A YEAR IN ADVANCE,
EWiERIES, VOL. 1, NO. 32.1
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THE GRIND HOFSE IN OCR VILLAGE.
I=
Our tillage is situated in a beautiful valley. This
valley is about a toile in length, and varies from a
half to three quarters of u mile in breadth. It is
feu"' round with an irregular line of hills, which
1, broken in three places, where the principal roads
pass. On the western side, there is no outlet, and
hare, Ike continuous fence of hills is very steep.
From this direction, the more scheming people of
tir: valley expect a railroad will come, some day ;
nI, at times, they get so warns with this expecta•
lion, as to enjoy the fame of the tunnel through
Ark hill. The south end of the valley is open to
distant view of the sea.
The scenery is enchanting. In spring and sum•
mcr, it is brim Mil of the spirit of delicious dreams.
• )ur people are noted for their purity of manners,
and their good school 4. But they are too busy to
dream mach. They are, generally, honest, quiet
fulls, who till the earth, make butter and cheese,
and abhor nil sorts of " aristocracy."
",t few springs ago, the ordinary quiet the vil-
Inc was somewhat disturbed, by the arrival or
new ool,.bitaok. such an (Nem is always a god
iced hr the gossips of any country village; be
in the present rase, tlie excitement was nausual,
for thc new•emners arrived with an imposing crini
loge, and very plainly assumed to be of no ordi
nary consequence.
:qr. Jonas Harding was a retiring merchant."
le was a great man, in his own estimation, be-
Cause he was rich, and he had conic to play the
nabob in a country village. While putting on the
giant's mantle, I* doubted tint that the giant's
pnwcr was beneath it. Perhaps he had never
heard, that the giant's mantle did not contain the
whole virtue of the giant's greatness. Ile was
cure the simple villagers would treat him with
great reverence. They would at once elect him to
all the chief offices. He should become a judge.
That country district would immediately send hum
to Congres.. Mr. Harding's good qualities had
never had fur pity. While acquiring money, he
had failed to acquire intelligence or refinement.
ILs good qualities were like sick trout in a frog
poad. Ile knew nothing beyond the arts by
which he had made money; and his lofty igno.
ranee wusi none the less unlovely fur being set up
to view, in the temple of pride, on a golden pe
destal.
firs. Ilgrding was a "lady," born and bred;
that is to say, she was born in the city, and grew
to womanhood under the cure of a mother, who
Lad kept her eyes turned toward the circles of ex
treme Cushion, as to the summits of the delectable
mountains, or the bowers of Paradise. Shc had
married Mr. 'larding because he w..s rich, and be
cause, after ma namvring ten years, she despaired
of doing better. She had flirted with dandies, and
waltzed with whiskered foreigners ; she had re.
pentedly visited the springs fur her health; site had
pent two winters in Washington ; she had dressed,
and sighed, and done her best to be sentimental :
bat all in vain. When she stood at the marriage
altar, her strongest emotion was resentment against
fate. Why, she had believed a god would come in
a cloud of ambrosial things, from the heaven to
which her eyes had been turned so anxiously, and
bear her away, swooning with rapture on his bo
som; and, mow, to have caught only this Jonas
Yarding: But he was very rich. That was some
thing; and, with commendable philosophy, she
resolved to make the best of it. Mr. [larding, who
had never succeeded well as a dandy, reverenced her
as "finished lady ;" and she had spirit and tact
enough, not only to have her own way, but, also, to
govern him when she choose to do it.
They had three children, two daughters and a
son. This son did not come with them to Elmvale.
Ile was then in college, where his father had placed
him, guided partly by come vague notions of learn
ing, as a genteel accomplishment,though chiefly
by the mother's persuasion that her son was a
genius.
Mr. Henri Alphonse Jules Fitzwilliam Howard
Harding resembled his mother in person, as well
as in sonic qualities of mind. Before Ire was able
to speak, she had discovered in him the indications
or wonderful talents. As he grew older, she saw
these indications more clearly; and, in talking the
matter over with her confidential friends, often re
gretted that Mr. Harding was not an English no
bleman, that her son's fbture career, assisted by a
title, might be as dazzling as Byron's. You smile,
perhaps; but she was never more sincere.
The new inhabitants were at length fully es
tablished in their " grand house," as the people of
the village named it; but the airs they displayed
in their intercourse with their neighbors, began to
Will them anything but warm-hearted respect. If
?qr. Harding and his family had been wise enough
THE COLUMBIA SPY.
to place themselves in true relations with the people
around them, they might have found, in this charm
ing village, some of the purest and richest enjoy
mentsoflife. What means did their wealth offer, for
all the beautiful ministries of good will But they
came on purpose toassume a false relation; and their
appearance in the place was like the breaking out
of a cancer. The social health was disturbed.—
They failed to bless themselves, while they occa
sioned much that was unlovely in others.
