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liar character. If the soul does not
put them within itself, none upon earth
can bestow them. They are only given
of God; and it has not pleased Him
to give them to me. No,’ she went
on, with much emotion. ‘lf there be
light in darkness, it shines not for me.
If out of the depths they call, and He
listens, He has not listened to me. My
prayers have been vain, and I have
wearied myself with ottering them.—
1 here was no help in them.’
“1 was grieved and shocked to hear
her speak thus. 1, however, ventured
to urge my point a little further.
‘“Butyoudid find help, somewhere?”
‘•Not such as 1 wanted; not health
and strength to my poor darkened spi
rit.’
“ ‘And why ? Because they sought
it in faith— ’
” ‘Ah ! i.iith! but who can command
this faith!’
“ Every body.’
“‘Everybody! If it has pleased
God to darken our understandings so
that we do not know him at all, it may
be as you say. But if we know him
—not to trust in him— that worst of
faith must be our own fault.’
“She was silent, and seemed to sink
cto a reverie, which 1 would
: At lasi, she shook it
’ -'***■ ; 4
* ufia fSW* got nearer this truth tnan I
had, or have. Yes, that it was—that
it must have been—which supported
her in circumstances far worse than
mine. She was patient, composed, re
signed, and, in spite of her natural fee
bleness, showed a strength which I
ever wanted. She endured better than
1 do, when she iay low as I do now,
and sutt'ered worse, far worse. How
was it ?”
“ ‘My strength is made perfect in
weakness’—‘ls not that said ?’
“‘Again she fixed her eyes with a
searching, earnest expression upon
mine.
“ ‘But tell me,’ I continued, ‘how it
fared with you ? 1 fear badly.’
•‘ ‘Perhaps you are not aware, Ma
dam, how much strength, both of body
and spirit, it requires to make a gov
erness.’
“‘1 think I am aware of it, in good
measure.’
“ ‘There seems nothiug very onerous
in the task of teaching children during
a certain number of hours every day,
and living with them during the rest.
But those who have tried it alone know
how irksome, how exhausting is the
wearisome routine of ungrateful labour.
My situation was tiresome enough.—
They were a family of high-spirited
children, as wild as the hills in which
they had been bred, and whose great
est pleasure was to torment their young
governess ; though 1 was rather excited
than depressed by our frequent strug
gles for mastery, then the mother,
when she did interfere, was sensible
and just; and she supported me when
she thought me right, through every
thing. If she disapproved, too, 1 could
be hot and unreasonable in my turn,
and she gently told me of my fault in
private, so as to never impair my au
thority. She was a wise and excellent
woman. A good mother, and a true
friend, even to her governess. But it
was different with Clementina. Shut
up in London, with a family of cold
heart fcl, proud foeady spoil
ed byAfie vrorb ndver finding it
possible to satiA % t exacting mother,
do what she would, the task was soon
too hard for her. The more languid
her health and spirits became, the fee
bler her voice, the prler her cheek, the
greater was the dissatisfaction of the
lady whom she served. When the
family doctor was at last called in, he
pronounced her to be in so critical a
state of health, that rest and change of
air were indispensable. So she left,
with fifteen pounds—a half-year’s sala
ry.
“‘Consumption had set in when I
saw her. What was to become of
her 1 We knew of no such place as
this, then.
“ ‘The lady whom I served was kind
and considerate. When I came to her
in tears, she bade me to fly to my sis
ter, and not return until I had settled
her somewhere in comfort. But where
was that to be? We had not a friend
in the world except one. She had been
our under nursery-maid. She was now
a baker’s wife; but she had always
loved us. She had such a heart! And
she did not tail us now.
“ ‘She took my sister home, aud in
sisted upon keeping her. We could
not allow this to be done without of
fering what compensation we could.
My sister’s little purse was reserved
for extraordinary expenses; and I con
trived out of my own salary to pay a
little weekly stipend to our good Mat
ty. She would not have taken it; but
she had a husband, and upon this point
wo were resolved. ’
“Here siie paused, and raising her
head from her pillow, rested it upon
her hand, and looked round the room
with an expression of satisfaction
w hich it gave me pleasure to see. The
little apartment was plainly furnished
enough ; but the walls were of a cheer
ful coioui, and the whole furniture was
scrupulously clean. The w indows stood
open, looking upon a space in which a
few green trees were growing. The
scene was more open, airy, and quiet
than one can usually obtain in London.
The air came in fresh and pleasant;
the green trees waved and bowed their
heads lovingly and soothingly.
“‘lt is not until we are sick that we
know the value, that we feel the neces
sity, of these things,’ she began again.
‘This 1 may venture to say for us both.
