The home journal., October 28, 1858, Image 1

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" Volume II
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WINCHESTER, TENN, OCTOT1.RH 28, 1858,
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'v W. J. BLATTER, Editor.
ffe folluw Trulk. wkcn'cr the leu da the way.'
'f' No lover of poetry can fail to be
stow upon, the iollowing .beautiful
I lines unbounded praise. Thcv makn
K " . . 1 '
lirue poetry, ana no mistake. r
Written for th Winchester Home Journtl.
My Boqaet of Autumn leaves.
I . BY MM. ADtUA C. CHAVES.
. Spring-tiino twinoth garlands bright,
Of her bgils and flowers of light;
J, : Autumn weaveth some as gay
l ' Of the leaves that fade away.
? Spring's swcot blooming promises
A Future fruits our paths to bless;
J Autumn's gny loaves only say,
;' "All that's bright must fade away."
Spring time telleih of.the summer,
Merry, joyous, glad new comor, ,
; With her ripened fruits anil grain
Decking orchard, grovo and pluin;
..' But of Winter, Amumn tellcth,
i Of the Frost-king, whore he dwelled),
' How. he comes to -steal away '
jj Floors, and fruits, and lei.jlelsgny,
. Draping all in fairy lighitiesn,
.7 With a rob of snowy whitnness,
I Hill and .vale, ami lowland meadow,
! Sleeping neath the mountain shadow,
jl '
On the mantel, still my boquet,
'jW'ith its Autumn leaflets, so gay,
lllcads mu lessons, as I look.,
iOfion from my open book.
fOras, too, my eyes upraising,
jj'From thu written page are gating
'(Gil the mute, instructive mossngo,
if)( the fading leaves, that presage,
ILilu, fur me, though seeming briof,
VTcmloth towards its Autumn leaf,
Ami the inward spirit turncih,
, i iu,o ' pago, ll".e past, ami mourneth
"That there comes, lor me, no more,
'Spring and Summer, as before;
jOuly when the w.ming hours,
. Sweep the dry loaves from llio bowors,,
' Of Spring, Summer. Autumn reft,
'"life will hove its Winter left.
V Written for the Winchester Home Journal.
. The Faithlessness of Man.
' DV 0. D MARTIN.
Jl've wooed and sighed at Beauty's shrine,
(i And threw my heBrt away,
And thought the charm I won divine,
And wore it for a day, -!But
like a full blown rose it drooped,
And lost its swoet purfumo, .,
'Till from its .lofty height it stooped,
To wither in its tomb.
t
rfSlill thoughless I It seemed to fade,
Ete 1 hail known it well,
And like each beauteous flower made,
It withered ami it fell.
SThis flower had lost its charms to me,
1 sought anoihor flower,
I wooed and won it but to see
i' It wither in an hour.
iht woman fickle? No! 'lis she
Will love a life long love,
"RIan never fades to hor 'tis we
tf Who false and faithless prove.
Theu wrong her not, but lot us strive,
' To merit her esteem
'-nd make life happy be alive
ii To good he what we seem.
Philadelphia, Pa.
Written for the Winchester Home Journal.
The Sorrowful Heart.
. BY P1NI-F.Y JOHNSON.
How sad indeed must be that heart
Which has no joys below,
Which ever quads from out the spring
From whence afflictions flow;
"W hich thirsteth with o living thirst,
That will not be allayed,
For those sweet waters flowing in
s Affection's sunny glade.
v The human heart is prone to love,
And it will always pine
To feel affection's tendrils cling
And closely round it twine;
i For 'tis its'ywish to always cruvo
t For ktodnoss and for rest,
E'en as a stricken bird
Will pine for its warm nest.
.Baltimore, Md.
An Axb to Gmsd. Origin of the
Trm. "When I was a little boy," says
!jDr. Franklin, I remember ono cold
winter morning I was accosied by a smi-
ling man witn ai axe on his shoulder."
4"My pretty boy," said he, "has youi
father a grimlstonu?" "Yes sir," said 1.
'-You are a fine litilo fellow," said he,
'will you let me grind my axe on ill"
Pleased with the compliment of the"Cno
iJillle fellow," '-0 yes," 1 answered, "it
tjsdown in lha shop." "And will you,
iy little fellow," said ho patting me on
ha head, "gel me a little hot water?"
VCould 1 refuso? I ran and soon brought
tjk kettle full. How old are you and
what's your name?" continued he, without
Raiting for a reply; "You are one of the
'nest little fellows that I ever saw; will
' 70 just turn i few minute for me?"
