high road, and drew up at
M rs. Morgan’s.
Here every thing had an air of good
management and contentment. The
1 fields though small, were capitally
fenced, and well cultivated. Hie ani
mals about looked comfortable and
well fed, and the small flower garden
in front of the house, gave evidence of
both taste and industry.
M rs. Wood could not help being
si ruck with the general aspect of things,
and her fancy was particularly taken
j by one or two nicely constructed ar
! hours arid flower stands. She expressed
her surprise “that poor people could
afford such things.”
Mary accounted for it by saying that
Walter, Mrs. Morgan’s son, had quite
a turn for carpentering, and was somc
i-hl.’.g of machinist.
“‘A jack of all trades,’ 1 suppose,”
said her cousin, contemptuously.
Before Mary had time to reply, the
family all came out to meet them, and
after giving them a very warm wel
come, ushered them into the house.
It was plain that nobody had expec
ted them, for they had just finished din.
ner, and were putting away the table,
but every thing was as neat as possible,
: and when Mrs. Morgan found that they
had not dined, she immediately pre
i pared for another meal, and despatched
her daughters w ith Lizzie and Lucy, to
bring up butter and milk trom the
spring-house. Coffee* was easily made,
and by the help of Mary’s canister of
provisions, they soon set out. quite a
! feast.
Mrs. Wood looked on in perfect
amazement. Her hostess was so pret
ty and agreeable, and went about her
menial woik with so much ease and
self respect, that she could hardly real
ize her being Mrs. \ ane’s much con
•Coflee, in the upper country is, by many
families, brought in as an accompaniment to
the mid day meal, sometimes after it, but usual
j ly with it.
temned sister. As she herself after
wards expressed it —“she had expected
to see a very common woman, and was
quite surprised to find such a lady.”
What still more astonished her was,
the fact that Mrs. Morgan’s children
looked not only happy and intelligent,
but actually “respectable.” She had
taken up the idea that all poor people
must necessarily be sensitive and dis
contented, and it was perfectly iueom
; prehensible to her how they could be
; otherwise.
“They must feel that they were low
and degraded, and how could they be
happy and content, when they knew
that everybody was looking down up
them?”
Here she made one egregious mis
take. Herself, and individuals of her
own feather, are the only class of white
people who do look with contempt up
on virtuous poverty.
1 say “w hite people,” because Ethio
pians, and some dogs are notorious,
for their contempt of “poor buckras,”
and 1 only hope Mrs. Wood and her
acquaintances like the company they
so composedly so rt with.
Some good, well-meaning people,dis
| tress themselves half to death about
their poverty, from a conviction, that
it must mar the happiness and injure
the characters of their children ; and,
in too many cases, the rule holds good,
but alas! for the poor, anxious parents,
they are themselves the very ones to
| bring it about—they harp upon their j
poverty, and lament their children’s
deprivations, until t’ e innocent little
things are tormented out of all their
light-heartedness, and get the idea that
they are worse off than any body else.
Then wanes the whole train of con
comitant evils—discontent, envy, am
bition, sensitiveness, and despondency,
things that all the good fortune of af- j
ter life, can never wholly eradicate,
and which do more to break down the I
I character, and destroy their hopefulness
| than any amount of discomfort and
hard living could ever have effected.
Mrs. Morgan knew all this, and her
greatest anxiety was to prevent her
straightened circumstances from telling
on her own amiability and cheerfulness.
Even when things seemed most against
her, she still struggled to preseive her
kindness and amiability, and many a
short supper or hard day’s work, which
would have been tearfully deprecated
and mouijied over by another parent,
| had been completely obliterated from
her children’s minds,bv her cheerful se
■ *
| renity, and unshaken trust in the boun
tiful Giver of all.
They had only one servant to assist
Walter in the field ; and more than
j once they had felt as if they must j
starve before the year was out; but ;
| Dr. Howard’s active benevolence, or j
his father-in-law’s munificence,had found I
them out before the time came, and j
now the old gentleman’s whole family
! united to supply them with all kinds
of work, so that between Mrs. Mor
gan’s needle, the little girls’ knitting,
■ and Walter’s carpentery, there was no
longer any danger of their actually
coming to want.
These are the sort of people (no
matter in what station found) who kiep
up the social progress of a country.
Had any one told Mrs. Wood, that
Mrs. Morgan was doing more to ad
vance the prosperity of her children,
and the interests of her native State
than she herself was, she would have !
laughed at the idea, and yet it was
true, and why ? Mrs. Morgan was j
fitting her children to fulfil faithfully \
the private duties of every day life,
and to be happy in spite of circum
stances.
