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has taken up its residence behind it. Her eyes reflect the pure azure of the skies; her heart, the purity beyond; and that is all the blue there is about her. Her mouth—l will not attempt to describe it, but it is the finest that ever popped a kiss. Her complexion is very fair, and her voice is always soft and sweet. Her mind is rather strong than active, and disciplined by the severer studies. Yet to her superior judgment is added the finest taste, especially in music. She is also possessed of the nicest sensibility; such is its power that from trivial incidents, which would escape the notice of most people, the crimson tide will dash to her cheek, and only retire again as the equilibrium of her feelings is restored. In short, she is a very fine girl, as the heroine of a story ought to be—the favorite of the people among whom she formerly resided, as she is now in the parish of A . But she is particularly popular with the beaux. This is a rustic tribe, awkward and uncultivated—the crude materials of society; yet they are proficients in that branch of knowledge which may naturally be deduced from the doctrine that “it is not good for man to be alone,” in which doctrine they are firm and practical believers. The evidence of this fact is, that, in the course of six or eight months, Miss Barton was persecuted with the particular attentions of no less than four of them. The first of these was Julian Wadfern, the son of a very respectable farmer of considerable property. He was a youth †. and had been bred to the profession of money-making; and as a man's standing in the money market materially affects his success in the matrimonial lottery, his prospects thus far were very fair, and “bright-eyed fancy, hovering o'er,” wielded the pencil before him, under the tuition of Hope, that stiff-necked divinity who never looks behind her. But we have mentioned his only recommendation as an aspirant after hymenial honors. The awkwardness of his person and the coarseness of his features rendered his appearance extremely unprepossessing; his mind—at twenty years of age he was as innocent of intellect, as he could be supposed to have been at twenty days from his birth; his conversation was ; and his manners remind one of the ass which would win the affections of his master by imitating the caresses of his pet dog. Yet, such as he was, he soon appeared as Miss Barton's most obedient. Julian took an early opportunity to pay his devoirs to our heroine, and to secure the favor of the little community at the parsonage, by giving them his assistance in making a settlement at their new residence. Yet he did not seem anxious to press his suit for some time; neither was he inert, as it seems, during this period, but was only collecting his forces for a final assault; and as this brings us directly to the catastrophe, we will enlarge upon the point. It was evening—and Julian rode up to the Rev. Mr. Barton's gate—dismounted from and secured his steed—approached and knocked at the door of the parsonage while apprehension was knocking at the door of his heart, (and it might knock at it till doomsday without hitting it, unless his heart is bigger than his soul, whispers my chum who is peeping over my shoulder)—the door of the parsonage was opened and fear took possession of the citadel within. His inquiry for Miss B. was answered affirmatively, and he was ushered into the parlor—but so complete was the dominion of the tyrant which had usurped the throne of his feelings, that silence had sealed poor Julian's lips. He could scarcely reply to the salutation with which he was greeted, and after a few ineffectual efforts on her part to maintain conversation, both relapsed into perfect silence— the stillness was appalling—no noise was heard save the occasional murmuring of domestic affairs in a remote part of the house, just sufficient to render the silence audible. From eight o'clock, the period of Mr. Wadfern's arrival, a very quiet half hour had elapsed, when it occurred to him that something must be said or the conversation would flag; so he cast about him for the material, until he at length hit upon a most prolific and profitable theme for conversation. He therefore opened his capacious attic, and srom it sell the sage remark—“pleasant evenin.” “Very pleasant—the air is very clear, and the stars shine with uncommon brightness. Are you a stargazer P’’ “Star's an all-fired good ox—he'll draw more'n any two oxen in town—'ceptin