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mjmiifj MfiMii mmm TERMS, *2.00 PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE. (Original ]Mn\. Forth* Son them Literary Gazette. STANZAS TO KATE. We have not called each other long By the sweet name of friend ; No hallowed childhood mem’ries throng, With present scenes to blend. We met as thousands meet, nor knew, ‘hat we should meet again : The doubt, perchance, to me or you, find brought no sense of pain. 1 know not how, indeed, it came, I only know ’tis true, ['h ,t Friendship’s spark to kindling flame, VV ithiu our bosoms grew. fed by all tender thoughts and true, riright glows the sacred tire ; And Y outh it childhood must renew, lire its warm rays expire. Its radiance shall 111 it the < nr'-'iinllgm on tTiewav. ; One moment bright as Fancy’s dream, The next, sunk in its grave ! Steadfast as stars on Sapphire height, And as their shining pure ; Defying change shall Friendship’s light Within our hearts endure ! ITiilomei.. (Dripal Cases. For the Southern Literary Gazette. OUR CHEROKEE HOME; OR. lachrymosa, the beautiful. 11V SEM SOUTHLAND. CHAPTER 1. 1 never until ! was fairly out of my t ens. ventured to bring any of my ‘ literai v productions” before the read inn public; but not a few of my school uirl intimates were quite notorious as ‘•authoresses,” and figured under va rious romantic and poetic appellations, in the small village newspaper, which happened to be printed in a dingy, tumble-down, barn-like edifice, in the immediate vicinity of our “female col lege. It was a rule in the school (hat we wrote “compositions” once a week, and manv of the pieces thus brought out were truly worthy the attention they attracted. One girl more particularly, far excelled us all, both in the style and the variety of her weekly contri butions. She wrote without any trou ble to herself, and would fill a half quire in less time than some of the girls took to manufacture ascantily cov ered sheet. In fact, it required little or no effort for her .to do any thing which she undertook—do what she would, she did it with ease, and it was only necessary for her teachers to give her a hint of what was to be required of Iter, to have it accomplished with a speed and elegance of finish peculiarly her own. Was a difficult piece of mu sic to come in as “grand finale” to our monthly concert —T’lora mastered it iu the shortest space of time, and had it ready for performance long before it was needed. Was a painting to be hung in the reception room before “ the examination ” came on—Flora had it finished and framed before the rest of us had fairly begun.— Was poetry to be recited —were gar lands to be woven —was a room to be decorated? In all these, Flora excel led, and withal was so winningly grace ful and lovely, that there was not a girl in the school whose heart did not b. at towards her with more than ordi nary kindness. To add to all this, she “as surpassingly beautiful —so beauti ful that all the professed beauties who have since passed before my eyes, have seemed, in the comparison, tame and ordinary. If 1 were to describe her as she real ly was, she would pass for the creature of my own brain, and not for the every day lleslt and blood mortal that she ac tually purported to be. But her graces and charms were marred by one se rious defect in her mental organiza tion, which, trilling as it then seemed to our young eyes, was viewed with decided disapprobation and regret by the older and more sagacious of her friends. Gifted and intelligent as she was, nd with everything to fit her for prac ticalusefulness and influence,she achiev ><! comparatively nothing. She was a lave to her own imagination; she lived so to speak in a world of her own cre ating, and her sympathies,thoughts and feelings were more or less absorbed in sen-\|ess visions and dreams. A fide of sorrow, a pathetic love story, to even a few touching lines of poetry, would make her weep until eyes, nose and chin w ere as rosy as j her cheeks; xml when she sat down to I write off a fabrication of her own, the tears streamed so invariably, that at last half in love, half in fun, we nick- j named her “Lachrymosa,” a name which she went by, as long as she re mained at school. Meantime, while wasting her tears so profusely over imaginary sorrows, she too often seem 'd wholly unconscious of the unpre tending sufferings of common-place, unromantic people. The struggles of the poor with poverty, of the rich with ffliction, and of the feeble with inca pacity and disease, were all passing visions to her, and dreams were her A FAMftI IflMIMa, wmm TO jUTiIMWM. T2I MIS AM ‘mmm, lie TO SIMML IHTMGM. realities. Having known nothing but prosperity and happiness herself, she seemed to take it for granted that all real people were equally fortunate, and I have seen Iter gaze unmoved on scenes which, properly portrayed on paper, would have awakened her warm est sympathies. A strange, fascina nating creature she was —one whom it was impossible not to love, and equal ly impossible sometimes to understand. Not long before our final examination, an evidence of her indifference to the actual occurred, which excited the in dignation of some, and the admiration and envy of'others. Among the acquaintances which she