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* ^ """ =i '' ' ... "'.^" ' ura&sn^iAS&r { An Independent Journal: For the Promotion of the Political, Social, Agricultural and Commercial Interests of &e ffcMi | ' " * J ^ . . / ?- . ___ _ _ .__ - 1 _ . . 1 , . -i* VOL 5 " YOBKYILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, AUGUST 11,1856. \ ... 3?. 'Willie figjrtJjeariY WRITTEN FOR THE Y "WHO IS T * O THE DARK MYSTERY OF BY WILLIE ] AUTHOR OF "LULA WOOBSWORTH," "WINN StJN/' "OLD HEADS AND 1 CHAPTER II. "I'm an innkeeper, and know my grounds, * - J J-. *L?-? ? T> m I n man T ofilfltf tkflm AUU BIUUJT kUCUl , illBlU V uiau, m. oiuuj kuvu., I must hare jovial guests to drive my ploughs, And whistling boys to bring my harvests home, 0?;I shall hear no flails thwack." Thb NEW IKN. Ib the little town of Maysville, about fifty miles from the city where the incidents took place, as related in the last chapter, there lived a certain popular inn-keeper by the name of Thomas Gould, who had provided 'entertainment for man and horse' for lo! these many years. He gloried in his calling, and could justly boast of his long established and well patronized house, as the best conducted, and most respectable in the whole oountry.' -Mr. Gould?or 'uncle Tom,' as he was more generally called by the travelling public?owed his success in business more to his genial, lively, and hospitable spirit, than to his wit and foresight. Trusting that the reader will find himself pleased with the acquaintance of 'uncle Tom,' we Will enter his comfortable inn, and notice what may be going on there of interest to our story. 'Come, Jude,' said the landlord, addressing a rough looking individual, who was listlessly sipping a glass of brandy, 'tell us what news is stirring in London.' 'Jude !?you are slightly mistaken, uncle Tom,' replied the person addressed; at the same time drawing his broad-rimmed bat down upon his brow, and moving about un easily in his chair. 'Not Jade Simster!' exclaimed the landlord. 'Why, Jade, what has come over you, that you are ashamed to acknowledge your own name? Here you are, after an absence of ten or fifteen years, and yet cannot exchange a friendly word with an old acquaintance, who has proven himself a staunch friend upon so many past occasions?pshaw! Jude, throw away that brandy, and join me in a bottle of good old wine, that has taken twenty voyages to India, and was bottled before Cromwell knew his letters.' 'My dear Mr. Gould,' replied the stranger, 'I certainly have no objections to join you in so capital an article as you have described ; but allow me to assure you, that my name is not Jude.' 'Pshaw !' exclaimed the landlord, placing his hands in the pookets of his snowy apron, and jingling his keys, 'Jude Simster may wear a wig of red hair, and wrap himself in a coachman's cloak, but he cannot disguise himself so completely, that uncle Tom could not single him out of a thousand.' 'Derils ! I begin to fear that you are as insolent as you are inquisitive,' said the stranger, rising from his seat and pacing the apartment. 'Pray do not fly into a passion, my dear fellow,' said the landlord; 'but if any person should ask me where Jude Sinister is, I should unhesitatingly point to the gentleman before me, and say, there.'' The stranger started; looked searchingly upon the landlord for a moment, then dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands, and groaned aloud. 'Now, Jude,' said the landlord, what in the Dame of heaven has come over you ?? Why not acknowledge your own name, and trust to an old friend for sympathy, help or money, if you are in trouble.' 'I am in trouble !' replied the stranger. 'And your name is?' 'Jude Simster?its useless to deny it!' replied the stranger, jumping to his feet, and grasping the landlord's hand. 'What put it into your head to disguise yourself from me, Jude?' asked the landlord. 'Ask me no questions dow,' replied Jude; 'but promise me, that you will not betray me, good uncle Tom.' Betray you !?what do you mean ?' 'I do not wish to be known as Jude Simster just now.' 'Ah ! I hope, that you have not come home with guilt upon your soul, Jude. An honest and good man need never be ashamed of his name.' 'I said not, that I was ashamed of my name,' said Jude; 'but you know, uncle Tom, that under certain circumstances, men are obliged to adopt peculiar measures for the furtherance of particular purposes.' 'Jude, I know not what these 'particular Durooses' are; but if you have done, or are jr - 4 about to do, anything which renders the suppression of your name necessary, I very much fear, that uncle Tom will not be the man to further your plans,' said the landlord. 