cap'en Thad's Black and Broad. I'd give fisty dollars in a minit to match him.” This effort having exhausted the enthusiasm that prompted it, silence resumed her dominion, while our hero made another foray into his upper regions in search of the few thoughts which were there wandering “in vacuo.” But he was soon diverted from this fruitless expedition by another consideration. He had called for the purpose of a “sitting up” with his Dulcinea. But before this design could be prosecuted the consent of the other party must be obtained ; and to obtain this was the difficulty which now absorbed the attention of our hero. Nine o'clock—and the crisis of affairs was approaching; and after several adjustments of his courage, (an article by the way very disficult of adjustment, and one which is very liable to get out of place upon such occasions, as we can testify from experience,) he succeeded in making the proposition—“l should like to spend a few hours with you.” Mary, judging of the future by the past, replied, “I’d rather be excused.” “Earth and heavens!” groaned Mr. Wadsern, while his countenance plainly indicated that the assembled artillery of the one, and every thunderbolt of the other combined could not have filled him with such confusion as did the effervescence of his feelings of disappointment, wrath, chagrin, &c. &c. which this simple and decided, but unexpected reply called into exercise. His scattered senses, however, soon began to rally; he seized his hat and retired with precipitation, and the only comment which he is reported ever to have made upon the success of his amour is— “S-w-e-a-r—never’ll go to Barton's agin.” Here endeth the first lesson. The case of the second candidate contains nothing very remarkable. As his success hinged upon the question whether he was possessed of education, he was of course nonsuited, and of course also not suited; or rather he foresaw the result, and entered a “nolle prosequi,” and there the matter ended. The third candidate was a most notable character; allow us therefore to introduce to your acquaintance Mister Zimri Hartshorn. Look at him; he is a long, lank, lean, lazy loafer, six feet high, and shaped somewhat like a flatfish as to his three dimensions of length, breadth, and thickness; and, to say no more of the rest of him, he had the oddest phiz that ever mortal wore. We are sure—neither that, nor any thing like it, is alluded to in the second commandment. From his chin, the vanishing point of his countenance, his face suddenly expands to an enormous magnitude, sufficient to contain a huge pair of ivory semicircles, which, having a covering too small for them, exhibit an eternal grin. Now look a little above his mouth ; you see that badly-defined, but red and lurid light, shaped somewhat like a small demijohn, with a hole or two in the bottom. Well, that’s his nose; you can distinguish the light which proceeds from it, from that which his eyes emit, by its color—that of the latter resembling a pair of thick, horn lanterns. The whole is surmounted by a very modest, retiring forehead, above which appears a coarse thatchwork of muddy-colored hair; (can't say whether the color is natural.) This was his general appearance, except in cold weather, when he was accustomed to wear a crimson mitten on his nose. Of his habits we have nothing to say, except that his use of his father's white steed had procured for him the appellation of “Death on the pale horse;” he was certainly death to the pale horse, for he had not the index of the merciful man. This Zimri Hartshorn came to the conclusion that Mary Barton was the rib that Heaven had made for him, and we have now to show how he discovered his mistake. It was winter—and Zimri, who attended the same school with the object of his affections, thinking that a sleigh-ride would afford him the best opportunity to develop his passion and secure a reciprocation of it, wrote a note of invitation to Miss B. and dropped it on her book as he retired from school at recess, not doubting but that a man of his magnitude might be sure of the company of any lady at any time. We give it to our readers verbatim, as those who tread in his steps will doubtless be benefited by it, and all will be interested in the style. “i am goin to briton [Brighton] next wensda and shud lik ure company if u are willing—i shud lik to no to nite.” Z. HARTs HoRN. He waited two or three days for a reply, but he waited in vain. At length, supposing that some mistake had been committed, he em