Tickled at iho flattery, like a fool, 1 went
to work, and bitterly dul 1 ruo the day.
' If" was a new axa, ami I loilod and tugged
Mill I was almost tired to death. The
aehool bell rang and 1'could not get
Way; my hands were blistered, the axe
was sharpened, and the' man turned to
HM with, "Now you littla rascal you've
. played truant; scud for acfiool or you II
ju it," Alas! thought I. it is hard ennuuh
lo turn the grindstone this cold day, but
to ba railed a littla rascal was too much
Jtkunk deep in my mind, ami ofien bavs
: 1 Ibougntot it since. When I tee a mer
, chant over polite to bia customers, ben-
fing them to take a little brandy, and,
throwing his goods on the counter, thinks
I, that man tin an axa. to grind. Vhen
1 sea a man ilatteriac tht dodI aiakintf
greit profession of ailschinani to liberty
- won is i,aic ins in, mammas,
lookout good people, that fellow would
..Ol you JO turning a grindstone. When
I lea a man hoisted into office by the
party apirit, without a single qualifica
tion to render him respectable or unful,
. alas! deluded people yoa era doomed for
JftM Ittui the griath teas for hoey.
A JIEART HISTORY.
CONTINUED.
Kotk. A rewird of JflO wi ofleml dome tlmealnce
In the Home Journal for the bent Original Kory willlen
lor its columns. Several were written, and liter a ieru
Ml of etcli, "Madaliim a Hkaiit Hisiohv," wacun
tillered the most deeervltiK. Ila etvle li timnln vet beau.
ti Jill, and Ihut ell will be highly interested we have nut a
uujue auuui. jiunon.
About tU time a, hitter came.
Madeleine bad few, very few coitcs
pon lents.aud hs she took it and observ
ed the superscription was not in the
band-writing of any ol'thosc from whom
she was uncustomed to receive com-
inunicntionx, a htrange, unaccounta
ble, undefinuble sens t ion crossed her
mind. As she hastily tore it open and
looked first at the address, and ' then
at. the signature, no 'womlar it drop
ped from a nerveless hand, as her eye
glanced upon the old, familial' name,
Henry Moreland.
Yet who can say there was noi
pleasure in the reflection that he still
remembered her?
"My dear Madeleine," so it com
menced.
Dj not, entreat voa.be offended
i
that,l address vou lv the s.unn tipnel-
lutiou I have H-er djau in v '.trs de
parted fori have never known you
is Mrs. liiiymond and do not con
sider me presumptuous that 1 uddres
you at nil, after an estrangement of so
many years.
I trust you will not. feel thai ihere is
any impropriety in my doing it; lor the
same interest 1 took in your welfare
in days and years departed, remains
for you aud yours, though so long has
been our separation.
I trust not to open the wounds of
your sorrow afresh when I say, 1 have
heard of your allliction. Permit me
to condole with you? to sympathize
with you? I too have suiter ed.
shall pass near you in a few weeks.
Allow mo to call and olfer you my
sympathies in person even more, if
you will kindly' permit it, tf re'.miv
the acquaintance, the delightful asso
ciation of our earlier, may I not say.
for myself, at least, happier days.
Let me hear at once, if you will
grant my request, my earnest petition
to come and see you, once more.
Yours ever sincerely
and affectionately.
Henry Mohixaxd.
Gladly did she say to him to coin" and
visit her, and pleasant, very pleasant,
were her anticipations of meeting
with him, whose association willi her
in those days so long agon", was so
delightful. She could converse with
him of the old home, the pleasant lit
tle village in which it had been loca
ted, of her. old companions and hei
dearly remembered mot her; and last,
all that had been so unaccountable in
his letters of tho past would perhaps
be explained anil he would converse
with her freely and frankly hs when
they learned their lessons from the
same familiar page.
Madeleine's let'er said as much,
and she rejoiced in spirit that they
should meet once more, and this joy
imparted new elasticity to her step
and u brightened color to her cheek.