had formed, at the house of a relative who resided, in that neighbourhood, was a young manof uncommon ‘Am th. ilna no fivery body admired and spoke well ot him—not a little to say of any man who has spent a large portion of his life in an isolated country town —Flora alone seemed quite insensible to his attrac tions, and 1 sincerely believe that she was utterly insensible to the power which she was fast gaining over him. Be this as it may, a time came when she must have seen—had she not been stone blind to realities—that one word from her had blasted his happiness for ever, and sent him a broken-hearted wanderer to travel over the rude earth iu search of temporary forgetfulness. He had no brothers or sisters, his on ly surviving parent cared little or noth ing about him, and with wealth at his command, talents that any ordinary man might have envied, and a heart made to love and to be loved, he went forth to seek oblivion in those hourly j dissipations of thought and time, which many more frivolously constituted find alone sufficient for their happiness. Flora saw him as he passed her a few evenings after she had refused him, ! and she knew that he lingered there because he could not yet tear himself away from the spot that still held all that was dear to him on earth, but she bowed to him as coldly as if nothing had happened, and returned to her room to weep until midnight, over some love-lorn hero who never, in all probability existed, except in the ima gination af the author. The day that sheleft the village to go go back to her own happy home, her lov er left his father’s stately, but silent man sion, on his way to Europe, there to brave the numberless temptations which beset all, and which even those far advanced in years and wisdom, and with every thing to endear them to life, sometimes find it hard to with stand. What wonder if, with none to I love him, and none to guard, he had I afterwards been transformed into a truth-hating, God-deriding “man of the world,” and then come home, as too many have done, to disseminate doc trines and ideas which have already revolutionized other countries, and would seem now to be about to infi delize ours. But a better lot was in store for him. His gentle mother had died con signing her child to the care of One who wateheth over all, and through those long years of peril and desola tion, to which one woman’s careless ness had condemned him, went as a safeguard, the memory and the faith of that sainted mother, who had watch ed like a guardian angel over his early years. ********* I thought when Fiora and myself parted on the steps of the school-house, that it was more than likely we never should meet again. She was going back to the wild woods of Cherokee, and 1, returning to the lowlands from whence I came; and it was not until after my arrival at home, that I learn ed, to my surprise, that my father had purchased a farm in the neighbourhood of Flora’s father, Mr. Warren, and that we were all to remove thither in the spring, there to reside for the re mainder of our days. None of us much liked the change at first—the Cherokee country had just been vaca ted by the Indians, and was at the time rapidly filling with emigrants from a warmer and less salubrious clime ; nevertheless, we one and all, regarded the move as a sort of self-banishment to solitude, and discomfort, and nothing but the rapid decline of my father’s health, could have induced us to go willingly, however cheerful and oblig ing we might have tried to appear.— As it was, my brother Frank, w ho had just taken his diploma in a Medical Institute, set out, instanter, to walk the hospitals iu Paris, and Harry, who was several years younger, petitioned to be sent to college, so that 1 (except six “interesting infants,” the oldest not ten years old) was the only child left to accompany my invalid father, and his scarcely less invalid wife, to their exile home. Os course I was not a little delighted to hear that Flora was to be our neigh bour, and she, on her part, (to judge from her letters on the subject) seemed equally well pleased. All things con- I sidered, we patiently concluded that it might have been much worse, and that we had best do as many wise people bad done before us, i. e., make the best of an extremely bad bargain. We little dreamed that ere many years were passed, our love for the new home would almost equal if not surpass our love for tlie old. Yet so it was—the charms of country life, in a region where winter and summer are alike healthy, where the unpeopled hills give one unbounded freedom, and where the water is ever clear and sparkling, and the breezes ever fresh and invigorating, wind around us a fas cination which it is very hard to break from ; and I, for one, would now soon er give up our old paternal mansion, with its ii.MMst oil ancestral) oak, and ir shoals of oyster banks, than part for aye with our beautiful home among the high hills of Cherokee. This, however, none of us could then foresee, and ottr preparations for de parture were made w ith heavy hearts, and oftimes with tearful eyes. It is no light thing to break away from ail the cherished associations of former years, even w hen the change is to a community and mode of life similar to that which we had all along