'I assure you?hark ! what noise is that ?' 'Sounds like a stage approaching,' replied the landlord, going to the door and listening. 'Why in the devil's name doyou not close the door, and keep out the wind and rain V asked Jade. 'You may be assured, that no person intends to stop here to-night.' 'Nonsense! do you not see the lights from the stage, and?there ! coming this way for certain!' said the landlord. 'If they should stop here, do not admit them,' whispered Jude. 'What! the landlord of the Croicing Cork, turn away travellers, from his inn upon such a terrible night as this ??no, sir!' 'By heavens!' exclaimed Jude, 'they are coming this way.' 'So much the better, Jude,' said the land ' Original ftoaklclte. ORKVILLE ENQUIRER. 1E HEIR?" R, THE DESERTE8 HOUSE. LJGHTHEART, IE AND WILLIE," "THE CHILDREN OF THE FOUNG HEARTS," JtC., kC. lord, preparing-to light the lantern before the door. . * , 'Do not call me Jnde before strangers/ said Jnde. ' Very well tnen?here is the stage at last, said the landlord, as the stage halted before the door. , 'Two gentlemen inside, uncle Tom,' shouted the driver, as the landlord approaohed the stage to open the door. * 'Ah! welcome to the Crwoing Cock, gentlemen !?disagreeable night, 'pon my word ! ?take in your baggage, sir!?walk in?refreshments ready for you in a few minutes? wine as old as the reign of Charles?this way !' As the landlord ran on in this style, two gentlemen very richly dressed, stepped out of the stage and entered the ion in silence. 'Claude Milton, as I live!' exclaimed Jude, as the youngest of the two gentlemen seated himself in the farthest corner of the room. 'The other gentleman surely is?no, it is impossible.' 'What are you muttering about, fellow ?' asked the youngest gentleman, casting a look of suspicion upon Jude. 'Fellow is not my name, sir,' replied Jude, advancing toward the speaker. 'You ar? insolent, sir,' said the stranger. 'Claude Milton,' said Jude, 'I am not disposed to quarrel in a public house, with every bully that chooses to show his teeth? pray quiet your nerves.' Claude Milton's brow grew as black as death; he thrust his hand in his bosom, as if about to draw a weapon; when, suddenly^ as if recollecting himself, the whole expression of his countenance changed, and walking up to Jude, he bowed politely, and smilingly said: 'You seem to know my name, sir; please afford me the gratification of knowing yours.' 'In anv other particular. I should be much f * / pleased to afford you a gratification; but, under the present circumstances, it is absolutely necessary that my name be kept a secret,' replied Jude. 'Well, sir," replied Claude Milton, 'you will at least pardon me for the unkind, and ungentlemanly manner in which I addressed you. Human nature is so susceptible to the influences of circumstances?' 'That it can be wonderfully cheered by a bottle of wine, corked before the reign of Cleopatra,' chimed in the landlord, who at that moment made his appearance. 'Most true !' replied Claude Milton, taking the bottle from the hands of 'uncle Tom,' and proceeding to draw the cork. 'Beg pardon, Mr. Milton,' said the landlord; 'but I cannot allow any gentleman to soil his hands with a cork-screw, while lam present to do that service for him.' 'If those were the only stains upon some gentlemen's hands, their consciences would be less clamorous,' said Jude, handing the bottle to the landlord. 'How, sir!?what mean you by that remark !' said Claude Milton, as an involuntary shudder shook his whole frame. Then, as quick as the sunlight passes through the cloud, his countenance assumed its usual calm, amiable, and kind expression; and, slapping Jude playfully upon the shoulder, he said: VVUJC) UUJ UtUi Oil . JUU IliUDt JU1U UiU 1U a bottle of this excellent wine?I am sure you will oblige me.' 'I should lack appreciation did I refuse to do myself so much honor,' rejoined Jude. 'Here you are, gentlemen !' said the landlord, pouring out a portion of the wine into the two glasses. "Bottled before the famous queen of Egypt could read inscriptions on Alexandrian columns?quaff the nectar, gents!' 'Why, uncle Tom, this is indeed excellent wine !?it actually surpasses liquid pearls,' said Milton, draining his glass, and folding it up for another supply. 'Will not your companion join us?' asked Jude, in a whisper. 'My companion ? Oh ! you mean the gentleman, that came in the stage with me?' said Milton. Exactly so?shall I invite him to the table ?' 'I shall da so myself,' replied Milton, rising from his chair and advancing towards his traveling companion, who had seated himself beside a partly open window, and appeared to be in deep thought. 