In the latter part of the summer, the family at
the grand house invited the few of our people on
whom they deigned to cast a glance, half-patroniz
ing, half•social, to meet their son, on his arrival
from college. This event occasioned no little gos•
sip, and no small flutter in the minds of several
young ladies who were invited. Miss Sophia Green
had heroine acquainted with the Misses [larding,
and pretended to an intimacy with them. Sophia's
weak mother was predisposed to the social disease
of the new neighbors, and had, of late, frequently
found occasion to observe that her husband was a
justice of the peace, and the owner/if two faring.
She began to add also, that her uncle Stevens was
very wealthy. Miss Sophia dressed herself for the
party with great care, thinking, the while, that Mr.
lienri's sisters would surely prepare him to make
her the chief object of his attention.
Meanwhile, let us turn our attention elsewhere.
A small river winds through this volley. Up this
stream, nearly India mile from the meetinghouse,
and some forty rods from the road, there is a kind
of bower, formed of luxuriant grapevines, and a
high rock. While Miss Sophia was at her mirror,
arranging her pretty face, an over-dressed young
man might have been seen walking down the
stream toward this bower. He had just left a car
riage, which was now passing on to the village.—
This was the expected son. He had left the car
riage, with the consciousness of his genius, which,
on his arrival, he presumed, should vindicate itself
by getting enchanted with the scenery of the place,
•
which lie had been told was very beautiful.
Ile walked on, thinking of eyes in `fine frenzy
rolling,' and trying to work his ow.l eyes up to this
frenzy movement, until he came, to the bower.—
flare, Ito had a aision, which suddenly changed his
mood, and woke an interest, in which there was
not the slightest tinge of affection.
lie beheld a young maiden, reclined in the shade
of the grape-vines, and occupied with a book. lifer
bonnet lay on the grass, and her glossy brown hair
hung in ringlets about her shoulders. Shc and the
foliage together, seemed like a picture, just starting
and softening into life. tier form, her attitude, her
whole appearance was enough to change the mood
of a wiser man. His quiet approach had not
drawn her attention, and for sonic minutce, he
stood gazing at her, as if enchanted. With a
quick blush, she snatched her bonnet and started to
her feet.
Whatever may have been the ordinary tune of
Henri's manners, a sudden tllscination, as if he felt
the power of a superior being, now gave to his
manner the appearance of 'hold and delicate re
spect. Ile introduced himself, and asked permis
sion to walk with the young lady to the village.—
This short walk increased the spell. She was a
beautiful creature, and he had timer before seen a
face that had more of the indescribable witchery
that springs from unconscious beauty of intellect,
blended with artless modesty, and spontaneous self
reSpeCL; ....6whory which I "..t_ but, can
never be imitated, ur manufactured at the tenet.—
Henri ventured to ask what book she had been
reading.
'Spencer's Faerie Queen,' she replied.
'Spencer's Facrie Queen he echoed, 'Oh, I
have seen that hook. It is in the library of our
Society; I must take it out and read it next term.
Let me see. It is about the heavenly Una, and her
milk white lamb. Wasn't she a shepherdess? and
didn't a great prince full in love with her? and
didn't he finally marry her, and become a shepherd,
and raise a flock of sheep from her lamb?"
Henri s genius had undertaken the story. The
maiden was silent. In fact, she struggled to repress
a burst of laughter. She was a strange girl, after
all. She could not well prevent his walling with
her to the village; but somehow he felt hi [ltself
unequal to the familiarity of asking her name. He
could not get a step beyond that dissertation on the
Faerie Queen.
Henri reached home so lull, of his adventure, that
he forgot to be cordial in his'greetin,g , . At even
ing when the company began to appear, he watched
every arrival, but the beautiful girl did not. come.
He was vexed, and, turning to his. mother,
asked,
`Arc they all here?'
Yes, all we invited. Some of these, perhaps,
ought to have been lett out. But the best of them
are really so barbarous, that any selection is almost
intolerable.'
;There arc better peop'e in the village.'
• No, T have invited the very beet.'
• I tell you, there arc better people here than any
you have invited.'
Henri's mood did not contribute to enliven the
party. He did nut fascinate the visitors. They
generally thought what the physician's wife said:
• He is just like the rest of them.'
But Henri had condescended to converse with
Sophia Green, fifteen minutes; and during that
time, said some things that nearly turned her head.
She 11.. d asked, with what she thought the most
lady-like modulation of voice imaginable,—
'flow do you like our village, Mr. Harding?'
• Oh, it is a gorgeous place! Romantic trees!