After an hour’s rest, and a capital
dinner, the travellers returned to their
carriages, and here again Mrs. Wood
was surprised. The Doctor paid for
I every blade of fodder which his horses
FOURTH VOLUME—NO: 3 WHOLE NO.
id eaten, and Walter, instead ol
flushing and backing out, received it n
i matter of course. And be was light,
io was working hard to support hi
uother; and Dr. Howard, although;
Fiend, wasa mail well off in the world
ind both able and willing to pay for
■vhatever he consumed.
Tli -y were good, upright people, al
>f them, and one accustomed to tin
me speeches, and skilful double deal
ngs of busy life, learns to estimate
human na'ure more kindly when they
get into these out-of-the-way nooks ot
.he world.
But so thought not Mrs. Wood. Sin
could not help being pleased with tin
whole concern, but she was perfectly
•hocked at the intimacy existing be
tween the two families. She could
not get over the idea of Mary’s kissing
i seamstress, and of Lizzie’s being
handed into the carriage by a plough
boy.
To be sure, her own father was a
‘hoe-maker, but people did not know
my better in those days, and it was
time to get out anew order of gen
tility.
Dr. Howard had hoped that a sight
of Mrs. Morgan's unpretending respec
tability, would have corrected some ot
his fair cousin’s newly acquired notions,
but when they stopped at a way side
‘muse for the night, a scene occurred,
which made him fear his experiment
had only made matters worse.
On entering the house, Mary as
usual, went up stairs to wash the chil
dren's faces, and put on clean aprons.
Mrs. Wood also disappeared with her
two daughters, but soon returned rig
ged out in the most unsuitable fashion,
and followed by Laura be-flounced, and
be-curled, Lucy having remained be
hind to play with little “Phil,” her ba
by brother.
There was a gentle, unoffending
young girl, a daughter of the hostess,
who had just come home from a board
ing school, and who evidently was a
little inclined to be somew hat ashamed
of the coarse look of every thing about
her father’s house. She had just found
out how things were done in the world,
and had already begun to improve
things at home to the best of her abil
ity-
Now one would have supposed, that
any woman of common good feeling
would have tried to avoid everything
i hat could have increased the poor girl’s
sensitiveness, or strengthened her dis
satisfaction ; but, instead of this, M rs.
VY ood was so bent on displaying her
| own “gentility,” that she never for one
moment stopped to think of w hat was
! due to the feelings of others, or what
I the consequences of her silly conduct
might be.
She edged ofl’, or straightened up if
poor Nancy Staunton only came near
her, and finally, finding her intent upon
entertaining her, she got up, and taking
Laura on her arm, paraded the whole
length of the piazza, talking meanwhib
of M ’s doings, in a tone which
| plainly intimated that she held every
; thing less superb, and less expensive,
in utter and deserved contempt.
The Doctor was perfectly disgusted ;
more than this, he saw at once the es
: feet which such ideas might have upon
an inexperienced mind. He rose from
| his seat, and approaching the poor mor
tified girl, he drew her into conversa
tion, and found that she really was in
telligent and well informed. One or
two kind remarks restored her to her
•self. and when Mary came down, she
found them engaged in a brisk chut
which she soon joined.
Mrs. Wood thus was left to talk for
the sole edification of herself,her daugh
ter, and her host, the latter of whom,
with his chair tilted back against the
door way, listened with unsuspecting
good humour, and comfortable self
complacency to all she had to say.
For the benefit of those similarly
I addicted, I subjoin an extract.
“Laura, you were not at Mrs. Vane’s
j last ball, so I must tell you all about
i it.”
And here she talked so loud, that
every one in the parlour, if not other
wise occupied, must have heard her.
“First of all you must know, that
all the drawing-rooms were thrown
open—and you know how beautifully
they are furnished, crimson curtains,
chandeliers, and immense mirrors; and
all so beautifully arranged. And then,
the supper table! one pyramid alone
cost forty dollars! The hot house was
all lit up, and the gardens were illumi
nated. 1 assure you, it was one of the
most brilliant affairs I ever saw.”
Then followed along description of
all the handsomest dresses, together
w ith Mrs. Vane’s criticisms on a coun
try girl who only wore a plain white
muslin ; and altogether, her remarks
were just such, as were calculated to
give Mrs. Staunton’s young daughter
a hankering after style and dissipation,
and a perfect distaste for the number-
I less pleasures of her own retired life.