been ac customed. But when the change is from the seaboard to the backwoods, from social life to solitude, and from luxury to discomfort, it required no little amiability to do the thing grace fully and without grumbling. As for our servants, they openly rebelled, and came into the house in a body to know— “ Wliaffu mossa been gwine lib j among dem cracker V My father pacified them in a mea sure, by telling them his physician had said “his life depended on our going,” and they departed to the kitchen less vociferous than they came, hut such long faces as they all wore for a full week after, would have led any one not well acquainted with Ethiopian pecu liarities, to suppose that they were each and every one, in hourly expec tation of being hanged. My old mom ma was perfectly inconsolable. “She knew,” she said, “mossa was just carrying me up there to marry some of dem red face buckra men, that come to town wid four horse wag gins; and what could anybody call to dat! after all the trouble she had had to bring me up like a lady ; she ’spect ed she’d see me yet going to market mounted atop a waggin load of pump kins and horse-redish. She knew for certain,”she said, “that if I ebber come down to see my relations, I’d say ‘thar,’ and ‘char,’ and ‘get along honey,’ and all sorts of outlandish talk, that would make people stare at me, and laugh behind my back.” I told her, “of course I expected all that, and she might as well make tip her mind to it at once,” and to pre vent her indulging any doubts on the subject, added the information that we were to spend the summer in a log house with three rooms, and that she would have to climb up a high ladder, into the roof, every time she wanted to go to the store-room.” The poor old soul ejaculated “Ki!” and asked with uplifted hands, “where all the nice new mahogany furniture was to go ?” Her dismay on learning that it was all to be left behind, so completely un nerved her, that she seated herself on a newly packed trunk, and rocked to and fro in silent despair, as she used to do when any of the children were des perately ill. Neither she however, nor any of the household proposed to leave us in our day of adversity, and we set out, on May Ist, 1842, for the home which we would not now exchange for the rich est princedom oil earth. CHAPTER 11. Late on the afternoon of our seven days’ travel, we arrived weary and worn on the outskirts of my father’s farm. Curiosity, or some more pow erful impulse, waked us all up as we entered the gate opening into our own domains, and caused some of us to de sert our vehicles, aud take to the use of our feet; while others, less enthu siastic, were content to put out their heads and look anxiously about them. Nor had we proceeded very far inland, ere we discovered quite enough to war rant the shouts of ecstacy with which our new home was hailed. The road upon which we had enter ed, was lined with trees of various sizes and kinds, some already ladened with rich, ripe fruit, others'giving pro mise of a la*er, but most abundant har vest. We who had been used to buy such luxuries by the plateful, felt as Aladdin must have done when transport ed to the garden under ground; and the clear horizon fit by the last rays of the departing sun, lent to this strange scene ol enchantment, an outer view of surpassing loveliness. Look in what direction we W'ould, as we reached the summit on which CHARLESTON. AUG. 2. 1861. our diminutive house stood—thebroad green valleys lay at our fe.-t, encased by shadowy hills rising lik. waves of a far off sea one above the other. We j were on an elevation in the centre of a glorious amphitheatre, and in the woods to our right, separated from us only by an intervening “low ground,” with its Kalmia bordered stream, was a picturesque dwelling, which seemed to bear an air of perfect isolation, und wliieh we at once concluded must be the residence of our neighbour, Mr. War ren and his romantic daughter, I\’’ru. Our doubts on the subject, if we had j any, were soon done away with, by [the appearance of a young lady on horseback, coming over towards us at lull speed, and followed moi'e^eliber- V *■.’ 1 yby to .1-1.-I- -i-.-iy ‘and^'offfu man similarly mounted. They came ! to insist that we should forthwith pro ceed to their house, there to remain until our own was ready for use, and my poor mother, worn out with her long, wearisome journey, was only too glad to have a temporary respite from the cares and responsibility of house keeping. \\ e stopped for a moment to take one look into our future abode, and then, without unpacking the car riages, turned our horses heads, and lumbered the six children back into limbo. My mother and father also re-imprisoned themselves, while Flora, mounting me on her horse, sprang up behind, and in a few- minutes was can tering down the hill-side, at a rate that would make my low country friends stare. Our seniors and juniors came on more cautiously in the rear. “Look at that river, Sem!” cried Flora, as our horses feet first struck level ground, “how many nice walks we shall have along its banks, and “bat beautiful herbariums we s:.all gather among its flowers. Oh! it is delicious to sit there and read all day long, and never to trouble yourseltljiy more about the world, and