Splendid hills! Glorious rocks! and I have found
here the most glorious girl I ever saw.'
'lndeed! she will be proud or your admiration.
What is her name or is that a secret ?'
I cannot tell her name now; but I shall re
member her as long as I live:
Sophia took all this to herself; and lay awake
half the night, thinking how fine it would be to
marry Henri, and live like the people at the grand
bowie. What would her companions say ? She
went so far as to settle in her mind how to demean
herself, and what to say, when introduced to his
fashionable acquaintances in New York. And she
would go to Europe with him ; for his sisters had
said it was fashionable to finish a bridal by travel
ling in Europe.
The next three or four days, Henri spent in the
fields near the bower. He sought another meeting
wills the unknown beauty ; but site came not. Once,
he thought he saw her go from the bower, and pass
quickly among the trees toward the village. The
truth was, this bower was her favorite haunt, where
she was accustomed to spend leisure hours in de
lightful converse with books. But sho had observ
ed his movements, and chose not to meet him
again.
He said a few words to his mother and sisters, of
the vision of the bower ; but they assured him, that
she must have been some transient visitor in the
place. He was vexed and sullen. His manners at
home were quite rude; but his mother explained
all, by whispering to his sisters, that he was un
doubtedly at work in secret, on a great poem. She
added, that his eyes were dreamy and spirituel, and
his hair and shirt-colar more intensely poetical than
she had seen them.
One Sunday morning, he sat by the window,
watching the street, with his mother and sisters.
The people wrrc passing to church. At length,
three young ladies passed together on the opposite
side. Henri saw them, and exclaimed,
AND LANCASTER AND YORK COUNTY RECORD.
'There she is ! my soul! there she is ! Look !
mother, look ! Estelle, who is she ?'
What do you mean V said his mother.
There she goes! That is the girl I met the day
I came home. What is her name? She with the
straw bonnet?"
The ladies burst into a laugh. 'The girl with
the straw bonnet? Why, you simpleton, her
mother is an old woman, who lives by the river,
and takes in washing.'
'No, mean the splendid creature farthest
from us.'
'That splendid creature! Is the boy a fool?' and
the mother's voice growled.
'There! she looks round ! My soul, what eyes !
Why don't you tell me her name ?'
• We have not had the honor of an introduction
to her,' sneered Estelle.
Henri hastened to church; with some of the
people he was already acquainted. In the course
of the day, be learned that the maiden's name was
Jane Lea His eagerness, his talk about Jane, and
his inquiries were all reported. The next day every
tongue was in motion. Some said Jane had won a
great prize; some thought Henri was most certain-,
ly the very softest of fools ; some hoped Jane would'
' keep that fellow at a distance!' Miss Sophia
wondered what lie could see in 'that girl;' Jane
kept closely at home, and said nothing; Mrs. Lee
was indignant at the ill-mannered fellow;' and
when Henri called on her, she sent him away, with
the assurance that she had no desire to become ac
quainted with him.
At the grand house,' there was something like
a whirlwind, a thunder-storm, and an earthquake,
all together. Henri vowed he would marry the
girl, as soon as he left college. Estelle scowled
and mocked; his mother wept, declaimed and
cursed ; his father smoked cigars, and threatened
to disinherit him.
But Mr. Harding finally suggested, that boys
would be a little wild. • Henri cannot be persi.a.
ded to marry that low girl,' he said ; 'boys don't
alwlys have marriage in view, when they run after
Pretty faces.'
I hope it is so,' replied the Indy-mother ; ' but
Henri is very imag,inative ; exceedingly romantic,
sod likely to du strange things if lett to himself.'
The demonstrations at home might have had the
proper effect upon Henri, but for his genius. Ile
thought of princes in love with peasant girls; and
of poets writing sonnets to shepherdesses. Ile had
read, that poets area most susceptible race of mor
tals, with whom love is apt to make strange work.
It occurred to him, that a youth of genius must
not listen to the stormy lectures of his family ; and
certainly, Jane was as beautiful as any shepherd
ess that ever brightened the summer air, if her
mother did take in washing.
One afternoon, he met Jane in the street. She
would have shunned him; but he ran to her, and
aimed to keep up with her. She hurried on; he,
too, hurried.
"Dear Miss Jane," he said, brnathing hard, " I
have—have something—very particular—to say to
you."
" I cannot stay to bear it."
" But you ❑moot—you arc so beautiful—l vow to
marry you—l lo—love you—you will stay to hear
that!"
But Jane had escaped. lle stopped, like one in
doubt as to whether he is or is not thunder street.
Presently he felt his brain in labor with a new. idea:
Jiae nu.. 'al.,
thought. "She would not be so proud an&disdamr
fel to me, if she bad not something to be proud of'.