Fortunately, Mrs. Howard had com
l pletely engrossed Nancy’s attention,
and the Doctor taking advantage of her
tilling his place, had got his own chil
dren out into the apple orchard, and
was entertaining them in a very differ
ent style.
He intended that his children should
he fit tor society, and go into it when
they were old enough, but in the mean
time, he had no idea of their imbibing
any of their cousin’s nonsensical pecu
liarities.
When Mrs. Wood went to the sup
per table, she was surprised to find that
-he could not get any thing but very’
laconic answers from either of her fel
low travellers. Mary was evidently
displeased, and the Doctor, although
perfectly polite, seemed determined to
silence her. and would make her no re
ply heyond rnonysyllables.
Mrs. Wood did not know what to
make of it—a harmless desire to show
■>ff, was not a very culpable thing in
her estimation, at best, and if it had
been, she would not have thought of
applying the rule to her own conduct.
Mrs. Staunton was a broad-faced,
full shouldered woman, who looked
quite capable ot doing it good days’s
work in the field, and “the colonel”
was a jolly, talkative man, who seemed
very well satisfied with himself, his
property, and the world in general.
Miss Nancy was dressed in a light lilac
muslin ; she wore culls, and a lace cape,
and had a white rose-bud in her hair.
Now that her nervousnessnes had worn
off, she was really a pretty, interesting
girl—seemed devoted to her parents,
and did the honours of her father’s ta
ble, with considerable ease and grace.
Once or twice she looked a little put
out when she passed the greenish glass
tumblers, or handed the gaudy colour
ed sugar-dish, but she never blushed
until Mrs. Wood pushed aside one of
Ihe pewter spoons, and called to her
servant to bring her a silver spoon out
of the carpet bag. Then, the poor girl
turned perfectly crimson, mid the tears
looked ready to start from her eyes.
Mrs. Staunton’s susceptibilities were,
fortunately, not so keen.
“Dear La! now,” she said, “/Aar’s
the good of living in a town ; why,
bless you, 1 never so much as seen a
silver spoon.”
“Well,” said her complacent hus
band, not a whit disturbed, “I’ve a no
tion, Polly, to take Nance to town, and
get some of them ‘ Jixins l don’t
know much of them things myself”
‘aid lie, turning to the Doctor, “but
my little daughter here’s been at me,
and she has has such a turn for fixing
up, that I think I’ll just let her have
her own way.”
The Doctor expressed himself very
much gratified, and his host continued.
“I’ve given my children a good cddi
cation Doctor, and now 1 want to have
things at home to suit ’em. It’s my
opinion it’s a very hard case to bring
up young folks to know ‘what’s what,’
and then not let ’em have it. But 1
shan’t let them idle neither. Idleness
isn’t good for man nor beast. Squire
Higgins, Doctor, made a fortune in
these parts, and it’s been the ‘ruination’
of his children.”
“Ah! indeed,”said the Doctor, “I’m
sorry to hear that, the squire was a
good, well-meaning man.”
“Yes, but Doctor, he had mighty
‘spare sense,’ he would’nt give his chil
dren no ‘eddication’—he said they’d
•deride’ him because they knew the
most; and he let them lounge about,
and spend money, and they ‘turned
out’ the very worst sort.”
“It is strange,” said Mary, “how
many people in this part of the world
take up that idea.”
“So I say,” rejoined her host, “they
bring up their children to be ‘crooked’
at home, and then they charge it all on
their ‘book laming.’ Well, I’ve got as
good children as any about here, and
they’ve all had the best ‘eddication’ I
could give ’em. I believe in ‘eddica
tion’ Doctor, I do.”
And with these pithy words, he rose
from the table, and was followed by
the rest.
(To be continued.)
Secresy Carried too Far. —The
Count de, V , Prime Minister to
the King of Sardinia, affected mystery
so much in all his transactions, both
public and private, that, happening to
hurt both his legs very severely, he
employed a surgeon fir each limb,
while each was kept ignorant that the
j other was employed. The treatment,
therefore, adopted by the medical men,
and the nature of the drugs they ad
ministered, beingquite inconsistent and
contradictory, the consequences proved
fatal to the Minister.
Ilow to Learn the Piano Keys in
i a Quarter of an Hour— Somebody
I having been much troubled to learn the
keys of the Piano Forte, proposed the
following lines as an alleviation of the
labour:
All the G and A keys,
Are between the black threes ,
And twixt the tiro are all the D’s,
Then on the right >ide of the threes
Will be found the B’s and C’s;
But on the Irft side of the threes
Are all the F*h and all the G’s.
What are the most unsociable things
lin the world ? Milestones—you nevsr
j see two of them together.