its than if they were not in existence^^ “But where is the bridge?” cried I, as we came suddenly upon the watt ’s edge, and found no bridge there, k “Bridge!” exclaimed she, with a mer ry laugh. “There is not a respectable bridge within twenty miles—give An nie the rein, and she ll carry you over.” I obeyed orders mechanically, but bow we got to the othe ,sidejs c, ininy. cle to me ; my head grew dizzy before - we had gone half way in, and I could not have told whether we swam to wards the shore, or the shore towards us; w hichever it was, “Annie carried us safe over,” and I never have tried the same experiment from that day to this. Fiora was perfectly amazed at my terror, and instead of sympathising, laughingly pointed baek, as we clam bered up the hill, to “the only bridge in that neighbourhood.” It was a iong pine tree felled on one bank, and bare ly reaching the other—no hand-rail, no branches, and elevated some thirty feet above the water! This 1 learned af ter a while to go cautiously over— but Flora crossed it when she pleased, and let it be wet or dry, ran over it as fearlessly as a wood-nymph. A five minutes canter landed us at the “stile” in front of the house, where to my surprise, a woman received our horses. “La ! bless you honey!” cried she, quite struck with my look of amaze ment ; “I reckon you never see the like afore? Yen’s the young lady what rites sich nice letters, haint you ? How’s your black folks?” I told her they were “pretty well,” and asked “how she was ?” “Middling, I thank you,” she re plied, and a little while after 1 saw her “currying down” the horse we had so queerly resigned. I took it for granted, from her free and sociable manner, that she was a favourite and particularly indulged ser vant, but no such thing, they were all alike in the matter of sociability, and a much at their ease with the “white folks’ company,” as the white folks themselves were. Our own servants accustomed to see their owners treat ed with considerable more deference, did not for a long time, know w hat to make of it, and old mom J udy had not been twenty-four hours in our hos pitable neighbour’s yard, before she was heard to declare— “Dese up country nigger is de im pudentest black people 1 ebber see!” We all, however, after a while, be came accustomed to this (what to us then seemed) disagreeable familiarity, and I now infinitely prefer the cordial ity and good will existing between the up-country negroes and their owners, to any amount of decorum and good breeding, without it. The two things however, arc not incompatible, and not a few of my acquaintances, in both regions of country, seem to understand blending them. Would that all did; our Southern homes would then fall very little short of perfection. Abolitionists may rave of despotism as they will, and bad housekeepers ! jiPy fret about “lazy, dishonest ne j i>oes” till doomsday ; but where own ■ e amiable, und know hole to man a southern household, is one of the floppiest and most orderly communi ties on the face of the eartli; and with 0M and good management, I 3.y people to be even comjbrtable aife where. • Our family had been remarkable fpugh several generations, for the ing attachment existing between O Ut slaves and their owners, and no jrijjiter proof, that the bond was still a -.erful* could be given, than the fact tli aiqjjpon as they discovered that ,i)’s fife Wd depending on his ‘Jinnee t* tj.j u.uek woods, they grumbling forthwith, and took * Neither our servants however, nor the. Warren’s less deferential “black folks,” could exactly he called “slaves,” nor do 1 believe that the term in its true import, is generally applicable to our coloured population. As tar as my own observation goes,the liberty of our “slaves” is not half so much infringed upon as is the personal freedom of our army and naval officers ; and, in point of actual labour, l doubt whether there is any part of the world where ser- j vants are expected to do so little. It is a common saying among North- j erners when they come South, that j “One Northern servant will do ten j times the work of a Southern.” Good friends, let me whisper one word in your ear— A Southerner would not require it. A gentleman of our State was not long since entertained by a Northern lady, with a rather boastful account of the smallness of heir yearly expendi tures. Among other things, she said : “\N hen I was at the South, I could : not get a shirt made for less than • ixty two and a half cents, here, I can get I as many shirts as my family require, made at twelve and a half!” “Mae am!” replied he, his indigna- j tion getting the better of his good ! breeding, “I would not wear a shirt made at that price.” 