She is not that old woman's daughter. There is
some mystery about it,"
Princesses in disguise had kept sheep, he be
lieved. This Jane must belong to some distinguish
ed Eunily. He was certain of it. lie supposed she
had good reasons for living here unknown, until
her family appeared to claim her. " And she su
haughty ; I suppose they are about to appear,"—
he thought.
Ile could not meet her again; but, the morning
of his return to college, he wrote the following
epistle, and, without directing if, bade the coach
man give it to the handsomest girl in the place.
" Beautiful creature,—l love you! I love you ! I
love you! I solemnly promise to marry you, as
soon as I come home again from college. 1 have
found out your secret, but I will keep it. When
we are married, and they know all about it, how
mother and Estelle will stare! How proud of you
they will be ! I love you, and I never will love
anybody else. Your passionate lover,
Now the coachman thought the prettiest girl in
the village was Sophia Green. He believed the
Misses Harding thought so too, for they notictcd
her more than any other. So he carried the epistle
to her. Sophia read it, and believed she was rising
a little above the seventh heaven. She ran with it
to her mother, who read it exclaimed, "My dear,
dear child!" sighed out a room full of sentiment,
and, leaning back, fanned herself violently. They ,
agreed to keep the mutter secret. But Mrs. Green
could not hold it all in; and, when Henri was
Mentioned in connection with Jane. Lee, she would
say, " Ah, Henri is too deep for you! He knows
how to play his cards. He knows how to mystify
people."
Jane Lee's mother was the daughter of a very
wealthy farmer. Her mother died when she was
a child; but she had been very happy at home,
with her father and brother, until her brother en
gaged in mercantile speculations, and ruined his
father. She married a young man, with whom she
lived happily two years, when he died and left her
nothing but her child, and poverty. Her brother
left the country, and went, no one knew where;
and, when her father died, a few years afterwards,
she was left alone to struggle with poverty as she
could. She was universally beloved and respected,
in Elmvalc. She had learned to be happy under
the discipline allotted her ; and, though she said it
often, to her neighbors, yet she never said without
manifest emotion, that June was the light and the
joy of her life.
It is not exaggeration to say Jane was a rare
creature. She hal grown up like a beautiful wild
flower: she bad not only the most engaging quali.
ties of mind and heart, but that beauty, that charm
of these qualities, which is the "flowering of vir
tue." An curly Ike of intellect had made her the
best scholar in the schools, and led her to make a
diligent use of the village library. Her mind was
strong and rich, as well as bright; and, while she
was loved as the 'excellent Jane Lee,'
always amia
ble to her companions, and always kind and help
ful to her mother, few. if any, were aware to what
an extent culture had filled her mind with life and
aspiration.
In this culture of her mind, Jane was partly in
fluenced by a motive which she did not fully ac
knowledge to herself. Among the companions of
her early school days, there was a certain Charles
Sears, with whom she had been a favorite. This
lad was timid and reserved, and seldom joined in
the amusements of other boys of his age. Ire
was Jane's closest companion in her studies, and
his uncommon activity and originality of mind had
contributed greatly to hers. While they were at
school together, she had found nothing pleasanter
than his sympathy.
Charles was the clergyman's son. As he grew
older, ho devoted himself to study. His father had
' removed to another parish, and he had visited Elm-
COLUMBIA, SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 5, 15.48
IIF:NRI ALPHONSE JULES FzrzwitLlA3l
HOWARD lIARDIXO."
vale but twice since lie entered college. But he
had frequently written to Jane, always expressing
the warmest rememberance of her, and requesting
an account of her reading, while he spoke at large
of books that had interested him. In Jane's feel
ings, he was associated with much that had found
sympathy nowl-crc else. He had pursued his
studies successfully, and wan now in the law
school at Cambridge.
Henri's passion for Jane became so alarming to
his family, that his mother, not doubting Jane's
readiness for a clandestine marriage, raged, plead
ed, threatened, schemed, and, finally, Contrived to
have him to undertake a voyave to Europe. He,
accordingly, went with his father to New-York.
While they were in New-York, the feelings of
the lady at the 'grand house' underwent u very sud
den and surprising charge. One evening, about
ten days after their departure, Jane and her mother
were astounded by a visit from her. The ldely
came in her.carriage, and was dressed as if for a
royal levee: • Poor Mrs.J...eo was startlod;—but
Jane's instinctive self-respect could not allow her
to stand abi*ied in such a presence. Presently
the lady began :
My dear,Miss Lee, I..have called to speak with
you and your mother on a matter of some delicacy,
—a matter in which we all feel a deep interest,—
I mean the attachment between you and our son,
which Mr. Harding has seemed to oppose.'