For many months she bad been coin
pauiouless, save her children and ser
vants, and the heart of the widowed
mother was almost starved fnnn pri
vation of its aliment, human sympa
thy, not that sort of sympathy which
makes itself known in formal calls ol
condolence and set phrases intended
to he very consolatory, nnd, at ihe
same time, so set oil' to I lie best ad
vantage, the amiability and kindness
of him, or her who utters them. Of
these, Madeleine had had far more
than enough; but I mean that unaf
fected sympathy which springs from
real kindness of heart join 'd to a live
ly appreciation of what is necessary
to in p irt comfort to its object.
lie came, at last, after weeks of
anxious waiting had dragged their
weary liours away; he came, ho who
seemed tho nearest on earth to her
since the gaping sepulchre had hid
den in its depths him who had ever
been to her all that she needed in fo
close a friend. lie came, and the
commencement of their interview has
been detaifed in the beginning of the
narrative. She did not, could not
recognize him. Tho f-atures wilh
which her memory had been familiar
were not there. The light, glossy
curls were almost black, the ryes of
deepest azure were a dark hazel, or
rather grey', and the chin nnd face, on
which had been the first down of man
hood, were covered with a hick nnd
lengthy growth, yet' darker than his
hair. He was taller and stouter, al
together a different personage from
the irnaye she bad io long ago placed
among tho hourecd treasures of faith
ful reoollection. - -' "'
The letter which had been written
In answer tp his, had been more free
ly and affectionately worded than any
she had ever beforo addressed to him,
unconciously so, in very truth, but her
pen had transcribed from the pages of
her true and womanly heart; for sho
was so grateful that ho who had
known her so long and well, still re
membered her with so much kindness
and friendship.
Tho affections are woman's world.
It is love, and love only for which she
pines, from tho cradle to the grave.
For it she will sacrifice every selfish
feeling, everything which tends to her
own gratification, and doit willingly,
cheerfully, gladly, if her self-sacrifice
and self-denial are only appreciated,
and she is loved in return. It is only
when tho deplhs of her woman's na
ture have not yet been aroused and
called into action by this one great
tnash'r-passioii of her destiny, or have
been aroused but to be (lung back to
her with coldness ami indifference,
that she becomes the thoughtless friv
olous creature, she lias been too often
truthfully represented.
Love ennobles, intellect utilizes, puri
fies and refines the whole being, and
!('u """" whom
. t . . t i ...
w"M,,i '" ""' "!'l"'". pure-!, mi-si
ic.eiings oi wnicii If is enpitiiie, sue
becomes what s'ie was designed to be
by er Creaator, an angel of li,ht and
loveliness lo him who is so fortunate
MS to M'.l UI'e the j.l'iCele.vs gem of her
alfections.
Let. us rrlui n io the commencement,
of our history. We left, our heroine
in doubt what an.-wcrshe should make
to the passionate, reproan.iful lan
guage of her newly-arrived liieud.
'"(.)! Madeleine, you do not e.no (os,i,.
me, your tnau-ier shows '.r, your tone
of voice, speaks it, yl)U m ,,...
cial in eiest in "Tiy coming, more than
you would o'0 the approach of the hun
dred and. one others, who, years ago,
soinj'it your favor and aspired to your
I Cvie;,dship."
Such was theover-exeited language
of severe, unexpected disappointment.
He fixed his eyes upon her, wilh an
eager look as of one in great pain,
who gazes beseechingly at him who
can relieve suffering if he will.
Madeleine's nature bad always been
frank and truthful. She was a stran
ger to dissimulation, and when she
spoke at all, spoke what she felt. "1
was altogether unprepared for such
demonstrations ol feeling, I do not.
understand it, 1 expected to meet you
most gladly, most cordially as a dear
and welcome friend, but not ns a lov
er. Nothing that I have heard of late,
or ever before, could have led me to
expect such an interview ns this.
Your letter, which I was fo lejoiced to
receive, so pleasant lo answer, could
not have raised in my mind I lie slight
est anticipation id' such a meeting as
this."
'My letter, Madeleine ! Is that one
letter all you have heard if me of Intel
Have you had no communication lioin
me since that? Did you Hot receive
from me the sad, sorrowful history ol
my life for many years."
.Madeleine shook her head. He re
sumed. '1 wrote to inform you of all that
had reference in me since you and 1
last met. In it, I slated to you the deep,
deathless ati'ecli'ii I had ever eher-i-h.d
for you almost since the first day
of our ai.'('i.inea:ic". I said lo you,
that 1 trusted t hat the love for J on
whieh had lived on, ami on, in my bo
soiii, even vl.ile 1 was a inly i-irleav-oring
to smother andstille it us a feel
ing unworthy of you, of me, in the
relations in which we bad been placed
towards each other by an unfortunate
t tain of eircuinstnuees, might find an
answering chord in your own heart,
i said if this relation of my life and
the disclosure of my constant affec
tion should elicit responsive feelings
towards him, who was your ardent
lover in his youth, and faithful wor
shipper in manhood, there would be no
need for a reply. Silence should be
the omen of favor. If, on tho con-
I trnry. you should have no desire tore-
new our youthful association, to ap
prize me of the lact immediately. I
received no reply, o nc w jou can un-
derstaud my strange inexplicable con
duct." "Aud I," said Madeleine,"havc nev
er received the communication of
which you speak; I am entirely igno
rant of all it contained."