1 don’t mean to say that all South erners are equally considerate, nor do mean to say that all Northerners are so selfish and cruel —but the anecdote G of the two, as a peo -4 “£anyone_ doubts it, he^has if ura to tife columns of a North- \ eru newspaper, and ask the first South erner who comes to hand, what he thinks of the facts lie finds stated there. Old mom Judy’s comment, on once accidentally getting hold of one of these said columns, was— “l wish anybody would come to me to make shirt at dat! Ibe bound dey get out ob de house faster dan dey come in.” But I have wandered too far from my story, and must go back to descri bing Mr. Warren’s pretty residence, and the surrounding scene. The unpretending wooden house, with its flower-garden in front, out buildings in the rear, and a dense wood in the back ground, stood on a pro montory, formed by the windings of the river we had just crossed in com ing over. The fields to the south, were our neighbour’s—to the north, our own, and the little farms scattered about— which had been invisible from my father’s place, but were here plainly discernible—were the property of dif ferent poor families who had settled in the country before it was deserted by the Indians, and were now, as Mr. War ren informed me, in a fair way of be coming comfortable, thriving farmers. We remained as long as it was light enough to see, in the piazza, gazing about us, and making well satisfied comments, and then, when too late to use our eyes out of doors, went to take a look within. Fiora carried me directly to her room, whfSh; as 1 had expected, was arranged and decorated after the most peculiar and original manner. It stood on the ground floor, and had been, in former days, a dining room general to the fami ly; but was now—by dint of cutting into an adjoining pantry, and blocking up the door into the front parlour—trans formed into a commodious and retired bed-room. The quondam pantry serv ed as an “alcove,” in which was placed a bedstead of French extract, but na tive growth, i. e., the form was French, but the wood was “common pine,” varnished to resemble satin wood. In looking about the room, 1 discovered that wardrobe, bureau, book-case, ta ble, couch, and wash-stand were all made of the same rich material. Ex pressing mj surprise at this new and pretty style of furniture, Flora inform ed me that it was all the work of a servant of her father’s, who employed his “own time” in making such things, for which he was, of course, well paid, and highly commended. The “alcove” containing the bed, opened by glass folding doors on a balcony—once the back entrance of the house, hut now used only as a recepta cle to Flora’s numerous jar plants.— Another small folding door opened from the main room into a grassy path leading directly down towards “the pre cipice” on the bank ot the river : and a third door, less conspicuous, opened between two pieces of furniture, into a little dark entry, the only passage by which the room communicated with the rest of the house. Thus far, 1 have in a measure con veyed some idea of Flora’s rarely in truded upon sanctum, but to give an accurate sketch of the style in w hich the apartment was decorated, is quite beyond the power of my pen. 1 here were Vases and flower-pots, I cabinets and shell ornaments, paintings ann cur. Mes, Micks ami K.-rti, i.-ios, writing-desks and work-boxes, rooking chairs and lounges; in short, look which way I would, I found dozens of things to look at, and every thing to elicit comment. Neatly assorted and arranged was the whole; and looking rather too unceremoniously into pri vate drawers, and out of the way pla ced, I at length discovered that this was no less than the apartment of a regular authoress, and that my friend Flora, whose scribblings had been the admiration of the little town of 1) , was now merged into the well known “Agnes,” of current newspaper litera ture, and spent whole mornings in pre paring essays, stories, poetry, and ar ticles in general, for the press. Before supper bell rang, we had seen all that was to be seen within doors—talked over old school davs— arranged our plans for the future, and settled it to our own satisfaction, that we were to have the happiest and most romantic lives imaginable, spend our evenings together, write notes daily, j and serenade our elders at all hours of! the night, by starlight or by moonlight; as the case might be. In short, we de liberately made our arrangements to j waste existence, after the most approv ed plan of novel writers in general; j no dreams of usefulness entered into our visions, or mingled themselves with our various schemes. We had not yet learned that the happiest life must have some aim beyond amuse ment and selfish diversion, and that to give zest even to the most fascinating pursuits, we must feel that at least a small portion of our time is devoted to a pTaetiftU anfl 'prot)fessft'e *<**cTCiSe of our every day qualifications and facul ties. Providence had given us both edu cation, with mind sufficient to make our acquirements available, and had I set us in the midst of an unlettered and ignorant people, to impart to them a share of what we had ourselves re ceived, but we, like children, were for engrossing ourselves with playthings and trifles, and leaving our less favour ed fellow mortals to take care of them selves, and get along as best they could. and hat Flora should be unmindful of the claims of her poorer neighbours upon her time and purse, was not so remarkable—she had been all her life accustomed to doing just what she pleased, without regard to any thing but the promptings of her own unto ward fancies, but that I, the child of parents remarkable for their active be benevolence and judicious charities, should have been so regardless of some of the most important relative duties, is a thing to be