'Exouse me, sir,' began Milton; 'we are just refreshing ourselves with a bottle of our landlord's excellent wine?.' 'Curious refreshment!' replied the stranger, still looking out of the window. 'How so?'asked Milton. 'I should pefer the contents of the bottle for my refreshment,' said the stranger, carelessly tapping the toe of his boot against the chair feet. Milton colored to the temples for an instant, then smilingly replied: 'You are perfectly right, sir.' 'You want me to drink wine with you, I presume?' said the stranger. 'I should be much pleased to have you do so,' said Milton. 'Then, I may as well tell you at once, that I will do no such thing,' replied the stranger. 'Courtesy, my good sir, prompted the invitation,' replied Milton; 'but my self-respect demands that it be not repeated. You are at perfeot liberty to do as you chose.' * I ...... .. - iA- . . - 'I am already aware of that fact,' replied the stranger, turning impatiently away. / 'If , you will allow me, sir, I will pay your wine bill for you.' 'What!' exclaimed Milton, in a towering passion, 'do you mean to insult me by such a palpable insinuation V 'Gentlemen/ said the landlord, 'I think, that a little reflection will convince yen, that a quarrel in this house would be exceedingly improper, as such an event would not only injure your own character, but bring to an end the long standing reputation of my house/ You are quite right, uncle Tom/ said Milton, quietly walking away, with that complete mastery of himself, so characteristic of the individual. 'Just keep away these fellows, my good host, and I promise to keep my hands from their Turn-proof throi.ts,' said the stranger. Jude did not hear the remark; and Milton, who did, possessed too much wisdom to take any notice -of it. 'Now, 'pon my word !' said the landlord, 'I have kept this inn for more than twentyfive years, and entertained all classes of men; but never saw I gathered together such an unsociable company as the present. .True, the weather is unfavorable, and you have travelled far; but, bless your hearts! what is the use of cutting and slashing at each other, when we might make ourselves merry over a bottle, and go to bed with a good conscience.' 'Really, uncle Tom,' said Claude MiltoD, 'if an apology is due from any gentleman present, I am the person who should oifer it. I must confess, that I had no right lo break in upon the meditations of ray traveling companion; and, that under the circumstances, I did very -wrong to press him to join me in a bottle of wine.' The stranger at tho window started to his feet upon hearing these words; and deliberately walking up' to Milton, said: 'I am 8 rough man, sir, ami conform very little to the usages and refinements of polite society; but I cannot suffer you to apologise in this manner, for matters in which- you you have taken no part, and for which I am alone to blame.' ; 'Indeed, sir,' replied Milton, with a graceful bow, 'you do yourself injustice.' 'I beg that you will pardon my rudeness, sir, in declining, so insultingly, a glass of wine, which was so generously and politely offered,' said the stranger. 'I am a child of misfortune, and my disposition has become soured by the.villiany, inhumanity, and selfishness of my race. I have been a wanderer for the last thirteen year3from good old England ; having been driven from the home of my birth by a sorrow more terrible than death, and more lasting than the immortality of the soul. I return to my country, as the whipped spaniel returns to his kennel; as the wounded birdTeturns to her nestlings, or thesmitten lion crawls to his den. I have noconfidence in man?none in myself?none it} God!' 'Speak not thus, my good sir,'" replied Milton, taking the hand of the. stranger. 'I, at least, gladly welcome you back to dear old England; /will be a friend to you; and who knows but what all may grow bright again.' 'And here's an honest man's hand !' exclaimed the landlord; 'and if you ever need the service, of a poor, but true man, just let Tom Gould know it, sir.' 'I'm in, too! by the gods! exclaimed Jude, who was fast getting himself outside of o Viottlo of Virnnrlr 'Gentlemen,' said the stranger, looking around upon the company, 'I may need your services sooner than you expect it; but pray inform me where I can find that singular woman, Louisa, the old fortune-teller ?' 'What! old Loo?' replied Milton, starting. 'You certainly do not place any confidence in the ravings of that demented old hag!' 'For the love of heaven, sir!' chimed in the landlord, 'keep clear of that singular woman.' 