"It seems,' replied her companion,
-as if the fairs d lighted to play ut
cross purposes with me in all my in
tercourse with you.'.
Many times while we were yet
school-mates, theconfession of my love
for you wns trembling on my tongue,
but two considerations withheld me
from the avowal. The timidity of
youth, and tho feeling that I ought to
wait to know myself, if It wern In
deed that pure, undying lovo I felt for
you, which could bear all, suffer nil
for its object, or if it were a mere
passing, boyish fancy. VVe were both
so young, that it seemed, perhaps, not
wise to exchange vows of affection
whieh might prove, some day, shack
les of iron rather than silken cords.
Still this Inst consideration had but lit
ilo weight. But the chief reason why
I never told you in so many words my
entire devotion to you, was that it al
ways seemed to me that you read my
heart as nn open book. It seemed lo
me that my thoughts, almost before
they ivere formed in my own mind,
were fully known to vou, nnd that
notliiiig I could say could make you
understand me or my wishes and plans
better than you did and ever had from
the first of our association. My very
soul, in my own estimation, lay bine
before your gaze. Do you not recol
lect that sometimes when I commenc
ed to express my feelings, or .senti
ments. 1 would hesitate for the exact
word and turn lo you, wilh, 'Say it
for me, Madeleine? You know what
I mean," and you would linish for tnc "
She bowed her head and ho con
tinned. "Oftentimes when writing to you,
my confession, my avowal, was on the
nib of my pen, but something with
held ir, this sanii: jdei. that you un
derstood all I woul.'isay, nil I felr, nil
my expectalioi.s and ail my hopes.
liesides I ha'', a shrinking, morbid sen
sitiveness about nutting such sacred
leeliD'.-s upon paper, for other eyes to
4ll''.t! i.iit save those for which they
were intended not that I feared you
would show my epistles, 1 should have
been willing you should have done
wilhihem as you chose, for I always
fell you would do right, but ihe un
eeri linty of mails, and the dread that
smm; one might, in sonu way, get
possession of theni to whom, that
which was so pure and holy to me and
lo you, mig;;t become a theme, for
coarse, or ill-limed jesting. 1 ac
knowledge this lo have been a child
ish, an unmanly sentiment, but it ap
peared men to ne a part ol my na-1
tore and I could not overcome it, or
rather did not try until I found what
it had cost me. Madeleine I cannot
call you by any other name I have
never been happy, never contented,
a moment since you were lost to me.
liver res, less, ever uneasy, my mind
has been like the troubled sea, cease
lessly moving, never quiet.
15i it I will not enlarge on my own
sufferings nov. It is due to you to
know what has passed since we par
ted, and as that letter has never ar
rived, what was to have told you all,
you will have to hear it from my own
iips."
"IJetter so, u thousand times," ans-
( red his companion, "I can now ask
you what. I do not fully understand,
and you can explain sat isfaetoi ily,
Mimeihing which could not ht) done if
it had been cuamuiiiicati
liy I In? pen,
I ihmk you must confess fate has not.
been :o very much against you alter
all."
It wns yet early morning. The
bland summer zephyrs blew through
the blossoming shrubs of ihe grassy
yard, fluttered the leaves of the vim s
which clambered over the white pi
azza, and stealing in through the half
closed blinds id' the co! and pleasant
room, laid their gathered .fragrance
lovingly agaitu.t the faces of the loii?
p.irted friends, as composing herself
quietly to li.-t' n to what she so much
wi&hcd lo hear, Madeleine said, ""Tell
me all, will you? lam alone in the
world except my two chihlten. I have
ever bi h ived you a friend, and friend
ship is never so precious as when
there are few lo feel and profess it for
us. Yours for me, I never doubted,
was sincere, and your seeking mo in
this manner after so many years proves
it was not but a name. I trust you
have not suffered too deeply, too se
verely, but tell it me," and she bent
her head eagerly to listen.