accounted for, only by the fact that we all have to learn to think over what we have been taught, before we learn to act upon it. For tunately there were wiser heads, and less selfish hearts at work ; and when we joined the family at tea in the pi azza, we found that my father had al ready obtained a list of all the poor families of the neighbourhood, and that my mother, like her own amiable self, had offered her only parlour, to be used on Saturdays and Sundays, as a school room for any number of clay footed children who might happen to present themselves for instruction. Flora and myself entered into their scheme as eagerly as we had done up on our own, and before many weeks had elapsed, had carried them into practice so effectually, that we had ta ken twenty-seven romantic rambles, read an iucredible amount of poetry, begun sonnets, essays and stories innu merable, and taught at least seventy five individuals—old and young —a large portion of their alphabet. Thus began life in our Cherokee home. CHAPTER 111. “And you really are of opinion, Flo ra 1” said my father, coming unexpect edly behind us, as we sat resting our selves one beautiful morning, after a long ramble along the banks of the stream before mentioned —“You real ly are of opinion, that scribbling is a harmless amusement; and that you and Sem are, to say the least of it, spending the three or four hours a day, which are regularly devoted to your pen, very innocently 7 V’ FOURTH VOLUME—NO. 14 WHOLE NO. 106 Flora smiled, and coloured as she looked up at him, and with the air of one quite surprised at being overheard, replied— “ Yes, sir, 1 really am of that opin ion, have you any tiling to say to the contrary ?” My father seated himself upon the rough bench running along our rustic porch, and looking out upon the beau tiful prospect by which we were sur rounded, seemed to think a moment, and then said, pondering as lie spoke. “Scribbling may or may not be a harmless amusement to yourselves. It depends somewhat upon how you write, and to what end; but when we think of the weight which a single word sometimes carries, and remem ber thatsyn ;l -- *V. - ideas which may, at any moment, take root and spring into life, wherever they may happen to fall; it becomes us to make sure, that in amusing our selves, we are not running a risk of injuring some unsuspecting and inno cent fellow creature. It is no light thing to aid in promulgating error, and they who speak to the world through the medium of the press, never know how wide the range of their influence may be, and should be careful how they publish their sentiments before their judgments and principles are ma tured, and their fancies brought under proper control.” VV e were both listening attentively, any my father after a short pause pro ceeded. “Jt is beyond the reach of human sagacity, to estimate the vastness of the mischief wrought by such writers, as Voltaire, Gibbon, Hume and others of their stamp. Not to speak of the individual victims that daily fall into their trammels almost before our eyes—w hole nations have been infidel ized, and revolutionized by their wri tings. 1 have no fear that you will ever rival such wholesale destroyers of human virtue and happiness, but what I want to impress upon you is, that no writer, is too insignificant to do mis chief, and that if you would avoid run ning the risk, you must, at least, make up your minds to write more delibe rately, think more, read more, and re vise more. “You are both gifted with some tal ent for more particu 4fll “... I. j:.... j,.,, .-V■ l -i 1• *■. —?* <4 ■ . caution, yoiß. sp cultivate your natu ral tastes, without injury to yourselves or others, but you are young and thoughtless as yet, full of visionary ideas of life, un uncustomed to distin guishing between the nice shades of right and wrong, and if you will take my advice, before you send any of your productions to the press, you w ill submit them to the judgment of some older, and more sober head.” Flora blushing, said that, “unluckily she had published not a few already,” and now she said, “that you make me think of it, I know- very well, that pieces which 1 published three years ago, I am now fairly ashamed of ever having written. One story I remem ber particularly, the title was ‘Love t riumphant over obstacles,’ and it w as the veriest pack of nonsense that you ever read. “1 drew a picture of a young couple falling in love, (nobody could tell why I am sure,) persecuted of course, but w ho persecuted them, I can’t distinct ly remember, and 1 expect they would have found it a hard matter themselves to tell—after passing through oceans of imaginary troubles, they at last runaway and get married, and end by decamping for some unknown country, where they must have managed to live on an extraordinary small amount of food, for I don’t remember supply ing them w ith any, or allowing them any pocket money either. I think they went off together on one horse, (don’t you think the poor animal must have had a hard time of it?) and if I am right, they managed to transport along w ith themselves, a huge wedding-cake, which probably served them for the remainder of their days. At any rate, they managed not only to exist, but to lead a most happy and contented life, on an amount