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VOLUME 11. fdertcit ‘j&nrtnj. A VILLAGE TALE. The rooks are cawing in the elms, As on the very day— That mother dear, When Lucy went away; And April’s pleasant gleams have come, And April’s gentle rain— * leaves are on the vine—but when ill Lucy come again ? The spring is as it used to be, And all must be the same; And yet, I miss the feeling now, That always with it came; It seems as if to me she made The sweetness of the year— — As if I could be glad no more, No\f Lucy is not here. A year —it seems but yesterday, When in this very door You stood ; and she came running back, To sav good bye once more; I hear you sob —your parting kiss—* The last fond words you said— Ah! little did we think—one year, And Lucy would be dead! How all comes back—the happy times, Before our father died ; When, blessed with him, we knew no want, Scarce knew a wish denied— His loss, and all our struggles on, And that worst dread, to know, From home, too poor to shelter all, That one at last must go. How often do I blame myself, How often do I think, How wrong l was to shrink from that, From which she did not shrink ; And when I wish that I had gone, And know the wish is vain ; And say, she might have lived, I think, — How can I smile again. I dread to be alone, for then, Bcfote mv swimming eyes, Iler parting face, her waving hand, Distinct before me rise; Slow rolls the waggon down the road— I watch it disappear — Her lust *’ dear sister,’’ fond “ good-bye,” Still lingering in my ear. Oh, mother, had but father lived It would not have been thus ; Or, if God still had taken her, She would have died with us; She would have had kind looks, fond words, Around h r dying bed— Our hands to press her dying hands, To raise her dying head. I’m always thinking, mother, now, Os what she must have thought; Boor girl! as day on day went by, And neither of us brought; Os how she must have yearned, one face, That was not strange, to see— Have longed one moment to have set One look on you and me. Sometimes I dream a happy dream— I think that she is laid Beside our old village church, Where we so often played ; And I can sit upon her grave, And with her we shall lie, Af,ji from where the city’s noise, And thronging feet go by. Nay, mother—mother —weep not so, God judges for the Lest, And from a world of pain and woe, He took her to his rest; W hy should we wish her back again ? Oh, freed from sin and care, Let us the rather pray God’s love, Ere long to join her there. the summer sabbath. Woods my church, to-day—my preacher Roughs, 13 Rering high homilies through leafy lips; i “urshippers, in every bee that sips , Weet cordial from the tiniest flower that grows ■ the young grass, and in each bird, that dips ’ pinions in the sunshine as it throws ‘i showers upon green trees. All things around re full of Prayer ! The very blush which tips T n sn °wy cloud, is bright with adoration ! grass breathes incense forth, and all the ground 8 “'dealtar; while the stillest sound 1 with praise. No profanation l 4 ches the thoughts, while thus to ears and eye3 I !>eltrtrii <Calt. FATHER AND SON. BY CHARLES DICKENS. One evening in the month of Pfarch, 179S, —that dark time in ’eland’s annals whose memory overlooking all minor subsequent h lutes) is still preserved among us, N k \he year of the rebellion’—alady pmd gentleman were seated near a re * n °^"f as hi°ned din | Tjy~ r ° oln a large lonely mansion. I le J had just dined ; wine and fruit Lf re ° n the table, both untouched |J llle Mr. Hewson and his wife sat !! len lly gazing at the tire, watching 1, s flickering light becoming gradual ■;. [ nore vivid as the short Spring ■'flight faded into darkness. Ihuutrii ta jCitftatitrf, .?rintrg rniii Slrt, tjje pints nf dnnjifnntfe, (Dili) jhllumsjjip, Binsnnnj unit #titfral Cuttclligcita. At length the husband poured out a glass ol wine, drank it off, and then broke silence by saving— ‘Well, well, Charlotte, these are awful times; there were ten men taken up to-day for burning Cotter’s house at Knockane : and Tom Dy cer says that every magistrate in the country is a marked man.” Mrs. Hewson cast a frightend glance towards the windows, which opened nearly to the ground, and gave a view ot a wide tree-besprink led lawn, through whose centre a long straight avenue led to the high road. There was also a footpaih at either side of the house, branch ing off through close thickets of trees, and reaching the road by a circui tous route. ‘Listen, James !’ she said, after a pause : ‘what noise is that?’ ‘Nothing but the sighing of the wind among the trees. Come, wife, you must not give way to imaginary tears.’ But really 1 heard something like footsteps on the gravel, round the gable-end—l wish’— A knock at the parlour door in terrupted her. ‘Come in.’ The door opened, ami Tim Ga han, Mr. Hewson’s confidential steward and right-hand man, en tered, followed by a fair-haired de licate-looking boy of six years’ old, dressed in deep mourning. ‘Well, G a ban, what do you want?’ Task your Honour’s pardon tor disturbing you and the mistress; but 1 thought it right to come tell you the bad news I heard.’ ‘Something about the rebels I suppose ?’ ‘Yes, Sir; I got a whisper just now that there’s going to be a great rising intirely, to-morrow; thous ands are to gather before daybreak at Kilcrean bog, where i’m told they’ve a power of pikes hiding; and then the’re to march on and sack every house in the country. I’ll engage, when I heard it, I didn’t let grass grow under my feet, but came off straight to your Honour, thinking maybe you’d like to walk over this fine evening to Mr. War ren’s, and settle with him what’s best to be done.’ ‘O, James ! I beseech y T ou, don’t think of going.” ‘Make your mind easy, Charlotte ; I don’t intend it; not that 1 suppose there would be much risk; but, all things considered, 1 think I’m just as comfortable at home.’ The steward’s brow darkened, as he glanced nervously towards the end window, which jutting out in the gable, formed a deep angle in the outer wall. ‘Of course’tis just as your Hon our plases, but I’ll warrant you there would be no harm in going. Come, Billy,’ he added, addressing the child, who by this time was standing close to Mrs. Hewson, ‘make your bow, and bid good night to master and mistress.* The boy did not stir, and Mrs. Hewson taking his little hand in hers, said — ‘You need not go home for half an-hour, Gahati ; stay and have a chat with the servants in the kitch en, and leave little Billy with me— and with the apples and nuts’—she added, smiling as she filled the child’s hands with fruit. ‘Thank you, Ma’am,’ said the steward hastily. T can’t stop —I’m in a hurry home, where I wanted to leave this brat to-night; but he would follow me. Come, Billy ; come this minute, you young rogue.’ Still the child looked reluctant, and Mr. Hewson said peremptori ly — ‘Don’t go yet, Gahan ; I want to speak to you by and by ; and you know the mistress always likes to pet little Billy.” Without replying, the steward left the room ; and the next moment his hasty footsteps resounded through the long flagged passage that led to the offices. ‘There’s something strange about Gahan, since his wife died,’ re marked Mrs. Hewson. “I suppose ’tis grief for her that makes him look so darkly, and seem almost jealous when any one speaks to his child. Poor little Billy! your moth er was a sore loss to you.’ The child’s blue eves filled with tears, and pressing closer to the I lady’s side, he said : SAVAMAH, G 4., SATURDAY, AUGUST 10, 1850. ‘Old Peggy doesn’t wash and dress me as nicely as mammy used.’ ‘But your father is good to you ?’ ‘Oh, yes, Ma’am, but lie’s out all day busy, and I’ve no one to talk to me as mammy used ; for Peggy is quite deaf, and besides she’s always busy with the pigs and chickens.’ T wish 1 had yo.u, Billy, to take care ot and to teach, for your poor mother's sake.’ ‘And so you may Charlotte,’ said her husband. ‘l’m sure Gahan, with all his odd ways is too sensi ble a fellow not to know how much it would be for his child’s benefit to be b rought up and educated by us, and the boy would be an amuse ment to us in this lonely house. I’ll speak to him about it before he goes home. Billy, my fine fellow, come here,’ he continued, ‘jump up on my knee, and tell me if you’d like to live here always and learn to read and write.’ ‘I would, Sir, if I could be with father too.’ ‘So you shall; —and what about old Peggy ?” CC./ The child paused— ‘l’d like to give her a pen’nortb of snuff and a piece ot tobacco every j week, for she said the other day that that would make her quite happy.’ Mr. Hewson laughed, and Billy prattled on, still seated on his knee; when a. noise of footsteps on the ground mingled with low suppress ed talking was heard outside. ‘James listen ! there’s the noise again.’ It was now nearly dark, but Mr. Hewson, still, holding the boy in his arms, walked towards the window and looked out. ‘I can see nothing,’ he said, —‘stay —there are figures moving off among the trees, and a man running round to the back of the house —very like Gahan he is too !’ Seizing the bell-rope, be rang it loudly, and said to the servant who answered his summons: ‘Fasten the shutters and put up the bars, Connell ; and then tell Gahan I want to see him.’ The man obeyed ; candles were brought, and Gahan entered the room. Mr. Hewson remarked that, though his cheeks were flushed, his lips were very while, and his bold dark eyes were cast on the ground. ‘What took you round the house just now, Tim ?’ asked his master, in a careless manner. ‘ What took me round the house, is it? Why, then, nothing in life, Sir, but that just as I went outside the kitchen door to take a smoke, I saw the pigs that iShaneen forgot to put up in their stye, making right for the mistress’s flower-garden ; so l just put my dud keen , lighting as it was, into my pocket and ran af ter them. I caught them on the grand walk under the end window, and indeed, Ma’am', I had my own share of work turning them back to their proper spear.’ Gahan spoke with unusual vol ubility, but without raising his eyes from the ground. ‘ Who were the people,’ asked his master, ‘ whom I saw moving through the western grove?’ ‘ People ! your honor—not a sign of any people moving there, i’ll be bound, barring the pigs.’ ‘ Then,’ said Mr Hewson, smiling to his wife,‘the miracle ot Circe must have been reversed, and swine turned into men ; for undoubtedly the dark figures I saw were human beings.’ ‘Come, Billy,’ said Gahan, anx ious to turn the conversation, ‘will you come home with me nowj? I am sure *twas very good ot the mistress to give you all them fine apples.’ Mrs. Hewson was going to pro pose Billy’s remaining, but her hus band whispered: ‘Wait till to morrow.’ So Gahan and his child were allowed to depart. Next morning the magistrates of the district were on the alert, and several suspicious looking men found lurking about were taken up. A bat which fitted one of them was picked up in Mr. Hewson’sgrove; — ibe gravel under the end window j bore many signs of trampling feet ; I and there were marks on the wall as if gunshad rested against it. Ga han’s information touching the in- tended meeting at Kilcrean bog, proved to be totally without founda tion ; and after a careful search not a single pike or weapon of any de scription could be found there/ All these circumstances combined cer tainly looked suspicious ; Gut alter a prolonged no guilt could be brought home to Gahan, he was dismissed. One of his exami ners, however, said privately, ‘I advise you to take care of that fel low, Hewson. If I were in your place, I’d just trust him as far as 1 could throw him and net an inch be yond.’ An indolent hospitable Irish'coun try gentleman, such as Mr. Hewson is never without an always shrewd and often roguish prime minister, who saves his master the trouble of looking after his own affairs, and manages everything that is to be done m both the home and foreign departments,—from putting anew door on the pig-stye, to letting a farm of an hundred acres on lease. Now in this, or rather these capacities, Gahan had long served Mr. Hew son ; and some seven years previous to the evening on which our story commences, he had strengthened the tie and increased his influence considerably by marrying Mrs. Hewson’s favorite and faithful maid. One child was the result of this union ; and Mrs. Hewson, who had no family of her own, took much interest in little Billy,—more es pecially after the death of his moth er, who, poor thing! the neighbors said, was not very happy, and would gladly,it she dared, have exchanged her lonely cottage for the easy ser vice of her former mistress. Thus, though for a time Mr. and Mrs. Hewson regarded Gahan with some doubt, the feeling gradually wore away, and the stewaid regain ed his former influence. After the lapse of a few stormy months the rebellion was quelled : all the persons taken up were sev erally disposed of by hanging, transportation or acquittal,according to the nature and amount of evi dence brought against them; and the country became as peaceful as it is in the volcanic nature of our Irish soil ever to be. The Hewson’s kindness towards Gahan’s child was steady and un changed. They took him into their house, and gave him a plain but solid education ; so that William, while yet a boy, was enabled to be of some use to his patron, and daily enjoyed more and more of his con