“We had been cradled in luxury and
elegancies, surrounded by every thing
that the most lavish expenditure could
bestow. We gave them all up with
out a sigh. So much unhappiness had
attended this unblest profusion, that it
seemed almost* relief—something like
an emancipation—to have done with
it, and be restored at once to simplici
ty and nature. Whilst our health and
spirits lasted, we both of us took a
pleasure in defying superfluity, ir. being
easy and content upon a pallet bed,
and with a crust of bread and a glass
of water; but, oil! when sickness
comes—deadly sickness ! The fever,
and the languor, and, above all, the
frightful susceptibility to external in
fluences. When upon the hard bed
you cannot sleep, though sleep is life
to the exhausted frame. When the
Coarse food you cannot touch—though
your body is sinking for want of nour
ishment—when the. aching limbs get
sore w ith the ragged unyieldingness of
that on which they lie—when you lan-
guish and sicken for fresh air, and are
shut up in a little close room in some
back street—when you want medicine
and care, and can command no service
at all—or of the lowest and most in
efficient description— then —o then !
we feel what it is to want —then we
feel what it is to have such an asylum
prepared for us as this. Poor thing !
she was not so fortunate as I have
been.’ ”
Here, the broken man who had un
til now sat listening in what might al
most be called a sullen attention, sud
denly lifted up his head, looked round
the room where he sat, and through
the large cheerful window upon the
branches of the trees and the blue un
clouded sky ; and, suddenly, even his
heart, seemed reached.
lie rose from his chair, he sat down
again, he looked conscious, uneasy,
abashed. It was so long since he had
felt or expressed any grateful or amia
ble sentiment, that he was almost
ashamed of what he now experienced,
as if it had been a weakness.
“Pray have the kindness to go on,”
he said at last.
“It was some days before I learned
much more of the history of my poor
young invalid, but ono day when 1
came to see her, I found a
■labileloofcff g -fry*** unisaSe 5 eutly
not belonging to the higher class, sit
ting with her. She was a person whose .
appearance would have been almost j
repulsive from the deep injuries her
face had received—burned when a
child, 1 believe—if it had not been for
the sense and goodness that pervaded
her expression. Her eyes were singu
larly intelligent, sweet, and kind.
“I found she was the wife of the
baker—she, who had once been nurse
ry-maid in your family. The only
friend the poor young creature seemed
to have left in the world, and the only
person from whom she could bear, as
it afterwards appeared, to receive an
obligation. This excellent person it
was, who advanced the guinea a-week,
which the laws of the institution requir
ed should be contributed by a patient.
“YV hen she took her leave I followed
her, to inquire further particulars about
my patient. She then told me, that
the sister hud died about three years
before, leaving a heavy debt to be dis
charged by the one remaining; consis
ting of the funeral expenses, which
were considerable, though every thing
was conducted with all the simplicity
compatible with decency; and of the
charges of the medical man who had
attended her: a low unprincipled per
son, who had sent in an enormous bill,
which there were no means of checking,
and which, nevertheless, the high-spir
ited sister resolved to pay. But the
first thing she did, was to insure her
own life for a certain sum, so as to
guard against the burden under which
she herself laboured, being in its turn
imposed upon others.
“ ‘So madam, ■’ said the good Mrs.
Lacy, with simplicity, ‘you must not
think that the guinea a-week is any
thing more than an advance on our
part—there will be money enough to
repay us—or my dear Miss Ella would
never, never have taken it. She would
die in the street first, she has such a no
ble spirit of her own. She told me to
provide her sistev* djl-bts—she had
made ‘r a fuUlaher
to be a regular contr :<r to a certain
periodical—she had produced
a few rather popular novels. To effect
this she had indeed laboured night and
day —the day with her pupils, half the
night with her pen. She was strong,
but human nature could not support
this long; and yet, labour as she did,
i she proceeded slowly in clearing away
the debt. 1 cannot quite account for
that,’ said Mrs. Lacy, ‘she dressed
plainly, she allowed herself no expense,
she made no savings, she paid the’debt
very slowly by small instalments, yet
she worked herself, into a decline.—
There seemed to be some hidden, in
! satiable call for money.’
If the lady who was recounting all
this, had looked at her listener at that
moment, she would have been moved,
little as she liked him. A wild horror
took possession of his countenance —
his lips became livid—his cheeks ghast
ly—he muttered a few inarticulate
words between his teeth. But she was
occupied with her own reflections, and
noticed him not.
“This could not go on forever,” said
the lady, presently. “She was obliged
to throw up her situation ; soon after
wards the possibility of writing left
her ; and she was brought here, where
I found her.”
“And that it was—that it was then!”
cried the wretched man. “O Ella, my
child !—my child ! I was living in in
dolence and indifference, upon her hard
earned labours! I was eating into her
life! And when the supply ceased, I
—I never knew what it was to have a
heart!—I thought she was tired of
ministering to her father’s wants, and
I came to England to upbraid her?”
“It was too late. She was gone
where the wicked cease from troubling,
and where the weary are at rest,” said
the lady.
“You need not —you need not—my
heart is hard, but the dagger lias
pierced it at last. You need not drive
in the steel: it has done its work,” he
: rather gasped than said.
The lady felt that she had been too
| severe. His apparent insensibility
; had, it is true, irritated her almost be
yond bearing, after all he had done,
and after all that had been suffered for
his sake.
“I am sorry if I give you pain. I
ought to be sorry for you, not angry.”
“Did she never mention me ?” he
asked, in • tone of agony. “And there
was another, on whom her young heart
doted, only too fondly. Did she never
speak of either of us ?”