loyed a mediator. This was no other than his sister—the redoubt

able Miss Polly Hartshorn, of equal longitude with himself, though much inferior in latitude, and still more deficient in the third dimension ; she was indeed the shadow of a mighty pungent name.

Through her intervention he made the discovery that the mistake was all his own. Yet he did not despair—“saint heart,” he said, “never won fair lady.” So he called into exercise all his little cunning, and next attempted, through Polly's influence, to procure a visit from the ladies, but in this too he failed; yet the strife went on. In this contest, as in most others, the parties did not long contend alone; others were enlisted on either side. Zimri took to himself his father and his mother, his sister and his brother, &c.—the whole family— in all, seven spirits, more cunning though not so wicked as himself; and they entered into his plan and urged it forward, until the last state of that apology for a man was worse than the first. It had been good for him, as most people thought, if he had not been born; but he was born, and they determined to make the best of it. So a visit to the parsonage was decided upon by the whole family, hoping to take by assault the citadel which they could not sap ; but the expedition proved a forlorn hope, and defeat was just ready to hand her victim over to despair. As our object is to interest, we regret exceedingly that we have not the particulars of an interview from which so much was expected, but we must let that pass, and return to our narrative.

The family cavalcade was moving homeward in silence deep as the lowest bass of the distant thunder, and the party had made about half a mile in their onward progress, when Zimri suddenly exclaimed, “By thunder, Mary is a darn'd ugly girl. I don’t think she's a bit pretty—I never’ll speak to her agin as long as I live.” “I hope she’ll die an old maid,” quoth Polly. “I wish she was to Guinea,” added aunt Rue, who sustained the maternal relation to the rest of the party, with the exception of Zenas, her adored. “Well, by goll,” said the major domo, “I’ll not subscribe for preachin agin while parson Barton stays.”

How much farther this interesting conversation was carried has not been reported to us; but it might, without doubt, be obtained from aunt Nabby Werder, secretary of the gossiping society, who keeps the records and reports daily, nay, even hourly, upon every case of prospective matrimony in the town.

For our heroine we bespeak the sympathies of all who feel for human woe. You see her harassed, perplexed, distressed—you see her sufferings augmented by the keenest sensibility, so that she is unable to offer effectual resistance to the evils which press upon her. But let it not be retorted upon us that we should put our “shoulder to the wheel' before we call upon others for their aid; we have done what we could—we have visited her repeatedly for the purpose of offering her consolation, and we humbly hope that our efforts have not been entirely in vain. L. T. H.


Every way of man seemeth right in his own eyes. Old Awthor.
MAEcENAs, thou to kings allied,
My patron, and my pleasing pride!
Some joy, the Olympic dust to raise,
To shun the gaol with glowing wheels,
To crown their brow with blooming bays,
To gain, like gods, applauding peals.
Some feel their hearts with joy elate,
Whom fickle mobs combine to raise
To honors high and posts of state,
With zeal, and shouts of vulgar praise.
Some love their ample barns to fill,
With all that's reaped in Lybian vales.
Some love paternal glebes to till,
Who would not spread their swelling sails,
And timorous plough the Myrtoan main,
For all the Mysian monarch's hoard.
When tempests rage, the merchant fain
Doth prize the joy his lands afford;
But quick refits his shattered bark,
And soon as wasting winds abate,
He cleaves the billows deep and dark,
Resolved to shun the poor man's fate.
Some love to quaff old Massic wine,
In idleness to waste their days,
Outstretched beneath a verdant vine,
Or where a sacred sountain plays.
The trumpet’s blast, the pomp of war, **:
The clarion's notes re-echoing shrill, -----
The fight, which mothers sond abhor,
Full many a breast, with raptures fill.
Huntsmen abroad all night abide,
Their tender consort's charms forget,
If faithful hounds a hind have spied,
Or boar has broke their well-wrought net.
Be mine, the poet's ivy wreath,
Be mine, the nymph and satyr choirs,
Be mine, the grove where zephyrs breathe-
To sing of these my soul aspires,
If Polyhymnia's pipe resound,
And Lesbos' lyre Euterpe string;
But is, 'mid lyric bards I'm crowned,

I'll strike the stars with soaring wing. O

Earata IN No. 3.-Page 80th, 4th line fr. bottom, for treading read threading. Page 81st, 12th line fr. top, for “Lilliputian,” read “Laputian.”

* Wide Gulliver's Travels, part 3d, chap. 2d.

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