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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.