'I believe, gentlemen, that old Louisa is a woman of close observation, sharp foresight and cunning; and possessing a most wonderful knowledge of human nature, and of individual character. Of course, I am, as every man is, superstitious in -some degree; but I have no faith whatever in any of her predictions, or revelations, only so far as they are based upon natural or acquired knowledge.' 'But, this woman seems to know, by actual intuition, what other persons never could know even by the most diligent search, and application,' said Milton. 'Then,' replied the stranger, 'she is the only being, that can render me a very important service just at this time?where does she live ?' 'Everywhere, it would seem, sir,' said the landlord, 'but it is more than probable that you will find her in the neighborhood of the 'Deserted House,' about twenty-five miles south of thie town, on the road to Monctown.' But why do you give so strange a title to the house ?' 'The common people have given it that name for the last twelve years, or more/ replied Milton. 'Twelve years, or more!?'tis very straoge !' said the stranger. 'But tell me, j gentlemen, what is the tradition regarding | the 'deserted house?'?there must be several tales and traditions about such a singularly named dwelling.' 'Will you be so good, my dear sir,' said | Milton, <as to give us your name?' 'My name ? ahem ! ahem !?call me Wentworth, if you want a name/ replied the 1 stranger, somewhat agitated; 'but give us the tradition about that mysterious old house.' 'Butyou have travelled very far Mr. Wentworth, and yet have taken no refreshment/ suggested the landlord. 'Very true, mine host/ replied Wentworth. 'Be so good as to make ready a supper for three; and, in the meanwhile, place a , few bottles of your famous wines where we can find them in time of need.' 1 'Any further order.?, sir?'asked the land- ] lord. - - . i 'Not jnst now, unoiie Tom; bat be sure to 1 give us the very best that the bouse can furnish/ '. i 'That I will, sir,' replied the landlord, smilingly bowing, ond leaving the room. i The landlord had scarcely left the room, when a loud knocking at the door announ- 1 ced the arrival of another party, who seemed ? detarmined, by blovrs upon the door, and c loud cries for admission, to make his presence generally known. ' . A 'Divile an' bloodjwtiurther!' shouted the outsider, 'open the door!' 'Who is it, that makes such a thundering noise at my door this time of night ?' asked . ftio lon/llnrd rnnnini* tn nnon fVio rlnnr 'Share, uncle Tor:, it's a most misfortu- , hate crater, that's been run afther by the verra divil!?Och! howly Moses!' And so saying the terrified speaker- bounded into the room, and stood trembling before the landlord. 'Why Barney!' exclaimed the landlord in surprise, 'how, in the name of Irish whiskey, are you 30 far from home ? What ails yon, man ? and what business brings you here at this time of nightV - ' Give the poor fellow a mug of beer,' said Wentworth. 'Arrah!' replied Barney, 'it's that same that'll do me narves np iliigantly?bless yere honor's di8ea^n!Ilint., 'Well, Barney, here is the beer,' said the landlord, handing a foaming mug to the young Irishman. 'Let us learn what adventure has befallen you.' 'Faith ! the divil gave me a chase,' replied Barney, glancing uneasily over his shoulder towards the door. 'Bah !?nonsense!' said Milton turning away. 'Tell us the story, my good fellow,' said Wentworth. 'Yes !?just heave ahead, old fell! I arnt 'fraid of death nor dark I?I'll go to h?11 on a streak of greased lightning! by Jhe gods!' exclaimed Jude, who had indulged rather freely his propensity for brandy toddies. 'Well,' began Barney, 'about a week ago Mr. George Vandry came viry near losing nis lingant little aaugnter?." 'Rosa ??not possible, surely !' said Mil* < too, much agitated. 'How did it happen, Barney ?' 'Now won't ye be aisey, an' let me tell ye the story in a nate an' gintlemanly style !' said Barney. 'Go on, fool!' said Milton impatiently. 'Fool! is it that ye call me ?' said Barney". 'Thin, by the powers 'o mud, a divil a bit shall I tell at all.' 'I beg pardon, my honest fellow,' replied Milton, coloring. 'Be so good as to proceed, and I will not interrupt you again.' 'Well,' said Barney, 'you see, the illigant little lassie was playing in the New Park, viry near the river side, whin shejidt tumbled over into the wather .' 'Well!' said Milton,vimpatiently. 'And?now be aisey wid ye !?would have gone to the bottom of the river to feed the dirthy orabs and fishes wid her own dilicate flesh, the darlint!?' 