At first, 'my dear Miss Leo' gave her a look of
astonishment,—then replied, with a lone and man
ner by which the patronizing air of her visitor wgs
much embarrassed:
Excuse me, madam, I do not understand you.'
'Oh, there is no mistake,' said the lady ; 'on :the
whole, you have been very prudent, and I respect
you for it.. You may own it all now. We thought
Henri was too 'young to marry—bat early mar
riages are' happiest. His passion for you makes
him wild, and Ido not wonder, now I see how
beautifulou aro. My dear Jane, the fond love of
two younthearts shall not be- crossed. I have just
received sAltei &mit Mr. Harding. Henri will
not go to.'''.;urope. They will return to-morrow,
and you shall be immediatelyunited.'
What du You mean, madam?' said Jane, with a
flash of indignation ; 'what have I done to war
rant tide language!`
My :dear, you need not hesitate to be frank.•
with me,' continued the lady, in whose mind there`
had not begun even the dawn of a thought that
Jane could refuse her son, 'you must understand
tne, lam really in earnest. It is the dearest wish
of my heart, to sec you and Henri united. Tho
whole village knows how strongly you and he aro
attached to each other.'
• Ercuso me, madam; the whole village knows,
or should know, just the contrary. Yoa compel
me:teeny, that my strongest feeling toward your
son is contempt. Pirhaps I ought to pity him, fur
I believe he is not capable of.fichaving like gen
tleman."
-Mrs. Harding turned to stare at the speaker, and
her silk rustledas if quivering with sudden anger.
Then recovering herself, she said, Oh, I under,
stand,—some love,quarrel,—but lovers' quarrels
navel. last long.'
"What is your object, Mrs. Harding What do
,yslu mean; by pirsisting to speak in this way?—
Have you come here to insult me
'You talk strangely, Miss Jane: do you mean
thatyou, will not marry Henri, now we all desire it?
sari sli..meln xt:,- 1 hoP-Ti--.rn--uncc.-5.u,....-
Jane was a little severe, perhaps; but she was
cruelly provol.ed. Mrs. Harding went home, - swel:
ling with indignation; and, because she could do
nothing else, she vowed vengeance.
But what hod occasioned this change in the
lady's feelings? A very natural question, which
must be answered. One morning, when Mr. Hard
ing had been in New-York about a week, an elder
ly gentleman, of very striking appearance, came to
his room with an acquaintance, and was introduced
as Mr. Wilson, from the East Indies, and late of
the firm of Wilson, Reeves & Co. Mr. Harding
bad lon g known the reputation of the firm, and
received him with obsequious reverence, much as a
Broadway dandy would receive a great lord, just
landed from Europe. The stranger said :
'I have called, sir, to beg the favor of some in
telligence from Elmvale, where, I am told, you
reside. It is my native place. I had a father and
sister living there, when I left it.'
I shall he very happy, sir, to give you any in
telligence in my power,' replied Mr. Harding.
'Some years ago, I saw a notice of my father's
death, in an American newspaper. I had sent my
father some money, that did not reach him, and
thus failed to secure communication with my
friends. They, probably, thought me dead. I wish
to learn whether my sister resides there still. Our
father's name was Benjamin Wilson; and, just
before I left, my sister was married to a young man
by the name of William Lee.'
Lee—Lee—Lee—' mused Mr. Harding; do
not recollect any person of that name in Elmvale.
There is 110 one there of that name but a washer
woman, who is very poor. But she cannot be your
sister.'
•Is she married 7 Has she a family?' asked the
stranger.
' She is a widow, and has one child, a daughter.
Mr husband has been dead a long time, I believe;
and I now recolleat having heard that her father's
name was Benjamin Wilson, and her husband's
William Lee. She has always lived there, I think.
But it is not possible that she is your sister, for she
is a washerwoman, and very poor.'
Mr. Wilson's rave quivered as his eyes filled with
tears. 'Yes, yes,' lie replied, 'that is my sister.—
Paor Mary ! :1411C must be very poor, for I ruined
my father by an unthrtunate speculation. There
was nothing left. She must be very pour; but I
have no family, and all I have shall be hers. I will
settle half of my property on her immediately, and
tho rent shall be her daughter's, as soon as I have
done with it.'
In the course of the day, Mr. Harding inquired
in various quarters, and found that Mr Wilson's
property amounted to more than two and a half
millions of dollars.
' By the stars I' he exclaimed to himself, 'Henri
has made a hit alter all. That pretty girl is now
worth having I'
Without delay, lie wrote to his wife, telling her
of the great fortune of the Lees, and advising her
to call on them at once, and consent to receive Jane
as Henri's wife, before they could have time to
know of Mr. Wilson's arrival. This letter occa
sioned the visit, from which we saw the lady re
turn with looks not so fair as Jane's roses.