“She spoke of both.”
“Tell me what she said.”
The lady hesitated.
“1 pray tell me—l can bear it.”
“I am afraid I have given you too
much pain already. It is over now.
Let it he over. Go home ; and may
God give you grace at the eleventh
hour, and bring you and yours togeth
er again at last!” she said fervently,
and the tears starting iu her eyes,
“I have no home but one; and to
that I shall shortly go. But let me
not depart tormented with a yearning
desire to hear all. Tell me; 1 ask it
of you as a favour. What was her
state of mind as regarded her mother
—her father—and her lover?”
“God gave her grace to find him at
last. The darkness and the doubts
that had distressed her, gradually dis-
SOUTHERN LIT RARY GAZETTE.
appeared. grace took possession
of her heart which the world can neith
er give nor understand; and all was
hope and tranquility at the last hour.
“As she grew worse, her spirit be
came more and more composed. She
told me so one day. Then she asked
me whether I thought she could recov
er.
“I was silent.
“She turned pale. Her lips moved
as she said, ‘Do 1 understand your si
lence rightly ?’
“ ‘I am afraid you do.’
“She was silent herself for a short
time ; then she said—
“ ‘And so young !’
“ ‘lt is not for us to know the times
and seasons which the Father hath kept
iu his own power,’ said I.
“‘But must I—must I die? I am
not ashamed to own it—l did so wish
to live. Did you never hear that I had
a father living?’ she asked in so low
a voice, that it was almost a whisper.
“ ‘Yes,’ I answered.
’* ‘Then you have heard his most un
happy history ?’
“ ‘.Most of it, I believe, I have.’*
“ Tie seems to you, I fear, a very,
very erring man.’
“1 Vas silent.
cried; ‘believe it or no*
there is good in him still.’
“And now her tears began to flow
fast, as she went on —
“‘The will of God be done! The
will of God be done! But if it had
been His pleasure, 1 hoped to have
lived to have had that father home; to
have joined our two desolate hearts
together ; to have brought him to the
knowledge of One whose yoke is easy,
and whose burden is light. O, was
that wish wrong, that it was not grant
ed ! O, my father! who shall seek
you out now!’
“ ‘Remember,’ 1 said gently, ‘we are
in the hands of One, wiser and more
merciful than ourselves. He would
spare, surely, where we would spare, if
it were good it should he so. if means
would avail, lie would provide the
means. Ilis work will not stand still
because the instruments (as we regard
things) seem taken away. Y’our death,
dear girl, may do more for your fath
er’s soul than your life could ever have
done,’ ”
And now, he bowed his head —hum- J
bly—and he covered his face with his
hands, and the tears rau through his
fingers.
“Thus,” the lady went on, “I com
forted her, as 1 could ; and she died :
with her last breath commending her
father to the mercy of God.
“Her lover was dear—but not dear
er than her father. She told me that
history one day. How she had loved;
how devotedly, how passionately. But
that when her name was disgraced, she
had resolved never to unite it with his.
She had withdrawn herself; she had
done it in a way such as she believed
would displease him. ‘I thought he
would feel it less if he were angry,’
she said. ‘I often wished in my deso
lation I could feel angry.’ She told
me his name; aud I promised to make
inquiries. 1 had fortunately the oppor
tunity. I had the pleasure to tell her,
that he had made the greatest efforts
to find her out, hut in vain: that he
had ruTiuiitsd uiifAaiHetl amji consutntr
to her memory ; that what had hap
pened had given anew turn to his
character. Habits of dissipation, which
had been gradually acquiring power
over him, had been entirely broken
through. He had accepted an office in
a distant colony, where he was leading
a most useful and meritorious life.—
Never shall I forget the glow of joy
that illuminated her face when I told
her so. She looked already as if she
had entered into the higher and more
glorious existance !
“ ‘I shall not see him again,’ said she;
‘but you will write to hint and tell him
ali. You will say that I died true and
blest, because he was what he was;
and that I bade him a fond adieu, until
we should meet again in a better world.
For, O ! we shall meet again ; 1 have
a testimony within, which shall not de
ceive me!’
“She then reverted to her father.
“ ‘He will come back,’ she said;
‘you will see that he will come back,
and he will inquire what is become of
me —why his child has forgotten him
and is silent. It will be the silence
| and forgetfulness of the grave. Per
haps he will come back as he went;
his heart yet unchanged ; defying and
despairing. Tell him not —be patient
with him, good kind friend, for my
sake. There is good in him—good he
knows not of, himself; that nobody
knows of, but his loving child, and the
God who made him—weak aud erring
as he is is. Tell him, he must no
more be weak and erring; tell him
there is forgiveness for all who will re
turn at last, but that forgiveness sup
poses newness of life. Tell him—”
The sentence was unfinished by the
lady, for he who listened fell prostrate
oil his face upon the floor.
They raised him up ; but his heart
I seemed broken. He neither moved
nor spoke. Life, however, was not
extinct; for in this condition he re
mained many days.
They could not keep him where he
was, for this benevolent institution was
strictly devoted to women of the more
refined orders. He was carried to a
Hospital. There was no where else
to carry him.