'I'll ta-take a plate of pi-pic pickled crabs myself!' cried out Jude, half asleep. <Oh! it's yourself that's in a nice pickle ^ already, I'm thinking,' said Barney, smiling at the ludicrous interrimtion. ? __ r 'Talking about pickles, I think you had 1 better pick yourself up, and go to bed,' said ' the landlord to Jude. f 'Much obliged?never take mustard?in 1 my brandy?its directly opposed?to my i con-consti-tution,' said Jude, nodding away the effects of the brandy. * ? Go on with your story, Barney,' said Mil- < ton, casting a look of indignant contempt ' upon Jude. 'Well, the poor lassie was jist about being dhrownded,'?continned Barney, 'whin anate ? lad, that sells matches on the streets, jump- { ed into the watBer, an', at the risk of his ? own life, held Miss Bosa up until a boat ? could come to her rescue.' 'Noble lad !' exclaimed Wentworth. } 'What is the name of the boy ?' asked ( Milton. 'Miss Rosa calls him Jim,' replied Bar- 1 ney; 'but she is the only person who knows ? the boy.' i 'She know a common match-vender?? 1 impossible !' said Milton. ? 'That's jist how the folks talks about the ' mather,' saicl Barney; 'but Miss Rosa tells them, that she had been spaking with the lad, a short time before the accidint hap- 1 pened.' 'This is very strange!' said Milton, mu- ' singly; 'but I suppose the noble boy has ? been handsomely rewarded.' 'Bivil a bit of it, plaze yere honor,' said Barney. ? 'Not rewarded !'exclaimed Milton, with 1 surprise. 'Bless yere honor, nobody can find the lad,' 1 said Barney. 'Find him !?why did they suffer him to get out of their sight after the accident V 1 asked Milton. Well, what with the joy, the confusion, 1 and the noisy crowd, and all that kind of 8 thing, they forgot all about the lad; an' whin they did remimber him, he was no- c where to be found,' said Barney. a 'Really,' said Milton, ?it will never do to ' let the noble little fellow go unrewarded? i I will advertise for information concerning 1 hira.' 8 You are quite right, sir,' said Went- ) worth; <1 will give the boy ten pounds my- 1 self.' t It's all no use gintlemen; for Mr. Yan- 3 dry has already advertised,' said Barney. a But Barney,' said the landlord, 'you have t not yet informed us what brought you in 1 this section of country, or what occasioned 1 your fright.' a Well, you see, Mr. Yandry offered me t twenty pounds for any information I could a bring him about the boy. I detarmined to jay a visit to old Loo, the fortune-teller} for f she couldn't tell me something about the joy, thin nobody can.' 'And did you see this strange -woman ?' isked Wentworth. 'Jist tape aisey, and I']J tell ye.all about t,' said Barney. 'Pray proceed, my good fellow/ jftid Wentworth; 'for, I know not why, but I feel i strange interest in the noble lad you speak if' . - ' {TO BE CONTINUED.] Original Jjaptrs. ? . .. ,. , _? > ' ' * Pot the Yorkrfflo En<jdtrtr. rHE DEATH WATCH-!UNDER THE WALL. BT HABT A. DENISON. ' 0, stop the clock dear "Margarite? \ I cannot bear it now; Against my heart its pulsings heat, Upon my fevered brow; '* , Like a slow bell, whose funeral* tones Sigh trem'lons on the.air, . It tells of tears and trcubled moans, And mourning everywhere. So sorrowful out went I, to still % The pend'Inta swinging free ^ The air through the anoient'hall blew ohill, Its pinions wet from the sea ; . < I hurried back, to the Bb&dowed bed. To watch through that night of pain, "0, listen, darling," the siok one said, "For the clock is ticking again." ' It could not be?and J bent my ear Low down to the pillows white; Tick?tick?with a stroke so sharp andolear How it sounded out on the night 1 And grayly tinted the wan face grew, As the sea-wind moaned in the hall, It was not the clock?now the maiden knew, But the death-watch under the wall. ' The morn's white glory bannered the west, When a soul outsped the day, And the Bnn shining lovingly over her rest Crimsoned the beautiful.clay ; The wind, no longer damp from the sea, Blew rose-leaves into the hall, But the only watcher who watched with me, Was hidden nnder the wall. Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. SNATCHES FROM BUSY MOMENTS. BY AUNT MAKY. BABY TALK. 'Don't you despise to hear baby talk?' laid a maid of forty summers, to a toastvitbout-butter.looking bachelor.* Such a specimen could do nothing less than growl Yes, but?No,.idon't: it's the only language ;be little darlings understand, and why forDid it!' Look at the little chubby-faced, toddlibg' ;hing, not able yet to lisp 'Mamma.' Let. is try her with something sensible ;*sbe*bas loul enough to understand. You cannot doubt t if you watch her, as she springs to catoh ;he lamp extended for her pleasure. See ;very muscle quivering with delight, the patting' of the dancing feet, the nervous grasping of the dimpled hands; look at her iparkling eye, her heightened color,, every feature beaming with eagerness! Hef dimpled hand is almost in the flame?check her ?say?