The ;next day after the visit, towards evening,
Jane was in the vine-bower by the river; and now,
there was a gentleman with her, from whom she
did not seem anxious to escape. They remained
there until after sunset; and they walked so slowly
homeward, that it was nearly dark when they reach.
cd the widow's door. When they had entered, he
led Jano to her mother and said,
'Jane and I have known each other a long time ;
but now, we have learned to know each other bet
ter than ever. Will you make us both huppy, by
saying she msy be mine?'
' Yes, Charles,' was the tearful answer. 'I have
long foreseen this; and if I must part with her,
there is no one to whom I could be so willing to
give her, as to you. Take her; and may the bless.
ing of God be upon you both r
• But you will not part with her,' said Charles
Scars; .no, you will nut part with her; for we shall
not be happy, unless you live with us.'
There was a knock at the door, which Jone hast
ened to open. Mr. Wilson entered, and stood a few
moments, gazing at the widow. He spoke :
Mary, my dear sister, do you not know your
brother 1'
She advanced towards him, and he caught her
in his arms, as she cried, 'George! George ! is it
you? Then you are alive! You have come back
again! heaven be praised!'
There was happiness in the widow's house that
night; and there was joy on her account, through
the whole village the next morning.
Mr. Wilson purchased the farm which had be
longed to his father. He also built a house in the
village, where he resides with his sister. He will
nut suffer Charles and Jane to leave them. He
idolizes Jane's children; and says, they are almost
as beautiful as their mother.
Henri soon afterwards married a New-York
lady, whom Mr. Wilson always speaks of as 'that
melancholy butterfly.' His marriage increased
his fame in Elmvale; for it occasioned a law.suit.
Miss Sophia Green prosecuted him for a. breach of
paomisc. It was in vain that he protested that he
was innocent—that he scarcely knew the girl, and
all that. His letter was produced in evidence;
and Miss Sophia recovered.
But the Hardings have left Elnivale, and return
ed to the city. They grew sick of the country.—
Mrs. Harding says; the country sir did not suit her
health; and that she feared the country village
would spoil the manners of her children.
BECKY WILSON'S COURTSHIP.
Ob, now, Becky, do tell us all about it ?"scs the
galls.
Becky had'nt been married mor'n a month, and
hadn't got over her bashfulness yet.
Bout what ?" acs she.
" Why, bout your courtship," Ems the galls.
Shaw,' sea she, turning away her head and
blushin dreadful; "you better tell your own court
ships yourselves, I reckon."
" Yes, but none of us ever had any bows, Becky,
and you's a married wuman. Como ' now, do tell
us all about it. I do.lovc to hoar about courtin ho
much," ses Betiy Bowers.
" Oh, yes, Becky, do tell us."
" Well," sea Becky, after a great deal or blushin
and twistin about, " I'll tell all how it was, ifthat'll
satisfy you."
" Well, now," ses the galls, all gettin round her
so they could hoar good.
" Well," ses Becky, putting an emphasis on bout
every other word, "John, he cum to over house to
see me," she ses, turnin away her head and kind
o'lookin down sideways under her arni. "Fool
ho better go to sec his self, I reckon. Gracious
knows, I didn't care nothin bout him."
" Well," ses the galls.
"Well, Jolni, lie sed he liwed me. Fool I better
love his self, I reckon."
"Oh, that's so funny," ses the galls—" go on."
"Shaw," sea Becky, won't tell no more."
" Oh, yes, do—do, Becky ?" ses all or 'cm.
then,John, he ax'd me if I wouldn't have
him. Hem, fool better have his self, I reckon."
"Then what did you say 1"
"Hem : I never sod nothin. Gracious knows,
he w...efil ,, ..V.wine.l4.Z.i.t_n2tlijnir out
if
-
"Then, John, he, aa'd mother, if he moughtn't
'pave ~,°. Fool! better have his self, I reckon."
" Well," scs the mine.
" Well mother, she, got kihd o'llustricated, and
scd yes. Fool: she better mind he: own business,
I reckon."
" And then what !"
g 4 Then John, he ax'd daddy, if le moughtn't have
mc; and daddy, he got hind u'llustricated, too, and
sed yes, too—
t, That's the sort of daddy," ses the galls, rabbit*
their bands.
"Then mummy, she went to town, and got a
white frock, for me, and white gloves, to put on
my hands, for me to be married to John. Item,
fool! she better be married to him herself, I
reckon."
" Well," sea the galls—" go on Becky!"
.Shaw, now I aint a gwine to tell you no more
about it, so I nint."
"Oh yes, Becky, do go on Oh, do tell us all
about the weddin, Becky ?—that's a good soul !"