fidence. Another evening, the twentieth anniversary of that with which this narrative commenced, came round. Mr. and Mrs. Hewson were still hale and active, dwelling in their hos pitable home. About eight o’clock at night, Tim Gahan, now a stoop ing, grey-haired man, entered Mr. Hewson’s kitchen, and took his seat on the corner of the settle next the fire. The cook, directing a silent sig nificant glance of compassion to wards her fellow-servant, said : ‘ Would you like a drink of cider, Tim, or will you wait and take a cup of tay with myself and Kitty ?” The old man’s eyes were fixed on the fire, arid a wrinkled hand was planted firmly on each knee, as if to check theirinvoluntary trembling. ‘l’ll not drink anything this night, thank you kindly, Nelly,’ he said, in a slow musing mariner, dwelling long on each word. ‘ Where’s Billy,’ he asked after a pause, in a quick hurried tone, looking up suddenly at the cook, with an expression in his eyes, which, as she afterward said, ‘took away her breath.’ ‘Oh, never heed Billy! I sup pose he’s busy with the master.’ ‘Where’s the use, Nelly,’ said the coachman, ‘in hiding it from him ? Sure, sooner or later he must know it. Tim,’ he continued, * God knows ’tis sorrow’ to my heart this night to make yours sore, —but the truth is, that William has done what he oughtn’t to do to the man that was ail one as a father to him.’ ‘What has he done? what will you dor say against my boy?’ * Taken money, then,’ replied the coachman, ‘ that the master had marked and put by in his desk ; for he suspected this some time past, that gold was missing. This morn- ing ’twas gone ; a search was made, and the marked guineas w’ere found with your son William’ The old man covered bis face with his hands, and rocked himself to and fro. ‘ Where is lie now’?’ at length he asked in a hoarse voice. ‘Locked up safe in the inner store-room; the masier intends sending him to gaol early to-morrow morning.’ ‘He will not,’ said Gahan, slow ly, ‘ kill the boy that saved his life ! —no, no.’ ‘ Poor fellow’! the grief is setting Ins mind astray —and sure r.o won der!’ said the cook, compassion ately. ‘ I’m not astray !’ cried the old man, fiercely. ‘ Where’s the mas ter?-—take me to him.’ ‘Come with me,’ said the butler, * and I’ll ask him will he see you?’ With faltering steps the father complied ; and when they reached the parlor, he trembled exceedingly, and leant against the wall for sup port, while the butler opened the door, and said : ‘ Gahan is here, Sir, and wants to know will you let him speak to you for a minute ?’ ‘ Tell him to come in,’ said Mr. Hew-son, in a solemn tone of sorrow, very different from his ordinary cheerful voice. * Sir,’ said the steward, ad vancing, ‘ they tell me you are going to send my boy to prison,—is it true ?’ ‘ Too true, indeed, Gahan. The lad who was reared in my house, whom my wife watched over in health, and nursed in sickness— whom we loved almost as if he were our own son, has rohhed us, and that not once or twice, but many times. He is silent and sullen, too, and refuses to tell why he stole the money, which was never withheld from him when he wanted it. 1 can make nothingof him, and must only give him up to justice in the morning.’ O ‘ No, Sir, no. The boy saved your life ; you can't take his.’ ‘You’re raving Gahan.’ * Listen to me, Sir, and you won’t say so. You remember this night twenty years? 1 came here with mv motherless child, and yourself and the mistress pitied us, and spoke loving words to him. Weil for us all you did so! That night —little you thought it! —I was ban ded with them that were sworn to take your life. They were watch ing you outside the window, and 1 was sent to inveigle you out, that they might shoot you. A faint heart I had for the bloody business, for you were ever and always a good master to me ; but I was under an oath to them that I darti’t break, supposing they ordered me to shoot my own mother. Well! the hand of God was over you, and you wouldn’t come with me. I ran out to them, and I said— ‘ Boys if you want to shoot him, you must do ii through the window,’thinkingthey’d beafeardof that; but they weren’t —they were daring fellows, and one of them, sheltered by the angle of the window, took deadly aim at you. That very moment you took Billy on your knee, and 1 saw his fair head in a line with the musket. I don’t know exactly then what 1 said or did, but I remember I caught the man’s hand threw it up and poin ted to the child. Knowing 1 was a determined man, 1 believe they didn’t wish to provoke me ; so they watched you fora while, and when you didn’t put him down they got daunted, hearing the sound of sol diers riding by the road, and they stole away through the grove. — Most of that gang swung on the gal lows, but the last of them died this morning quietly in his bed. Up to yesterday he used to make me give him money, sums of money to buy his silence —and it was lor that I made my boy a thief. It was wear ing out his very life. Often he went down on his knees to me, and said : ‘ Father, I’d die myself, soon er than rob my master, but I can’t see you disgraced. Oh, let us flv the country!’ Now sir I have told you all —do what you like with me —send me to gaol, I deserve :t — but spare my poor deluded innocent boy !’ It would be difficult to describe Mr. Hewson’s feelings, but his wife’s first impulse was to hasten to liberate the prisoner. With a few incohe rent words of explanation she led him into the presence of his mas ter, who, looking at him sorrowfully but kindly, said : * William you have erred deeply but not so deeply as 1 supposed.— \our lathe 7 ’ has told me every thing. I forgive him freely, and you also.* The young man covered his fat e with his hands, and wept tears more bitter and abundant than he had e\ei shed smco the day when ho followed his mother to the grave.--- He could say little, but be knelt on the ground, and clasping the kind hand or her who had supplied to him that mother’s place, lie mur mured : ‘ Will you tell him I would rather die than sin again.’ Old Gahan died two years after wards, truly penitent, invoking bles sings on his son and on his benefac tors ; and the young man’s conduct now no longer under evil influence, was so steady and upright, that his adopted parents felt that their pious work was rewarded, and that, in William Gahan, they had indeed a son. JVhat shall 1 tell ‘em 1 think. — We could wish that every perkin, inquisitive, mischief-making old maid, or “benign cerulean” of kin dred propensities, would oblige and benefit themselves by reading the following anecdote: A calm, blue-eyed, self-composed and sell-possessed young lady in this village received a long call the other day from a prying old spinster, who, after prolonging her Slav be yond even her own conception of the young lady’s endurance, came to the main question that had brought her thither. “ I’ve been asked a good many times if you was engaged to Dr. G . Now if folks inquire again whether you be or not, what ahull I tell them J think “ Tell them,'” answered the young lady, fixing her calm blue eyes in unblinking steadfastness upon the inquisitive features of her interro gator, “ tell them that you think you don’t know, and you are sure it is none of your business!” The Though ful Barber. — There are boys who think themselves men, and who go to barbers’ shops to he, as they say, “hared.” We have heard of a juvenile who went to he scraped, and the barber, having ad justed the cloth, and soaped his smooth skin, left him and went loun ging about his door. As soon as the young “gent” saw him sauntering, he impatiently called out, “well, what are you leaving me all this time here for ?” “I’m wailing un til your beard grow’s l” replied the witty barber. “I say Pat,” said a Yankee to an Irishman who was digging in his garden, “are you digging a hole in that there onion bed/” “No,” savs Pat, “I am digging out the earth and laving the hole.” The Oliver Branch tells a capi tal story on a sarcastic old fellow, who, being asked one day by par son A. if he had any treasures laid up in Heaven?—replied with a dole ful look, “Sartain, sartaiu; l guess they must he there, if any w here— l hain’t got any laid up at home.” Viscount S. once met M. de V., and said to him, ‘ls it true, sir, that in a house w here I am thought to be witty, you said tliat i had no wit at all f M. de V. answered :—‘My lord there is not a word of truth in the matter. 1 never w r as in a house where you were thought to be witty, and l never had occasion to tell any body you had no wit at all.’ ‘Sir,’said a pompous personage, who undertook to bully an editor, ‘do you know that l take your pa per?’ ‘l’ve no doubt you do take it,’ replied the man of the quill, ‘for several of my honest subscribers have been complaining lately about their papers being mission in the morning !* The Lynn News editor entertains the opinion that pork sausages in warm weather not a Jew-dish ous repast, NUMBER 23.