- . . ; 'Alice, the lamp will burn you, and though ihilosophere have insisted that Are does not )urn, yet I do not care to sacrifice the velvet loftness of this little hand to test the expermeDt, although at some future day I will be ible to prove it to-you/ v How/does she receive your sage advice ? E'll warrant, by kio&ng ten times more furi-~ >usly, audio 'crowing'triumph attesting her iner inainerence. Try baby talk 1 'Ah, Ah, daughter! fire burn baby!' The little head will turn quickly, and with in air of anxious inquiry she will seem to jueation how far she msy rely upon your luperior judgment: and if on the next in* itant she springs with redoubled ardor towards the forbidden object, set it down to rant of power to retain, not inability to understand the warning. Try another. The baby is in a pet; she would have what you will not give her, and ihe throws herself upon the floor in screamng passion. (Who can doubt original sin, who tends a child!) Talk 'sensibly' to her, jay, 'Alice rise this moment, or I shall be obliged to correct you. Do you not know what Solomon says respecting self-command ? Better is he that ruleth his spirit than be ;hat taketh a city,' that 'evil temper must be jorrected lest your 'hasty spirit exalt folly.'' She does not hear a word of your homily, save that the tone may excite her to redoujled fury. But 'Naughty Baby, mother don't love pouj get up, mother will switch bad child !' s like oil upon troubled waters; the passionite cries are checked, the little creature will ise, and looking for a moment in your face, is if searching for the love that never fails ler, though now hid under a rebuke, that nakes her little heart tremble; she will run owards you, and hiding her head on the nother's breast will sob out her repentance md her grief. DpflniflP hnhv tnllr ! NV> ! Pek nomoo r ? J --W . aresses, and baby talk, are all seeds of Par,dise that Mother Eve hid in her fig leaves rhen she fled from happiness and peace, aod f you doubt it try the former on those you ove, and the germ from Eden will yield uch an harvest of trusting affections that rou will recant your skepticism, and be wiling to take on faith, even before Nature eaches you, that the baby who springs to rou in such joyous eagerness, whose dimpled lmqs clasp so lovingly your neck, who nesles with such trusting abandon in your arms, tnows that the lullaby with which you soothe ler is composed expressly for her benefit; md understanding that every note is a voice if love, a pledge of care, she falls gently isleep upon the breast that beats so tenderly ' "l,! "J* I 1 >' 1 1 - ' rf for 'thebabywhile the bajjpj shrflif a pot) c the rose-bad Hp, the careless security of the I little figure, testify to the belief that she on- * derstands and appreciates caresses, lore and 'baby talk/ v * ** ? # f Written fer the Vorkrflle Enquirer. q A LEAI~FROM f p THE JOURNAL OF A SEAMSTRESS. BT MAUD IRVING. g I hardly know why I write my bitteT ex- ? perience; but to-night live wandered in b memory's halls; I have again mingled in the scenes of my youth. I see our heautiful 8 | home-stead, where I was reared in luxury; c the pride and ambition of a father who is r sleeping quietly beneath the cold sod, the t dear object of a mother's love, carressed by I : her smiles and kisses, the joy and oompao- c !ion of her lonelyhoors. Bat theyhaye gone; <3 gone to a better land. I am left alone. |r I love to sit in the twilight, lay the win- 0 dow of my study, and safer my thoughts to 8 stray mnsingly over the varied scenes which * tempt their wanderings. Oar minds are 11 restive?a spirit is within us that "will not down;" but, rising- and -Struggling with its trammels, longs t<T range the vast fields that f stretch out temptingly *befofb its vision, and 1 soar "nntrodden heights, where ingePB bash-. 1 ful look." ^ r % t; j ' * * 11 The first prompting is to the days and J scenes of the past, as with magic power, the mVgnificent panorama passes before . us*? ? Home, parents, childhood, associates?all these are there. O, how th'e "heart beats, * when we think of those whose forms were * once so dear; whose eyes flashed baok to ours ' the hopes rising within !