PA11T SECOND.
"You will first accord inc your par
don for the strange excitement of my
manner, and the unwarrantable free
dom with which I nddressed you, now
you know all the circumstances con
nected wilh my present coming. You
can understand the keenness of my
disappointment when you held your
self at such a distance from me and
seemed so indifferent. You can for
give, can you not, that I was, for a
time, almost beside myself," and his
companion bowed her head, and smil
ed upon him the forgiveness and the
pardon for w hich he asked:
: He proceeded "When I left you it
was my intention, after a brief visit
to my home and friend, to enter eol
lego, as you are well aware. Durirfg
my courso of study there I intended
to decide the question whether 1
should become a missionary, ordevote
myself to some calling in my own
country, II I did not become tho for
mer, I had thought of no plan in re
maining here. . I felt within myself
that I was not fitted 'to become an ex
pounder of gospr.l faith to the peoplo
of my own land, but that I might bo
useful to the benighted pagan, and to
wards them my heart turned in sym
pathy and pity, and desired to do them
good. But that was not for me.
Owl did not need mo for that work,
for I had thought he would open to me
the palfi in which I should walk, or
rather direct the circumstances of my
life, sol should understand what was
my duly. When I reached home I
found my father in trouble about his
property in the West. Some years
ago ho hud speculated largely in Wes
tern laud, and there was some consid
erable dispute about the titles to the
different tracts. Fart of it had been
government land, and in regard to
that there wns no dilliculiy, but by far
the greater portion of it had been pur
chased from those who had settled
anil made improvements, claims had
been setup, by different persons, to a
reat deal of it, and a thorough in
vestigation was necessary, and, prob
ably, no small amount of litigation
would be the result. My father's
health was much too feeble for him to
leave home nnd endure the bodily fa
tigue and menial harrassing conse
quent, upon so lengthy and vexatious
an under! tiUing. His other, and older
son, who lived in your village, was
married and bad business of bis own
which be could not well leave; conse
quently I was the one, who could well
and properly attend to to it. Young
as I was, my father had great confi
dence in my business powers, fori had
alwas a way of seeing my course
clearly through before 1 took a step in
any undertaking. It became with me,
at once, a, question of duty as to
whether 1 should go. or not. On the
one hand, my conviction of the filial
obedience due. from a cherished son
to the best of fathers, a knowledge
that wealth would very readily and
easily be accumulated if I was suc
cessful in accomplishing the business,
as I had reason to expect I should be,
and the good 1 might do anywhere, if
my heart were right; and on the other
hand, the feeling that 1 ought to de
vote my life and its energies in anoth
er, holier, higher and more noble pur
pose than worldly wealth and world
ly distinction, and the sacrifice of one
of the cherished desires of childhood
and youth, a thorough collegiate ed
ucation before I should engage in any
business, profession, or avocation of
any kind, were the circumstances 1
must take into consideration, weigh
ing then) wisely and well before com
ing lo an ultimate decision. When I
thought of my own cherished plans, 1
found it exceedingly dillicult to re
linquish them; but when 1 looked to
my father, feeble in health, and ad
vancing in years, trusting to his son
to assist him in securing for him I he
savings of a lifetime, (Cor all bis prop
erty except I he place on which he. lived
was invested in those land-,) I could
not feel that Providence would bless
any elfoils I should make, however
noble, or disinterested they might be,
if I should refuse to assist him who
had (he best earthly claim upon my
services, when he had such pressing
need for them. Yet it was not with
out quile a struggle that I made up my
mind lo go. Tim morning before I
started, my father said to me, 'Henry
this will bea perplexing and vexa
tious business. It will probably not
all be satisfactorily arranged under
two, or three years. 1 do not wish
your agency in this matter for nothing.
You ought to be rewarded, not only
for the actual labor you will perform,
but lor the sacrifices you are making
on my account, and you shall be.
Half of all the land to which you can
secure an undisputed title shall be
yours. I am aware of the plans you
have cherished in your own mind for
your future life, and I am grateful that
you so readdy abandon them at my
desire and for my interest. There is
no one to whom I could so willingly
entrust this affair as yourself.' A few
days and I was on my way. It wns
necessary I should bo on the ground
as soon as possible, so I denied myself
the pleasure of stopping to see you on
my way to the scene of my labors.