Seven days he lay without speaking;
but not absolutely seuseless. The spi
rit within him was at work. In his
worst days he had never wanted ener
gy. Ilis heart was ever strong for
; good or for bad. What passed within
him in those seven days, was between
his soul and the Highest. He came
out of liis death-trance an altered crea
ture.
The once handsome, dashing, pro
fane, luxurious Julian Winstanley,look
ed now a very old, old man. Quite
grey, very thin, and stooping much.
From that time, he coutiuued to earn
his bread honestly, as an attendant in
the very hospital where he had been
recovered, lie had a little room to
himself, and it was filled with certain
simple treasures, hallowed by his recol
lections.
His patient and teuder attendance
upon the sick, his assiduous discharge
of all his duties, was beyond praise.
One day, a man who had risen to a
very high post in one of our colonies,
came to visit him. The two were Long
together. When they parted, it was
evident that both had wept much.
t
The old man, after that,
ly. One morning they found him di
in bed. His hands were clasped r
gether as if he had departed iu the/t
of piayer. He lies buried in allwl
- churchyard, under a sii7 e
mound of earnh, such as co?epihe
humblest and the poorest. *J
He had left behind him a slip of
paper, earnestly imploring thidso it
might be, So it was. May (k. for
give us all!
(T’jjr tonin’
For the Southern Literary G&zetfj
A FEW LEAVES FROM CU'SIN
LAURA’S DIARY
[Continued from our last.]
“ The melancholy days have dae,
Hie saddest of the year.”
Monday, Oct. 27,1851.
It is night; all around is stll, save
the moaning of the Autuau wind.
Occasionally, tool, the Vo v ingot’ a dis
tant dog con . N itly 011 W
ear. Now th N* ,$s flutter
then ro’ k]e’ x ’
.. ji • Ofe
i.■ > *
man being in the extremity of mortal
anguish. The fire in my chamber
sends forth a faint and uncertain gleam,
and my candle burns but dimly, fit
hour for mournful memories of the
loved and lost, whose smiles and whose
loved voices will greet us no more. I
can almost imagine I hear a spirit’s
tread along the lonely passage, and
catch myself listening to a whisper
from the spirit land. 1 can almost
fancy as my curls brush my cheek, that
it is the soft touch of their fragile
wings as they soar above, and beckon
to me to follow. Do I fear such a
whisper from the spirit world ? () no;
would I could hear it, —would that my
longing for further knowledge could
thus be gratified. But be patient
longing heart; “thou knowestnot now,
but thou shalt know’ hereafter.” I
have often asked ntyself, should 1
shrink to meet a messenger from the
unseen world, and as often thought 1
should not; —surely not if the messen.
ger was one I had known and loved.
O how blest, to be sure they remember
and love me still; to hear those well
remembered voices, to see again those
features which time cannot erase from
my memory. To seo them purified
from every stain of earth; to know
that they are safe, forever safe, from
care, from tears, from sorrow ! That
lie who loved them, and gave himself
for them, has gathered them safely to
his fold. And yet if we believe, do we
not know’ all this. The soft and gen- j
tie breathing of Alice sleeping so near |
me, has recalled me to the realities
around me. In her lore fcnd tender
ness let me forget what Ijj have lost,
and bless my Taukt lor eirraini
to me. Sleep on dearest, a-,1 may no
dark dream, no fear of ill, mar ihy
rest, as assuredly no thought of evil
mars thy waking hours.
Wednesday, Oct. 29.
It is a bright and beautiful morning,
and the brilliant hues around have dis
sipated the sad and mournful fancies
that oppressed me last night. “The
w’oods of Autumn all around our vale,
have put their glories on.”
“There is a beautiful spirit breathing now,
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees.”
“O Autumn why soon, depart the
hues that make the forests glad.” The
two girls are busily engaged assisting
mother in some preparations for the
supper to-night, for the “corn-shuck
ing.” And here comes Yiuey, (who
will, undoubtedly, be the belle of the
evening,) to crave my assistance in
“fixing her dress” for the dance which is
to follow ; she wishes to know’ w hether
her blue or pink bows will be most
becoming ; and now she is gone, made
perfectly happy by the gift of a head
dress to wear on the momentous oc
casion. How easily we may some
times make those dependant upon us
happy !
Friday, Nov. 7.
Many little matters have transpired
since my last date; but 1 believe 1
shall not attempt to recall them all.
We are now eagerly anticipating
Thanks-giving, and the return of the
dear ones who have promised to be
with us on that day. We North-Caro
linians do not, as yet, knew fouch
about the time-honoured ob?s*rvance
of Thanks-giving day by om* Northern
neighbours. On that point it would
be well if we would learn from them.
A year or two ago some of our poor
neighbours supposed it to be a Fast
day, and, 1 believe, observed it as such!
And some of the servants enquired if
the judgement day was to be next
month!
Our noble and dignified Henry, and
our merry light-hearted Arthur, have
promised to come home from college
the day before; and it would he diffi
cult, perhaps, to decide who seems
most happy, mother or old aunt Di
nah ; while Cato and the little darkies
are clamourous in their joy, anticipa
ting divers hunting excursions. Cato
vows that no one but himself shall
ever “catch Mass’ Henry’s horse.”