* Then this was the world to us?the horizon that limited our ? view was -the boundary of the universe. But now how changed; the ingenuousness of youth has passed away. A mother, too, was with me then. 0, f yes, I seem to see her now-^tbat lovely form, whose gentle eye beamed on me with such deep unutterable tenderness; those lips, that so often imprinted upon my cheeks 8 the kiss of maternallove? that sunny brow, r calm, tranauil and heavenlv! In the Stern 1 conflicts of life, my spirit sometimes sinks; and then I turn, for consolation, to those lessons impressed upon my infant mind by her gentle love. She -guards me still: the aegis of her heavenly oonnsel defends?the poisoned shaft of the foe falls harmless at my feet. It is no longer twilight. The moon is beaming gently down on lake and hill?the light clouds are flitting slowly aoress the aky. Twas just such a night, wlicu Bluest Mw>ton told me of his love, and asked me to be his bride. I was bnt a girl of sixteen summers then, and I loved Ernest with a strange-'a wild devotion. I promised 'there' beneath the gem-eyed watchers of the night, pale beams of the silver moon, to be his bride. Years have passed since that time in the long ago; years of cares and sorrow When the storm of misfortune lowered darkly above my yonng head, he left me. With the sonny hours of prosperity .he fled, when my heart was slowly saddened by the dying fare, well's of my parents. Oh 1 - when I found that all I once thought dear had fled, my home, my parents, my wealth, my position, in society, and above all, the love of Ernest, how lonely, how sad was I. I-felt, how vain it is to bnild up hopes for the future. The glittering hopesof youth will fade ^the scenes of jey and happiness that are spread before dur admiring gaze will vanish; while the dreams of peace and contentment, in which the aged often indulge, will flee away. Disappointment is ever near ns. In the hour of joy and festivity, when all around is light and song, he comes and blights oitT expectations and drnshesouf hopes. Whenhigh asperations are on the wing, and out lofty desires soar far in the future?wheu fancy has adorned Oar pathway with flowers, when imaginations fairy finger's have traded, in lines of light, our title to fame, we know that a -dark and sad shall be the reality. When oar heart ia fall of mirth aod mel- ^ ody?when the bright beams of joy play t around as; when the sunlight of happiness r rests upon the brow, and earth seems washed ^ in the golden sea of bliss, then be assured that soon the sunlight and the sunbeams shall be quenched in gloomy night, and the Q dark pall of sorrow shall shroud the earth. Q How chilling is disappointment?how se- 8; vere the dart of sorrow ! When our fondest f expectatior%have been destroyed, and the ^ sweet flowers of hope withered and blighted, v how changed the aspect of every thing a- f( round us ! All that was bright and heautiful has fled. The summer day is tinged with gloom, and the rainbow of heaven is 0 bathed in the tears of anguish. The silvery b stream that wandered, in strange beauty, ]< within its banks, and sweetly sang of mirth j, and melody, as its sparkling waters 'bjpke j] into dimples, and laughed in the sun/ now n wh:spers only of blighted hopes and bitter t] disappointment. Earth is clothed in sad- g ness, and life is veiled in misery. I cannot help shedding bitter, bitter tears, when I think of the happy past, and com- ? pare it to my purest condition, alone?friend- a less, aDd a seamstress. Yesterday 1 went t] to return some work to Mrs. Davis, and on my way home I was startled by the voice of 81 a man? <Whither so fast my pretty one ? Pray come with me; you'll suit me nicely! Do t] you know your eyes are worth a fortune ?' g and the vile man threw his contaminating arm around me, and stared impudently into my face. p, 'Villian !' I cried, and with a mighty effort I released myself from his polluting jj. grasp, and looked up into his handsome, but crime-stamped face. Heavens! T'was Earnest Monton, but he knew me not. P 'Villian! molest me further at your hi peril,' I cried, without removing my eyes at from his features. cc He left me. No doubt he marked that hi I was poorly clad, and took me for one of cc those pitiable beings, the thought of whom brings a blush to the cheek of purity j or if J not that, he probably thought the magnifi- di r?* ^ "-v ent gold chain, the stwtiiOQjcU ftwWhg -on lis bosom and finger, the costly fMine .it rbhoh be was erased, end lastly?fcot lost ?hie faqe of perfect fceanty, pf oowjh* ronld conquer any lit tie scruples J might oel, for heJtpev -that 1 .was pact, bat tWk rod, as pore as poor, aye! ten thousand fold urer. . . - . 'To return. He was gone., |opold fljfc train myself no loneer, and fonnd relief in flood of tears, pad-staggered against the irick wall for support. ?,Nay, now, yep mnat pot weep, my njbil^' poke a fine old gentleman, who had been an baerver of th? iflrole scene, 'yon should ather rejoice, for you have triumphed well hfa Viierlrf Whither Anna Trnnr rvnfh Ka?