of bodily sustenance, that would have starved any respecta ble, well bred cat!” She ended her narrative with a mu sical laugh, and tossing back the clus tering curls from her face, leaned .her beautifully formed head agginst the balustrade, and looked up into the clouds, as if tracing her old time vis ions there. My father looked grave—no beauty or manner, however fascinating, could blind him to realities. He was one who sought in every thing, to check the grow th of error, and promote the advancement of things excellent,wheth er it was in thought, or in the less hidden varieties of deed, and while I gazed almost entranced at Flora, and saw nothing but the dreamy, soul-in spired creature before me, he was look ing into the depths of things, and cal j culating her actual capacities, as an in | strument of good or of evil, to those ; with whom she might, either through her writings or otherwise, come into contact. lie was doing more than this—he was watching anxiously to discover the different small traits of her peculiar character, that he might know how and when to use the influence which he was fast gaining over her. His cogitations were, however, in terrupted before he had spoken, by the appearance upon the opposite hills, of our little negro boy Jack, who had been despatch ed to the village, seven miles oft’, for letters, and was now ir turning at full speed, lasL'ng his m#ie as he came along. *” I he utmost height “Just look at that boy V'exclaimed my father, springing to his feet, his brow knit with benevolent wrath. — “llow is a man to prevent cruelty, who has negroes to deal with ? con found the scamp !” And quite oblivious of his usual placidity, he was about hurrying forth, vihen the nmle, finding herself in full view of the family mansion, and know ing very well that such merciless pro ceedings were not authorized by her owners, stopped short on the brow of the hill, and began to kick, letting her hind feet fly up at such a mte, that in a very short space of time, Jack was seen turning somersets down the hill, followed by his letter-bag, to the infi nite gratification of his sable charger, who set up a loud and prolonged bray of triumph, and then started for the corn house at a brisk pace, switching its cars and tail as it came along. “Well done donkey !” cried my fath er, quite restored to bis usual good humour by seeing Jack scramble up in the midst of his evolutions, and af ter stopping a minute to scratch his head, go hunting after the letter-bag. “Well done! you have saved me the trouble of giving that fellow a thrashing, which he richly deserved.” And he went out to the wood for the express purpose of giving Balaam a good patting, and an extra feed of corn. Never was girl blessed with such a father as mine—the very mule loved him, and stopped to receive his greet ing. “ITow considerate your father is of .tit*’ meanest of his dependents,” said Flora in a low voice, and following him as she spoke with her eyes, “and how many schemes for the good of his fellow creatures, lie has set afloat in the short time that lie has been here—l feel it as a reflection upon myself —I have everything that he has, to fit me for usefulness, and health besides, and yet, what have 1 ever done, but waste my time on trifles that yield no return l More than half my life has been spent in the clouds.” 1 left, her to her reverie, and went to assist my mother in arranging the breakfast-table, and seeing after the children. A little while after, Jack came in with the letters and papers, looking very sheepish, and somewhat battered with bis tumbles among the rocks, and we all had cpiite enough to do to possess ourselves of the contents of the, packet. There were letters from Frank in Paris, from Harrv at college, from friends in the low country, and last, not least, from several of our school mates ; these, Flora and myself read together, and wc had finished tea, and were sitting around a cleared table before our budget was completed. People who live in the city, cannot form any idea of the sensation which a weekly country mail creates in homes holding no othei communication with the outer world. Like midshipmen on a far off station, we each read, not on ly all of our own letters, but the let ters of all. Thus the short summer evening was pretty 7 well advanced before we bad even opened the newspapers, and my mother was just about proposing that the bell should be rung lor prayers, when father, looking over his first newspaper at us, said— “ Here is something which expresses what we were talking about before tea, in a style better suited to the taste of two young ladies, than any thing I can say.” And he read aloud some lines by Charles Mackay, beginning— ‘‘A traveller through a dusty road. Strewed acorns on the lea.” Among which were the following— “A dreamer dropped a random thought, ‘Twas old and yet was new— A simple fancy ot the brain. But strong in being true. ’ It shone upon a general land, And lo ! its light became A lamp of life, a beacon ray, A monitory flame. The thought ‘twas small— its issue great, A watch fire on the hill, It sheds its radiance far adown, And cheers the valley still.” After he had finished, Flora sat mu sing with her head upon her hand.— New and bitter thoughts were awaken-