On my arriva II found matters worse
than I had anticipated. Much of the
land, which had been bought of the
settlers, it was found they had sold
without having, themselves, any le
gal claim to it, so it .was in 'part yet
government land, nnd in part owned
by men who lived at a distance, utidhotdMp was a 'man of God, and es-
, .w. ,.iaio 'chewed '- .' fis
uv were uiiuwur vi mw yv-
of their property there, so it must bo',;.-'
relinquished entirely, or purchased!,'-.4 ,
nnow, and yet it had beon bought inj
good faith, a fair valuation, at the tinted "t
having been paid for it. To some of '
it, too false claims were set up, which
claims had to bo looked into and some- -times
a court of justice could only de- k,
cide who was tho legal claimant. - 'h
That,' whieh wns in reality govern- ? .
ment land, but which had been pur-1
chased of the squatters, by paying '
them tho highest price lor their bet-.
tennents, ns tho improvements they v .;
had mndo were called, gave mo no "
inconsiderable trouble, for when it was 1
ascertained to belong still to tho gov- '.'
crnment, oftentimes, as many as two ;
or three persons would stand ready : .
to enter it for themselves. Then a- ;,
gain, on land lo which the title was .
really valid and indisputable, settlers
in several instances, were found to
have come in, built n log cabin, clear- K
t.-dafew acres, tind . supposing they j-,
had a squatter's right there, made '
themselvcsquite at home. And it was I
generally very hard to make them un
derstand that any ono could have a
prior, and better claim to it than they
had when they located there be
fore a slick was cut, or a stroke made
for subduing the wilderness.
But by dint of calm reasoning and
explanation, anil paying for the labor
they had done, I, usually, succeeded in
amicably adjusting matters without
making many enemies, or paying
much more than I ought for the little
they bad done for the improvement of
the portion on which they had located
themselves.
lint, lo unravel the whole skein of
this most perplexing business took a
much longer time than I at first sup
posed it would, livery Spring, 1
thought 1 should have finished it by
the Autumn, and when the Autumn
came and found me still ut work, I
was sure another Spring would have
set mailers nil to rights, so I might
be, once more, a free man again.
I was ever planning to return to you
to speak to you, the deep, pent-up feel
ings of my soul, for it seemed to me 1
couhlnol, write them, and yet, though 1
was always hoping, the time did not
appear to draw any nearer. And yet,
1 intended you should understand nil
my designs and intentions towards
yourself Iroui ihe kind of letters 1
wrote. I fancied you did, for it al
ways seemed to ma that you could
read my heart and know all its hopes,
desires aud fears, with the motives
that controlled my actions, even bet
ter than I did myself. I was certain
that you could not misapprehend me,
and 1 was equally certain that your
heart was mine, and that I had but to
come, to claim mv love and bear you
lo my home. I was sure you loved me
aud my hopes were always bright.
At last 1 was through my perplex
ing toil, both of mind and body. My
business, except a little of minor im
portance, was all closed up. The very
first year of my sojourn, in that coun
try, I selected the pleasantest locality
of all the region, as a most desirablu
spot for a home, when 1 should be rea
dy to occupy it. Little, by little, I
beautified and adorned the place, call
ing both nature and art to my aid to
embellish the scene.
The last year, my house had been
built, a neat, tasteful cottage, in a
grove of forest trees, of nature's own
planting, which had been intentional
ly left there for that very purpose,
near the waters, of one of those small
sand-margined lakes with which the
region abounds. 1 had selec ed this
spot as one which would especially
please your fastideous tasle. and every
natural and acquired charm, which
belonged to it, gave me additional
pleasure, ns 1 looked at it, from the
thought it was beautifying tho home
lone day hoped and trusted would be
shared by you.
liy topping and trimming the low
er branches of iho sheltering trees,
views were opened indifferent direc
tions lo the shclvy shore of the lake,
for the spot selected for my cottage
was on a portion of land which had
tho water on three sides of it, and of
course running out into I be embracing
waters. To tho cast the ground rose
gently ascending almost to a, hill,
while in front or to the West, it sloped
down to tho very margin of the beau
teous lake. Towards the North I had
left a strip of dense, primeval forest,
as a shelter against the slorms which
usually come from that quarler, while
beyond were to be my pasture grounds
and Cultivated fields. '
in our present prrv-rae state or so
ciety, it islincui for nun or .woman
(particularly -i
. .... -..!, nr. nprr.hnnrp. a rrnrt
' ,l head, by way of an admonishcr! t ,
-Tho grew the truth, the greater the
i.-iwraaiih Lord Mansfield. and his
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