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stepped into a ditch which crossed the path, and splashed the dark mud over the dress of his companion. At length they reached the place. The path which for a short time before had been leading them from the river, now turned, and through the tangled briers and decaying trunks of trees, brought them to a lovely little spot at the water's edge. It was but a few yards in extent, but the grass was green and smooth and free from all obstructions. At the back rose a large rock, and two or three others were scattered about, which afforded convenient seats. In front was the clear, mirror-like water reflecting with beautiful accuracy the trees and skies, while beyond was a rich tract of meadow stretching away towards the distant hills, over which the declining sun was now throwing his parting rays. Here they remained for some time, till one of the younger sisters suggested that they should proceed to a spot some distance farther, which they designated by the name of the Arbor. Miss Charlotte, however, was fatigued, and did not wish to walk farther, and as both the younger ones were desirous of visiting the place, it was arranged that they should proceed on, while Nathaniel and Miss Charlotte should go slowly homeward and wait for them in the avenue. How did the poor man's heart beat within him as their voices died away in the distance and were heard no more. He walked on by her side in silence, for his set speeches fled from his treacherous memory as soon as he was alone with her. At length she spoke. “You seem silent this evening, Mr. Bunce. I hope you are not unwell.” “Not bodily, Miss Charlotte, but I have of late felt something of that ‘hope deferred which maketh the heart sick.’” Here Nathaniel put his hand to the left side of his waistcoat and looked with a sentimental air over the front of the lady's bonnet; Charlotte blushed, and said nothing, for she suspected what would come. Again there was silence ; for though she made several attempts to turn to another subject, she received only a simple assent from her companion, and thus in evident embarrassment they passed on till the house was full in view. They arrived at the spot where they were to wait for the rest of the party, and here Nathaniel forced himself to speak. He had but a few minutes, for he saw that the others were not far off, and therefore in a hurried manner he told all that was in his heart. Charlotte could not but feel sorry as she listened to him and blamed herself for not stopping the matter at an earlier period. She could not say what would give him pain, and therefore she spoke not of her own feelings but referred him to her father, who she knew would as soon think of marrying the cook as of receiving his proposals. The voices of the two younger girls were now heard as they came laughing along, therefore the hero and the heroine took some pains to look as unconcerned as possible, and to say as plainly as actions could, that nothing unusual had happened. They met and proceeded rather silently home.

That night Mr. Bunce lay down a happier man—a burden had been taken from his mind. True, his encouragement was but slight, but he did feel encouraged, and the more he thought of it the better was he satisfied. She had not said much, but maiden bashfulness had prevented her saying more, and thus ere he slept he persuaded himself into a belief of his own blessedness. It remained now that he should see her father, and having gone thus far it was not so disficult to persevere. He contrived, accordingly, to meet the old gentleman in a day or two, in one of his walks over the farm, and joining him, they proceeded in company.

But if Nathaniel had experienced difficulty in communicating to the lady herself the state of his affections, notwithstanding all his encouragement and preparation, he found it almost impossible to speak to the father. Fathers in general are so unfeeling and cruel, and this one in particular was so irritable and passionate that he might well fear to meddle rashly with any thing in which he might cross the old gentleman's inclinations, especially on a point in which he must be so much interested. Hitherto the squire had suspected nothing, and therefore the tutor could receive no assistance in the form of questions or remarks, but was left to tell his story in the best manner he was able. At length, however, he succeeded in making himself understood, though not without receiving one or two glances from his companion, which fairly made his heart sink within him. When he had finished, the old gentleman put his hands behind him, and without any reply, walked hastily on whistling as he went. They soon reached the house, and the squire calling him into a little office in which he transacted his business, took some bank notes from the desk and handed him his salary for the next quarter, without saying a word. Thus far he had been calm, and scarcely any token of uncommon displeasure had shown itself, but when Nathaniel began with evident signs of weakness to speak of “the young lady,” the squire's smothered wrath, which had been for some time accumulating, burst forth like a thunder-clap. “Get out, you hypocritical knave Off—be gone.” Nathaniel made a hasty move towards the door—“out of the house ! you whining scoundrel, and if ever I see you again on the premises, I'll give you cause to repent your impertinence.”

