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194 THE COURANT ; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL.

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before I could recover it. "Thank God !" I exclaimed,
"that trouble's over !" as I once more got upon terra
firma. Ascending the hill, I saw a large fire on the
road-side. It proved to be the wagoners, going with their
cotton to Pensacola. They had encamped by the roadside,
feeding their horses in a trough which they carried
at the back of the wagon. It made me think of
Shakespeare and of Scott ; of Falstaff, Poins, and Hal ;
of Effie Deans, and the great north road in England ;
but it will be long, thought I, before I see a face as
beautiful as I fancy Effie's was, in such a place as this.
I saluted them with a "Good night !" and asked if I
was in the main road.

"Faith, an' it's mane enough you'll find it ! The
horses stuck fast five or six times twixt here and the
house."

Of all the places in the world to find an Irishman !
But I am told you'll find them every where, and I have
never failed in any part I have travelled through.

How strange are some of the coincidences of life ! I
left these men with a mind fully prepared for romance.
Still the London road―the London wagons, with their
bells―the pretty face of Effie―haunted my imagination,
and I was vexed wtih the idea that this country
was so void of romance, in itself so plain matter-of-fact.
There was the wagon, there was the fire, but where was
the interesting story connected with them? I had continued
in this manner walking and ruminating for some
distance, when a light announced that I was approaching
another dwelling. Not looking for any much better
reception than I had met with at the last house, I walked
with some reluctance to the door. I knocked.

"Who's there ?" inquired a voice in accents very
different from my host of the swamp. It was a woman,
and, if I could judge aright, not one of vulgar dialect.

I answered that I was a stranger, who wished to encroach
on her hospitality for a night's rest.

"Come in !" was the reply, and there was kindness in
the tone of her expression.

I entered. A chair was quickly placed for me by a
cheerful fireside, while the smile of welcome seemed to
insure comfort while I remained there. I was both wet
and cold―tired and vexed at the conduct I had before
met with ; but my attention was too much taken up with
the features and expression of one that sate beside me to
feel the inconvenience. It must be nonesense, strange
romance, because I had imagined that in so wild a country
nothing beautiful could be met with, that in that
very spot I should chance to meet a black-eyed girl. I
tried to persuade myself that she was not beautiful, and
again I turned my eyes from the mother to the daughter.
She sate gazing with a look of pity on me ; but there was
something sublime in her countenance. Her face was
perfect in every feature, her colour beautiful, her hair
was black―was very black―and her dark, full eye
seemed to gaze steadily on me. One eyebrow was
slightly elevated with an expression of sympathy, and I
forgot my own troubles gazing at her. The mother,
however, noticed my wet clothes, and immediately offered
to have them dried for me, directing Maria―which was
her daughter's name―to order a fire for me in the adjoining
room. As she retired, I could not help observing
to the mother my astonishment at meeting one of
her daughter's appearance in the wilderness.

"She is very beautiful―very !" I observed. The
mother sighed and shook her head.

"Yes, poor girl, she was very beautiful―the pride of
all my hopes―all that my wishes could have made her ;
but, alas ! the troubles we have met with, and her unfortunate
circumstance―"

Here I found the mother's feelings began to get the
better of her. She was in tears. I attempted an
apology for my curiosity, which had caused these recollections ;
and, though anxious to hear about her, was
reluctant to hurt their feelings by my inquiry.

"It is seldom that we see any one in this part,"
observed she, changing the subject. "The country
is outlandish, and none but families moving to the
western country, or the wagons passing down to the
city with their crops, and returning with their markets

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up the country to their homes again, ever call at
our house."

"You are very retired here," I observed.

"Yes ; that was the reason of our moving into this
country. There is indeed, a great difference between
Philadelphia and this."

"Philadelphia !" I observed with surprise.

"Yes, sir ; we once lived there―during my husband's
life," she continued ; "but our family left there on account
of untoward events. We once were happy and
gay in the midst of our friends ; we now live retired,
and have fled into the wilderness to avoid the gaze of
those whose smiles once were so endearing to us. I do
not think that I could literally bear to meet one of those
old friends whose memory is so dear to me."

I felt interested in the warmth with which she
seemed to speak of days gone by, and could have sate
there in my damp clothes listening to her, had not her
daughter returned, and, with a smile, told her mother
all was ready for me. I now had an opportunity of
noticing every thing around me without being observed.
The house was simply composed of logs, or, in other
words, a log hut ; but the furniture, the arrangements,
the neatness of the spotless white linen, indicated a
family at one time accustomed to comforts, if not to
luxuries.

We met at the breakfast-table, and, fortunately for
my curiosity, it was rainy weather.

"Have you much such weather here," I asked.

"But seldom," was the answer I received from the
mother. The daughter had not spoken. She was
polite and attentive ; her countenance still bore that
plaintive look of sympathy, which added to its natural
beauty an enchanting interest ; and her black eyes shone
with a lovely expression. She gazed at me, and on a
sudden burst into tears. Her mother spoke abruptly,
requesting her to leave the room. She instantly retired.