Mary brought me a letter yester
day which she had just received from
Walter. It was a singular mixture of
tenderness and upbraiding. They nei
ther of them have sufficient forbear
ance to be happy together I fear; if
this breach should be healed, others
would follow, and Mary seems to be
sensible of this at last. She says she
thinks she shall drop the matter alto
gether. His pride will be wounded,
but still 1 think he will not be inconso
lable.
James avoids her; I think he guesses
how the matter will terminate, and he
may cherish hopes for himself, but he
would not ungenerously approach her
now. He has not, perhaps, the same
grace of person and manner as his ri
val, but with how much more security
could she rely upon his sterling strength
and fixedness of character. In sorrow
or adversity, how safely could she look
to him for succour and sympathy. So
good a sen and brother, would be
equally tender in every other relation
of life.
Monday, Nov. 10.
Alice is gone to aunt Mary’s for a
couple of weeks. She has not been
well for some time, and I have been
anxious about her. She parted gaily
‘‘h them all till she came to me, and
her sweet blue eyes filled with
rs, and her yoice trembled, as she
•me “To °opl *- x-kerf aov <2l
r y v ‘icr —*’
before tlie two \tf£eks shotna ut over.”
How much I miss her! lam always
conscious that something is wanting,
even if I for a moment forget what it
is. Yes, and she forgot her cloak and
over-shoes, though I wrapped them up
and gave them to Yiney to take to the
carriage.
Saturday, Nov. 15.
The girls are all gone for a pleasant
walk of a mile to a neighbours, and
though I intended going, they forgot to
call me, and never missed me. But I
can now’ write a longer note to my
sweet sister, who never forgets me —
who never enjoys any thing thoroughly
unless lam by her side. And yet if
they need help or sympathy, in joy or
sorrow, they always seek me then.
They, whose chief joy it is to see
others happy, cannot long be sad them
selves.
(To becontinued.)
letters.
From the Philadelphia Evening Bulletin.
SOUTHERN SCENES.
NO. 5.
A Country Excursion—An Ashley Ferry —
Forest Rides — The -1 venue — Lire Oaks —
A Southern Home and its Hospitality, etc.,
etc.
Charleston, S. C., Dec. 2.
As yet 1 had seen little of the “con
tagious country,” as few families are
gone to their plantations. But hearing
my desire to see a cotton field ex
pressed, a friend most kindly proposed
a pic-nic excursion to Iter country
house, which was situated conveniently
near the city.
imagine a day in November, so
witrut t-Uat. ruling m Go*
nin Leaver, was uncomfortable, and
the horses, at first, walked slowly along
in the shadow of the houses. But
there was a fresh breeze by the time
wc reached the Ashley ferry boat, and
trusted our steeds and ourselves to its
tardy conveyance. It was by no means
built or. the model of the “Dido,” nor
did it have more than a family resem
blance to a Brooklyn boat; there were
two narrow passages just wide enough
for carriages to stand in single file; a
cabin, about as large as a light closet,
appropriated to the commander’s es
pecial use, and a very noisy steam en
gine, filling up the centre of the deck,
and the measure of our discomfort
from the heat.
We were the passengers, with the
exception of a gentlemen who employ
ed himself in taking aim at the flies,
upon the horse’s neck, with the tip of a
very long whip, and a party of coun
try people, that could not be surpassed
for picturesque eflect “out West.” A
wagon that you wondered managed to
hold together—a horse held up by a
straggling harness half of rope—the
two men reminding one of the hero in
the House that Jack Built, “all tatter
ed and torn,” but not like the priest
who officiated on that interesting occa
sion, for I doubt if they had been “sha
ven”—or “shorn” either, for many a
day. One carried a gun, the other had
a lazy hound, and spoke now and then
to a down cast looking women iu a
faded gown, and a still more faded
chintz apron. Whence they appeared
from the very midst of Charleston, or
w hither they w ere going, was a prob
lem our curious glances could not
solve.
There is a long strip of low ground
won from the marsh that extends out
to the Ashley, as you reach the other
side; and then commences a lovely
road opening through a shelter of for
est trees —smooth almost os a floor—
and varied by luxuriant foliage of vine
and evergreens, mixed with the sub
dued tint of the long gray moss. We
were earlier than the carriage party,
and my escort proposed that instead
of waiting for them, we should ride on
and visit a remarkable avenue of fine
oaks, on a neighbouring plantation.
“But shall we not be trespassing, 1 ’ 1
said—“ They will not consider it so, 1
am certain”—and we dashed forward,
leaving the main road for one where
no sound was heard but the rustling
of the fallen leaves under our feet, or
the sighing of the wind far up among
the trees that arched above our way.