__ f you will trttot in me,you shall safely reach ome. God Hess yoju1 tonooepce/ and the fear, good old man, whoaenameis Mr. Forest, never left me till I had reached ttfy wn door, and this morning called again, nd in a'few-flays, I am to go with him to fis Southern home to be,,to his two little aotherlesa children, a governess. A year has patted Since I-^ntertd 4kf6 amily of Mr. Forrest, as the governess of tie children; and hereafter, they Will <AH me Bother. Yes, Mr. Forrest and T were mar- . ted yesterday. ^It was^dch a quiet bridal, t hardly seemed like one' at alb I was WH ed from my chamber adorned with flows* nd satin and lace. *jfo, '%of we stood side iy-aide in the grand old pttlbr of Hivemide, rith co more than' our usual decoration** here were no bridesmaids.^ It was so-.difc erent from what I had always picfiartd 9 irid&l to be. Yet, I washappy, very happy; nd I resolved that my future life should be ievoted to my benefactor and his children* Bat, hark! 1 hear hit footsteps on the tairs. I moat lay aside my pen and enter* ain him. For the present,r dear reader, an cvoir. fmmmwww??w w * ** '.s Locusts.?Next year, 1860, ah certiirrly s the year rolls around, will the cetMK^ be nfested with locusts/ Whether Ibey ore of he family of loensts Which prevailed tn Sgyptit is", one thing certain, they Willttppear s a general thing in ihe United State# in 860? v- * It is too late to ask bow this return canto poken of with so muoh certainty, if we will mly remember the peeuliaritiai of tbw trange adventurous insect Jt is not a prophecy which induces the lonclosion made, but a judgment founded ia tLo paMi Haw ia it thatlha-cgg-pf ocust remains ia the ground for seventeen rears before it is hatobed, we are not natur* ilist enough to divine. But so it is, and all vho live will bear the tumultuous cry of the Seventeen Year Locost next year. TJbese vas a great falling off in tbeirjiBmh^lK^in 18.43, owing no donbt to the hcreasecEoearng of wood lands, and asto>?batement in hese clearings has existedsiao^^betf last ippearance, bat rather an ng off will be more noticeable. But wbereiver any original growtfadfefennd, there will ilsp be found the Seventeen Year Looust n 1860. x .. . ; ,.-T~r Stay at Hpme.?The Washington (K. 3.) Times closes an article on the relative id vantages of farming fn Texas and. North Carolina, With the following just remarks: 'No one pan go into a new State and realze more than in an oid one, if he lives as he ponld iu an old State. One reason why a nan sometimes realizes more in a new State nan 10 an Qld one, is, be lives in a log Cabin, ,nd on coarse fare, there; while be'^?r<rald tot be satisfied here with less than a fine loose attended with luxury and other exravaganoes. If men would make the sauie acrifices of ease and comfort here they 3b here, they would realise equally as much if tot more. Let the sons of North Carolina mprove their own State, let them buy up iqt rich swamp lands and bring them into a tate of dultivation; let them build up their ?owos and Cities with their capital, and heir children will be proud of their birthight, and will honor the State of their naivity.' ? An Aged Woman.?Let- the aged wo3an be no longer an object of contempt.-? Ihe is as helpless as a child; but as aohild, be may be learning the last awful lesson rem her Heavenly Father. Her eye is dim rith suffering and tears; but her spiritual ision may be contemplating the gradual unhiding of the gates of eternal bliss. Beauy has faded from her form; but angels in be world of light may be weaving a wreath f glory for her brow. Her lips rre silent; ut it may only be waiting to pour forth ceistial strains of gratitude and praise. Lowf, and fallen, and sad, she sits among the ving; but exalted, purified and happy, she iay arise frsm the dead. Then turn, if bou will, but remember she is not forottenby her God. A New Idea.?Lieut. Maury, in his Icean lectures, announces the startling fact, ccording to the Cleaveland Plaindealer, bat "animal matter at the bottom of the eep sea, owing to the superincumbent presire, the exclusion of light and heat, and lie saline properties of the water, could not ecompose, bnt must remain precisely in be state in which it is deposited for ages, o that Pharaoh and his host, when the last -ump shall sound and the sea give np the ead, will come forth fresh in features and erfect in form as when in pursuit of the ie children of Israel they were engulphed j the waves of the Red Sea." Oil op Tar.?A consumptive man in ortsmouth, says the Norfolk Argus, who id used many remedies without reliefvwas Ivised to take the oil of tar, and acted acirdingly. He was considered a perfectly opeless case, but the tar oil has cured him impletely. He is cow hale and hearty. 19" Genealogists agree that 'skippers' are irectly descended from Ham.