"You must excuse her, sir. This is the cause, or, at
least, the result, rather, of circumstances which drove
us, as I was telling you last evening, from Philadelphia.
Sympathy is dear to a sufferer, and though it cannot
remove a grief, has its influence in lightening its sting.
We all love to be pitied in our distresses, and I could
almost feel inclined to place an embargo on your attention,
whilst I relate our past misfortunes. I am sure,"
added she, "that you will not pretend to start in this
weather."

She commenced her story :

"My husband was an officer in the custom-house.
We never were wealthy, but our circumstances were far
from being straightened. Neither were we extravagant
―which you will believe, when I assure you that the
whole of what I now possess was saved from our income.
That poor girl which you see there, and her sister, were
the only children we ever had, and their education was
my greatest pride. I don't think that I can call to my
mind any of those troubles which others witness in the
earlier years of their children ; and it used, in fact, to
be remarked that our two girls were the prettiest and
best conducted in our neighbourhood. They used to
attend their church regularly, and my husband's regualr
habits made our home one unvaried scene of happiness
and content. It was truly enviable. But we all
must see our share of trouble in this world. I know it
is sinful to complain, for here we enjoy all the blessings
of health―we want for none of the comforts of life―
but now and then I look back upon the past, and my
spirit seems to murmur, for this is not like the home I
left to come here. Many complain of strangers, and
object to placing too much confidence in them ; but take
my word for it, sir, there is truth in the saying, 'Take
care of your friends and your enemies won't hurt you.'
It is natural for a man to guard against his enemies, but
there are more injuries come from our neighbours and
connexions than from any one else. Little did I ever
dream that the child of our neighbour―our next door
neighbour―whom I had suckled as one of my own, for
he was of the same age as my first child, who died when
an infant; and I have taken the child and watched him

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with as much care as if he had been my own. We used
to look on him as such ; and when some four or five
years old, he would come to see his baby-sister, as he
called her, when my second child was born, if I but told
him she was not his sister, the tears would rise, and the
poor little fellow would sob as if his parents had disacknowledged
him. When he was nine or ten, the
family left the neighbourhood, to retire on a farm which
Mr.── had purchased in the vicinity. We saw no
more of him for nine or ten years.

"Our daughters, in the meanwhile, were sent to one
of the best schools in the city. It was during the
Christmas holidays that he returned, and came to see
us. If he had been a relation whom we had not seen
for many years, there could not have been more pleasure
evinced than on his arrival. He was rich and talented,
his figure prepossessing. His attentions to our Emma
were but little thought of. This poor girl whom you
see with me, used to be their constant companion. One
evening, when they had walked out together, I was
sitting alone in a little back parlour, indulging my imagination
with the thoughts of happiness that seemed to
glow around me. I had raised, at least in part─had
suckled him as my own─and now he was about to be
married to our daughter. I heard the front door open
very abruptly, I thought ; and my husband, for I knew
his step, came hurrying along the passage. He called
me, not finding me in the front room. I answered him,
and he ran hastily up stairs, inquiring for the girls.
His countenance told me that he was much agitated. I
answered that they had gone out with ──.

"'I'll soon put a stop to that !' he replied, and left the
house.

"They returned to supper, cheerful as ever. It was
in the spring, and they seemed to me as beautiful as the
evening itself. Supper was ready, and I dreaded my
husband's approach. There was something wrong, I
knew from his manner, and he was sure to return to his
supper. We had sate down when he entered. His
manner was very cold, and he took no notice of them.
We sate down to the table, but he continued pacing the
room. The young man asked him, in his usual cheerful
tone, to join us.

" 'I have sate down at the same table with you for the
lasst time,' was his answer; 'and allow me to tell you
that I think you would look better by the side of your
own wife, at your own home, than sitting there.'

"I dropped my knife and fork with astonishment.
Emma gasped for breath. The young man's countenance
was red as scarlet.

" 'I did not expect this from you, sir,' continued my
husband.

"Emma would have fallen to the ground, had not the
young man caught her. My husband pushed him aside,
desiring him to quit the house, and that for ever. It
was a long time before the poor girl recovered. We
sate up with her all night. Her father seemed much
dissatisfied with her, as if she could have known any
thing of the circumstances ; and I am inclined to think
that his harshness towards her was, in a great measure,
the cause of her after conduct. Is it not a strange perversion,
that what would have been a virute in the poor
girl, had his previous conduct been different, was now
considered a heinous offence? The first thing she requested,
on her recovery, was, that she might be allowed
to see him once more. Her father grew violent. The
first breath of dishour had not sullied one of his family.

"If virtue but open her door to look out, vice will
enter before it can be closed again─will become a
familiar─and at length drive the original tenant from
her home. All was in vain ; what could not be done
openly was achieved by stratagem. Long after we had
imagined the young man had left the city, she and her
sister used to meet him, under the pretence of taking
their evening walk. Their father heard of it. He had
frequently observed to them the necessity of full and
implicit obedience to his injunctions, as the only security
for his protection and love ; for he could not acknowledge
those as children who would not acknowledge him
as a father ; obedience was the first attribute of a dutiful