The rain of the previous day had fresh
ened every tint, and hardened the
roads, so that there was nothing to mar
the enjoyment of our ride. Overhead
we could catch a glimpse of the blue
Sonthern sky, with a few light clouds
passing softly onwards —the breeze
was just enough to make the forest
music which 1 love so well, and to
temper the atmosphere to a pleasant
coolness. A shade of arching boughs
above us, a carpet of moss and bright
brown leaves below—now shadow so
dense as to darken the noon-day, and
then an opening glade, broke by fallen
trees or straggling boughs, and bright
with a burst of sunshine. And so we
come to the low white gate that alone
marks the entrance to this fine old
family place ; we startle a group of
fine horses that have come down to the
stream, as we cross a rustic bridge,
and they arch their slender necks as
they bound away from our path. It is
perhaps three quarters of a mile be
yond before the avenue commences ;
though we have been riding in the sha
dow of trees all the while.
1 am told to reserve my admiration
—that we are near them now —and at
last we pass slowly beneath their giant
limbs. There they stand —time-hon-
oured sentinels of that beautiful home
stead, where children and grand-chil
dren have grown up beath their shade,
and though the trees are still strong in
a vigorous old age, the long banner
like moss swings silently out upon the
air, as it were a token of the changes
that years have wrought. The trunks
of these noble trees do not impress
one at first with magnitude, so great is
the area covered by the shadow of the
limbs. From the saddle I could easily
reach the lowest of them, and from this
height they spread out one above the
other, upwards and upwards like a vast
dome, lacing and interlaced with each
other, and all draped with the pendu
lous moss in most fantastic wreaths.
The leaves are small and shining, con
trasting strongly with the grey tint of
this sombre parasite, that would else
be almost funereal in its qff*et. Each
mansion would have.madPbv. t 'Winarj
tree, set in au upright position, nor was
I much surprised to hear that several
of the oaks covered an acre of ground
with their heavy canopy of moss and
leaves.
We had carelessly approached the
mansion in our admiration of its mag
nificent avenue, and finding that we
were observed by the group of ser
vants basking in the sun, my escort
called one of them to leave our com
pliments for its owner, with the ex
planation that we had been tempted to
the transgression by the fame of what
we had already witnessed. But the
boy was charged with a message to the
strangers, and after listening to what
we had to say, very respectfully pre
sented his mistress’s “ love” to the
lady, and would she like to walk
through the garden. A polite negro,
be it obsetved, always puts the ‘•com
pliments” which invariably prefaces a
message in the South, in the most af
fectionate form that presents itself.
Availing ourselves of this politeness,
which ill-breeding alone could have re
fused, we dismounted and were ushered
into a pleasant parlour, opening upon
the garden, when in a few minutes we
were joined by the mistress of the
mansion, a perfect picture from Mrs.
Gilman’s Southern Matron, with her
(ace and delicate figure, looking far too
young to be the mother of the rosy
children who accompanied her, and
bearing the house keys in a small
basket swinging upon her arm. Little
knows the New-Englaud matron of the
cares of housewifery in sui h an estab
lishment.
A letter of introduction could not
have given us a more courteous recep
tion than the strangers received, and
we passed out into the garden walks
as free from unpleasant restraint, as if
we had been invited guests. It seemed
so impossible to believe*that it was a
November sun that brightened all that
beauty, calling forth theblush of half
opened roses, tinting the creamy japo
nics that bent to the rich mould —or ri
pening the clusters of golden oranges
against the wall. There was a soft
haze over the river that broke in mi
mic waves at the very edge of the
lawn—a scent of the delicate daphne
odorata upon the air—a slumberous
calm, like a noon-tide in June, save for
the brown tints that were shading the
landscape.
There was not the trim tidiness of a
Northern flower garden; no straight
formed beds, with formal clumps of
flowers. The space enclosed by the
broad magnolia walk, was too large for
mere prettiness to be exercised, and
the family pass so little time at their
country home, that it is impossible to
keep up a sharp inquisition on every
shoot. The grounds were bordered on
the one side by the Ashley, and by
exceeding good taste, a lake had been
formed from its waters, broad enough
for a pleasant row, and invaluable as a
fish preserver, to those so far from the
conveniences of a city market. A
pretty pleasure skirt’ was rocking upon
the gentle tide, where the over hanging
cypress trees were mirrored, and near
it rose an Indian mound, star-shaped,
and undisturbed since it had first been
consecrated to the memory of those
who hundreds of years ago were there
laid at rest. Tall trees had interlaced
their roots above it, and formed a shel
tered nook, for thought or reverie, in
such a day as this.
The feathered foliage of the cypress
had already faded. Our hostess stooped
to gather some blue violets growing
on a sunny bank, as she told us of its
delicate hue and form in the early
spring, and how soon autumn frosts
withered it. And there we gathered a
long w reath from the hoary mantle of
English ivy that almost concealed a
low stone building famous in the an
nals of Carolina’s early history ; for
the children, vieing with their lady
mother in their kind attentions to her
visitors, were descendants of one of the
first colonial governors, whose monu
ment rose tall and grey, in the very
midst of this garden wilderness, al
though “he slept his fathers”—beyond
the broad Atlantic.