Oh, hush, galls, bout sick nonsense."
" Oh, do, now, that's a good soul."
"Nell, bitneby, the preacher man, he cum to
ower house, and, a whole heap of people to marry
,no. Fools! they great deal better staid home, I
reckon. Gracious knows, I didn't want to see
'cm"
" Never mind, Becky—go on."
4 , Well, then, John, he, cum to take me up to the
preacher-man, fur to be married. Ford! I never did
feel so mad—and then Oh, shaw, galls, I
can't tell any more."
"Oh, yes, go on, Becky."
" Well, then, the preaeher.man, be, wed me, if I,
would have, John, to be, my lawful husband. Hem,
fool! better have him, his self, I reckon. And
then—Shaw galls, I won't tell you any more."
" Oh, do, Becky. Now, you'r jest. enmin to the
interest part. Oh, do tell us the rest, Becky 7"
"Well, I never sed nothin, and the preacher•man,
he, sod, I must have John, to be, my husband,
when he was sick, and when he was well, and
when he was better, or worser, and rich and poor,
end love him, and stick to him, and mind him, and
Lord only knows what a heap of things; and then
he sed, people whst ho put together, it was again
the law, for any body to take a part; and so I was
married, hard and fast, the rust thing I kuow'd, to
John."
4 , Well, what then, Becky?" sea the galls, pain
more and muee interested all the time.
" Why, then, the preacher.man, lie, went home,
and then, 01l the fellers, cum a pullin, and hallin
me, and kissin me, and squezzin me, and sick other
carryins on, as they did cut up. Fools! they great
deal better kissed their own selves, I reckon."
"Go on, Becky—tell us all about it 7" scs the
galls.
4 , Well, then, after they all went away, John, he,
--Oh, shaw !" ses she " I aint gwinc to tell you
not another word more. When you get married
yourselves, you'll know all about it, I reckon."—
Western Continent.
NN~III~~~
Da irrwoon Joussov.—A very strange occurrence
took place some years since in the flourishing city
of Cincinnati, and is yet fresh in the minds of
many of the residents there, not by any means as
the oldest inhabitants," who know all things. It
is still told of winter's night around a cheerful
fire.sido to many a wondering youngster, and the
moral instilled into their young minds with greater
force from the circumstance of its. •• being as true
as gospel." The hero of the talc was an old man
named Johnson, who had lived from a boy in the
place, and followed a curious trade for a livelihood.
Early and late ho was seen down at the river's
vide collecting driftwood, ar.d toiling at it so inces.
santly, day after day, and year after year, th.it it at
last became whispered about that old Driftwood
Johnson was making money; that be had invested
his earnings well and had realized large sums by
fortunate speculations: but still he clung to his old
81,50 AT SIX MONTHS.
[WHOLE 'NUMBER, 923;
business. He was mean in dress and very saving—
all the•money he ever spent, except for the merest
necessaries of life, being for the education of a
most lovely daughter, fur the old man had a wife
and child. At lust Driftwood bought a very large
brick house, or hdilt one; and, much to the surprise
of every body, furnished it elegantly and brought
his daughter some from school to be belle of his
mansion. It was a good way out of town, but ho
said the city would grow to it, and so it has. There
was always something mysterious about the old
man's family; and his wife, who was a very
amiable woman, had a core.worn, anxious look that.
no one could account for. The beauty and accom
plishmentsofthe da ugh tcrsoon brought her plenty of
lovers, who sighed and pined for her hand; but the
favored of all was a young merchant's clerk, con
nected with one of the most flourishing establish
ments in Cincinnati, and eoon to become a partner.
His suit prospered, and ho hoped to make tho
daughter of Driftwood his wife. He used to thio's
it. a very odd circumstance that during alibis even
ing visits, which were far from being '• few and far
between," lie never could meet the man, and all
his inquiries after him failed to elicit any satisfac
tory replies, but knowing that the old man was
what is generally termed "an odd fish," he never
troubled himself much about the matter.
On returning to hit nialit. after a
visit to his lady.love, 4 I,rr
the door at finding th „r ghd
of a man, a strange
from the second or t'
and been killed almc
called in and the p
watch-house, and a
body. Ile had been dead tour imuuN cu t
was nothing Jell but ta endeavor to find out who
the man was, and hold an inquest over his body.
There was no trace or sign about him that could
possibly lead to a recognition—no paper, no mark
on his clothes, and a bunch of skeleton key., a box
of matches, and a small dark lantern were all that
he had about bins; so the jnquost was held the
next morning, a verdict in accordance with the
facts rendered, and the body buried.