The poor man was fairly crushed—all his high hopes withered at once. He made an attempt to speak, but it only increased the old man's violence, and he was driven to take refuge in his solitary chamber, and to prepare for his departure. He delayed as long as he could, hoping to get a sight of his beloved ere he went, but she was closeted with her father, and at length he walked forth ‘alone, a banished man.’ He was, however, by no means disposed to give up all. He still had hopes that the young lady was not so averse to his wishes as her father, and he resolved to remain in the village till he could obtain some further information with regard to her feelings towards him, and thus decide upon the course he should pursue. He left therefore a direction that his goods and chattels should be sent to the village inn, where he had an acquaintance with the hostess and her daughter, and whither with a saddened heart he now wended his lonely way. The family he had lest remained quite in a state of confusion. Squire Wilmer walked up and down the room, now talking to Miss Charlotte—now venting his rage in applying to Nathaniel all the contemptuous and injurious epithets his fancy could suggest—and now for want of something else to say, whistling in silence. Thus assed the evening with them; but with Mr. Bunce it was different. É. sat at the window of his little room at the inn, gazing at the moon and stars, and musing in a melancholy mood over the occurrences of the day. He threw himself upon the bed, but sleep fled from him, and after a restless and uncomfortable night he rose to enter upon a tedious day. Two whole days passed on ; Nathaniel, afraid to approach the house, heard nothing from the inmates; but on the morning of the third, as he was walking in the street, he saw on the opposite side a negro servant of the family. He was a waggish fellow, fond of sun, and he had sometimes ventured to play his pranks even upon Mr. Bunce himself, and he now saluted him with a grin that might be either of pleasure or of triumph. Nathaniel could not lose such an opportunity of learning the state of things in his late domicil, and he therefore crossed and addressed him. “Good morning, Sam, how are they all at home this morning * “All very well, sir, 'cept Miss Charlotte, sir. Miss Charlotte not been well since you left, sir. Mr. Wilmer went down this mornin', sir.” “Ah! has Mr. Wilmer left town 2 when will he return ?” “He and Mr. George comin' up to morrow, sir.” (This was an elder brother of Charlotte's.) Nathaniel had now learnt enough. “My respects to the ladies, Sam—I suppose they are at home?” “Yes, sir—good mornin', sir.” Nathaniel returned to his chamber. His resolution was taken— he would see Miss Charlotte that afternoon, and then—circumstances would decide the rest. Slowly did the hours roll on, but the time at last came, and Nathaniel, in his best apparel, set out from his habitation on the errand that lay nearest his heart. He passed the well known fields and woods,-he walked under the lofty elms, he even laid his hand upon the great iron latch of the gate without much trepidation, but here his heart began to sail him. Suppose—but it was too late now to stay for suppositions, and he resolutely went on. At last he stood at the door, and gave a feeble tap with the huge brass knocker. He waited some moments for an answer, but no one came. He took courage, he had not been heard—he passed to the other end of the piazza and knocked again. He heard a door shut, then a heavy footstep—in a moment more the hall door swung open, and the squire himself stood before the astonished tutor. , Nathaniel was completely taken by surprise. The idea that the old gentleman might not have left home had never entered his mind, and had he seen a ghost he could not have been more confounded. He stood and stared into the squire's face without uttering a word. . The silence however was not of long continuance. “Well, sir, and what now !” were the first words of the excited father. “I did not know—I was not aware—I thought”— “Oh you did, did you ? Robert | Sam I'll teach you to”— the remaining words were lost—the squire drew from behind the door his trusty staff, and Robert and Sam appeared promptly at their master's summons. “Seize him—catch the scoundrel !” exclaimed the insuriated squire. Nathaniel was off like a shot, and his three pursuers were after him down the broad path to the river towards which he had unconsciously bent his way. He hastened on until he came in sight of the water, and recollected that there was no way of escape there. He looked back. The old man was moving rapidly onward, and the two negroes were somewhat in advance of him, and both between himself and the road. He quickened his pace, and at last seeing that his only hope was in passing before them, he broke into a full run. On he went, and they at his heels, but he was little accustomed to active exertion, and he saw that they were gaining on him. He could run too but little farther, for the water was now full before him. What was to be done 2 He had but a moment to deliberate, for they were close upon him. Should he allow himself to be taken 2 The idea was humiliating, and a glance at the squire's cane made it torture. There was no alternative, and with a rueful look at his pursuers, Nathaniel gathered up the skirts of his coat under his arms—rushed into the water, and shuffled through with all imaginable speed. Once on the other side, he was safe, and he breathed freely. He waited not to hear the maledictions which followed him, but turned behind the bushes, and after wandering till it was dark in the woods, returned wet, hungry and unhappy. Whether the poor man's ardor was effectually cooled by his bath so that his former feelings no longer remained, or whether he was too fearful of the squire's wrath to remain any longer in the village, I know not; but when the morrow's sun rose he was snugly ensconced in a corner of the stage on his way to the city. His sudden departure excited no little surprise among the dames of the village. He no longer attended their little parties, or gallanted them or their daughters through the town. He left it at once and forever, and his name was no more heard among the gossips of Bushville.

vol. II. 14


THE ancient could call the soul a spark stolen from the skies—an emanation from the Deity—a drop from the essence of infinite Spirit. The modern can admire its colossal greatness, its gigantic power, and its wide control. But most have agreed in turning away from its study with disgust. They have been contented to see its power displayed on the surface, rather than acting underneath. Many might shelter themselves from just invective under the plea of incapacity to appreciate its excellence. But more act from ignorance. They seem to imagine, that as the study of mind presents little or no ornament in itself or in its results, it is therefore barren of profit and pleasure. Their eye seems formed only for colors. Whatever captivates not their senses, but sues their attention in a homely garb, is met habitually with a cold repulse. They wage a perpetual crusade against the display of mental power, unless it be expended in blending and perfecting before them the beauties of visible and tangible nature. If they admire the poet, it is not because in him is mirrored forth an exalted genius, so much as because that genius has gathered around them the selectest objects that attract the sense. The wise man's pleasure—to shut the eye and ear, and hold protracted converse with one's self—would be to them a destiny as bitter as ever Tantalus or Sisyphus could mourn. The study of mind rises above all the pursuits which terminate in an acquaintance with colors, forms and qualities. It rises above the fictions of poetry. It leaves the research of the antiquarian, the speculations of the curious, and the collected stores of the erudite, far behind it. Yet when the panorama of human society has been spread before us, our eye has sollowed the finger of eulogy to every thing but the study of mind. The swollen tome, the gilded lay, and the inspiring tongue have been lavish in their praises of those whose studious zeal and quick success know only the compass of the present; while the laborious investigator of the greatest object—mind, has been left in forgotten solitude, to live unnoticed and to die unknown.

Perhaps nothing besides Philosophy in its original and higher sense so fully merits the civic crown, for its services to the world, as Poetry. It has been the nurse of genius, the mother of civilization, and the handmaid of the arts; and its services have always been reciprocated with filial reverence and praise. But, while poetry has nurtured the infancy of letters, or won and fired maturer intellect, the study of the mind has elevated and instructed all who have shared its blessings. If Greece could at first listen only to the wandering bard, who, with a sweet prelude on his harp, sang his poem in her

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