There, too, we first saw the pal met
to, spreading its fan-like leaves of vivid
green, and the low, grey olive trees
shivering in the wind; nor did we
wonder at what Leigh Hunt tells us
of the weariness that came over him
in his Italian home, of their unwearied
sameness, graceful though they were,
and his longing for the shade of Eng
lish forest trees. But all this novelty
and the kindness that had welcomed
us to it, did not shut out the recollec
tion of the pleasant party awaiting our
arrival, and we tied together the fan
tastic bouquet gathered in our ramble
—the ivy, the grey olive branch,
shining green leaves of the magnolia,
violets as blue as those in our New
land home, roses brought by the child
ren, with the bright chrysantemums
they thought so beautiful, the daphne,
perfuming all it touched, bright yellow
tufts of the poppinach, the crest of
every Southern garden, and the crim
son cassina berries, more beautiful than
coral; as a souvenir of a happy morn
ing, and of the courteous Southern hos
pitality for which we thanked our gen
tle hostess as we once more mounted
our patient steeds, N.
(Driginnl |*ortn}.
For the Southern Literary Garette.
THE OLD CHURCH.
BY MISS MARY A. E. TUTTLE.
‘Tis an old and crazy building, where the ivy,
fresh and green,
Loves to climb, and shoot its tendrils the mossy
stones between ;
While every gust of wind that blows carries
some stones away,
And the giant oaks around it are hastening to
decay.
There in its turret old and gray, the owl his
nest has made ;
And the brown hawk takes his evening flight
Out of its glossy shade ;
Dark aro the tales the peasants tell; they shud
der and quake with fear,
If in their nightly rambles they wander the old
church near.
Yet, yet, ’tis a friend I love full well, that ruin
ed church and drear,
And I never gaze on its moss-grown walls
without a silent tear;
My heart is full when l hear them say in tones
so calm and cold,
That the mouldering church has stood full long
with its turret gray and old.
For often at twilight there I sit upon *ona*
mossy stone,
I ait and muse of other days, but never quite
alone,
For the forms of the departed that I kuow and
loved of yore,
Thronging come and take their places, gliding
through the broken door.
As their shadowy forms flit by me, I kuow
each earnest face.
My brother’s high and noble brow, my sisters
in their grace ;
My parents silvery hair floats by, and as their
footsteps fall,
I see by their side the fair-haired child the dar
ling of us all.
Thus the forms of the departed, w-hich are
scattered far and wide,
Meet together in that church at the holy even
tide ;
There, where they sat in former days, these
well-loved ones I see,
And though they utter not one word, they are
all well known to me.
And this i9 why that ruined church is a plea
sant place to me,
And when this beating heart is stilled, and that
spot no more I see,
Bury me where the drooping flowers are kissed
by the wandering breeze,
Within the shadow of that church, beneath
the great trees.
Trtta.
Correspondence of the Southern Literary Garette.
THE FLIT CORRESPONDENCE.
SECOND SERIES—NO. 20.
New-York, Dec. 13, 1851.
Should you at this moment, my
dear editors, visit any of our fashiona
ble promenades, our crowded business
marts, our cases, or our draw ing-rooms,’
your ear would catch, in passing group
after group, no words but priuci
pies—Washington—policy—nation—
non-intervention—progress—humanity
—down-trodden—solidarity-—Russian
bear —Austrian tyrant —sympathy —
aid—great apostle—liberty—Kossuth !
“Kossuth !” Aye, that is the magic
word—the great Alpha and Omega of
the universal tongue of this vast city,
for the past week, and, of course, the
only words with which I cau fittingly
begin this epistle.
Day after day, the earliest morning
inquiry, aud the latest dosing wonder,
touched upon the arriving of the Hum
boldt. With each succeeding hour, so
gathered the public expectation and
interest, that an occasional fear, lest
she should not, after all, bring us the
great Expected, was as much relief to
the intense enthusiasm, as are the hu
mour and jest which serve as safety
valves to the sentiment and passion of
the stage. Such a conductor was the
joke which passed from lip to lip, when
the Humboldt , (as a packet-ship of that
name entered our port,) was reported
to have arrived without the illustrious
“Maguire,” as the eloquent Hagadorn
is said to have called the great Magyar,
in his greeting oration at Quarantine !
Day and night all sorts of Commit
tees laid in ambush at Staten Island,
and the tattling types of the extras
were ready at a moment’s warning to
spring into their places to echo the
cannon which should announce the long
awaited arrival. At last the echo came,
awakening the good people from their
first midnight snoose, and realizing our
playing friend Brougham’s long-stand
ing laugh—“ Kossuth’s Kum?”