The next evening, upon visiting his intended,
the lover found the family uneasy at the continued
absence of old Driftwood, but he persuaded them
that he had suddenly been called away on business,
and would soon return. Advertisements were put
in the papers, but no clue to him could be obtained,
and the people at last believed that lie had either
been murdered or carried down the Mississippi
while gathering driftwood and drowned. In his
house there wcrp a number of rooms which had
nlways been locked, and the keys of which old
Driftwood had always kept, and when it. became
necessary to settle his affairs these rooms-wero
forced open and found to contain goods to a largo
nmount of all sorts and descriptions; silks, satins,
broadcloth., linens, shawls, watches, jewelry, mid
in short all sorts of goods and valuables of every
description—which have been stolen in Cincinnati
from diticrent places, at various times, for years.
The secret was out. Old Millwood had for years
employed pedlars to sell goods through the %Vest.
ern country, sent them down in flat boats to pointa
on the Mississippi below Cincinnati, and all of them
he had himself, unaided by any accomplice, stolen.
The man who was found by_the clerk a bleeding
corpse was old Driftwoo..l Johnson. The clerk,
however, convinced that the daughter of the old
und_unaware that her father had
ing, marrieu her, and ca To i•IV a " ,, stzr.....v-re....
rounded by a numerous family. Truth is stranger,
than fiction.—,\. O. Pwayrine.
A WESTERN MALE.
Our friend, Re Sims, came in from the Upper
Merrimack, yesterday, to examine tho city. Ho
says that they are beginning to talk so loud up in
his diggins about telegraphs, stone dykes, and such
"Yankee doings," that he concluded to come down
and look at the place, see for himself, and report
accordingly. lice is a "manifest destiny" man—
ilas been all bis life waiting for St. Louis to moves
up the Merrimack; but, us it kept. up considerablo
fuss down here, and didn't "come along" his way,
he concluded at length to come and see tt. lie had
on a woollen cap, decorated with two red tassels,
and, if we ain't much mistaken, a new copperas
suit—it may have been newly dyed—at all events,
it looked bright ns a" Fourth of duly."
In wandering round the city, Ilia run against
the Post Office, and after counting every one of
the boxes, he called a clerk to the window, and
offered to bet him a peck of oats ho could tell the
' 'lust tick" the entire and " lull" amount of them.
At this moment the clerk was called away by Sr.
inquiry for a letter, and as soon as he passed it to
the person on the out side, Ike transferred his at
tention to the recipient. The latter immediately
opened his missive, and commenced reading its
contents. They Inippend to be of no pleasing
character, for be bit his lip, knit his bruw, and
muttered a smothered curse upon its contents. Ike,
all this time, was watching him with intense in
terest, was swaying his body to and fro with sym.
patliy, and trying to discover from the owner's mo
tions "what." it hurt him; at length when the lat
ter stamped his loot, Ike could contain himself no
longer— he yelled right out :
"Rip the consumed thing into chitlins, don't you
see how its Iturtin' your face to look qt it!"
The person he had taken such a deep interest in,
stared wildly at him, coolly folded up his letter,
and remarked.
"Yorere a fool 1"
"Weil, militia I am," says Ike," but I never
seed a crazy fellar make wuss mouths than you did
jcs now."
The man departed, and instantly a young Mies'
came slowly from the Lidice window, perusing an
epistle, every line of which wreathed her face in a
succession of delightful smiles. Ike caught the
infection and smiled out in a loud snigger. Look.
ing over the lady's shoulder, he remarked :
" You got a rail good one—didn't you !"
Placing the precious messenger hurriedly in her
bosom—no doubt it trizigitd of love, and that was,
therefore, the proper r lyl for it—she fled from
Ike as if she thought he to seize the tree
sure,
"Off like a bird, by jingo," says Ike—"they
sold her the tight kind of n one."
A citizen now walked away with a bundle of
papers and letters. Ike followed him a few steps
to see if he knew him, hut lie shook his head—
" Taint him," said ho, "but it looks des'prate
like him—lie must be a candidate, though, of I
know anythin", cause Una allays carry the papers."
Peeping, through the window again, he accosted
the clerk this time, with the inquiry:
" Here, you, what'll you just sell a squar pile of
them papers for, and lump the hull IMP
"The eastern mail is in sir," says the clerk at
the same time closing the window. Ike felt offend
cd at being thus thrust aside for an eastern "feller."
as he supposed, so stepping out into the street, and
slapping his Merrimack thumpers together, lie
yelled oat to the cleric:
Yur is a western male kin jest put yon eastern
Collar through, and show him sights—hey tokoop.e!"
The clerk quietly muttered to himself's.* ha as.
sorted the letters inside :
Put it through—Gsvc Johnson—see sights—it
would—eastern :nail—better get a =Er:mt."—
Rereille.
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