Need 1 tell you the gossip of the
hundred thousand breakfast-tables next
morning, or the eagerness with which
the journals were digested, and the
greeting speeches of the distinguished
passenger devoured ?—for with one
foot on the new world, and the other
on the old, nay, even before he left the
decks of the steamer, this man of
speeches was at work! One word of
his day, on “the lovely, but exposed
Island,” an exclamation point simply,
at the impudence of those ante-room
waiters, in lugging the Nation’s and the
City’s guest over their barren kitchen,
before his entre into the drawing-room
of the municipality. Think of these
Staten Islanders hearing his first words
—even “toting” him to their vast me
tropolis of “New Brighton,” without
so much as a sandwich to cool his
parched tongue. Oh ! the rush to quar
antine on that memorable day of wait
ing! Among the thousand of enuyee's
from “within the sound of bow bells,”
were two Daguerrean artists, armed
and equipped with cameras and chemi
cals to nab the illustrious exile ; but it
would not do, Kossuth refusing point
blank, either to stand or sit it, fearful
that the immortalizers desired tomake^B
a speculation of him ! One of thesl
enterprising gentlemen, however, mar.. I
aged so to arrange his machine as tel
seize the Magyar while passing in hil
(open) carriage. Os course, he had t<>H
take into the bargain, the stranger's ■
host for the day—Dr. Doane, together I
with other individuals, and a poodle. I
dog, with them in the vehicle. Kos-1
suth remained, by request, with the I
health officer, at Staten Island, until I
the city authorities were prepared to fl
receive him. The reception was ar- H
ranged for the day following that of hw I
landing. The heavens even seemed I
to welcome the patriot chief; for never I
was there a more buoyant, merry, smi- |
ling morn than that same joyous Sat- I
urday. The journals of the day have, I
of course, fully posted you touching I
the magnificent ceremonies, and the I
overwhelming heartiness of the we]. B
come. You have seen in your fancy B
the ocean of heads which overflowed I
the grounds of the Battery, and have B
heard the mighty cheer which rent theH
air, when the exile stepped to the mea-B
sure,of “Hail to the CJiicf!” upon on
free shores. You “have seen the
mouse procession of soldiers and citi
zens defile into the great avenue of
Broadway ; you have seen the gaj uc- fl
corations, pictures and banners, which fl|
lined the long miles of march; youßl
have seen the triumphal arches (!) m
erected by the genius of our corpora- fl
tion carpenters, and, like every body 8
else, have at the same moment seen ||
that the generous offer of the artists offl
the city to assume, gratuitously, this*
part of the embellishment, has bees f
most stupidly declined ; but one thing
vou have not seen—and never bet ire ‘M
had any breathing Gothamite seen—so ij
immense, so enthusiastic a concour
in Broadway. Not an inch of terra
firms was unoccupied; not a lamp
post, not a tree, not a balcony, not a 1
window, not a roof, but was overflow, j
ed. Thousands of hankerchiefs wafted 11
smiles and glances of welcome fror.; •
the lips and eyes of lovely women, J
which thousands of others and thou- j
sands again took up, as the carriage of 8
the chief moved on. Open as was the IS
public heart, to receive its illustrious I
guest, it beat still louder in the unex-1
pected magnetism of his presence. I
Souls which had looked coldly upnufl
his brave deeds, and read unmoved his fl
burning words, melted in the warmth B
of his magic style, and yielded unre-1
sistingly and completely to the mag- Ik
netic fluid of positive influence, which ■
Balzac says is thrown oil from the vis-1
age, and the action of a man inspired I
with a profound sentiment. j
It was late in the day when our I
guaat at laat reacheil hia qiatara at /■
tho Irving, and midnight before he
was left to the quiet and repose he so I
much needed. Having an alter dinner
errand down town, 1 found myself in
the crowd on the Irving pave, just at
the moment when Kossuth, in response
to reiterated calls, appeared at his win
dow, and excused himself from speak
ing. He seemed to enjoy the scene
before him very much, and replied
freely to the remarks made here and
there in the congregation.
“It is impossible, gentlemen,” said
he, “to speak in the street, you cannot
hear me.”
“Oh! yes we can !” cried a voice
from beneath.
“1 fear not,” returned the Magyar,
“you are such a generous, warm-heart
ed people, that your sentiments are as
loud as they are true !”
“Say a few words,” shrieked another
voice, “and we shall be satisfied !”
“Another day,” continued Kossuth,
laughing, “another day, my friends, I
will have the honour to address you.
I shall take every occasion to come in
to contact with you —the people, for
for you are the mighty lever of pub
lic opinion, in this free and glorious
land!”
I record this little incident since it
was entirely mis-reported in the pa
pers.
Since the hour of his landing, our
honoured guest has had no moment to
himself, despite his very delicate health.
On Sunday he was taken to church,
and ever since, hour after hour, depu
tations and visitors have poured in up
on him in one unbroken stream.
On Thursday night the great dinner
of the Corporation came off, and the
anxiously expected speeches of the
eloquent Governor was delivered —
throwing new oil upon the flames of
public excitement, and doing wonders
in the dissipation of the heavy clouds
of mistrust which had been for an in
stant created by the bold and startling
enunciation of his demands upon the
American people.
The general voice endorses the re
mark of Mr. Raymond, in his speech
at the dinner, “that the accuracy with
which the great orator traced histori
cal events, the clearness and force w ith
which sophistries were set aside, aud
the truth and power which marked his
exposition of American principles and
American laws, excited in the breasts
of every one present, sentiments ol
the most profound astonishment.” —
This momentous doctrine of Ameri
can intervention in the affairs of the
European nations, which this extraor
dinary man is preaching with such un
swerving and hopeful zeal, and with
such mighty eloquence, promises to
effect an entire revolution in our na
tional poliey and destiny.