gcls_courant_011 2

90 THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL.
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not an every-day thing with him; but used, like Hudi-
bras' wit, only on holidays. Toney's old minister wore
black; and for that reason Toney would appear in no
other color. Toney's minister used a bandana handker-
chief. So did Toney. The minister carried it partly
exposed, in the right pocket, for the sake of convenience.
Toney carried his in the same way, for the sake of con-
formity to clerical usage. It must be confessed, however,
that the old man's complacent glance at the bright ban-
dana, as it dangled from his pocket, seemed to indicate
that he would have preferred to carry it in that way,
even if the custom had not been sanctioned by such high
authority.
When everything was ready for starting, Toney hur-
ried the women into the servan't wagon, took his seat
with the driver, and gave the order to start. A group
of acquaintances had collected to witness their depar-
ture. Now came great shaking of hands, many assur-
ances of remembrance exchanged, some little tokens of
affection given or received, ending in the last tearful
farewell. The old man was little moved by the scene of
tenderness. He scarcely seemed to notice it, but sat
upon the box, lost in thought. When the motion of the
wagon roused him from his brief reverie, he turned
towards his colored friends, and, with dignified obeisance,
bade them farewell. As the vehicle rumbled off, the old
man looked wistfully at the old home, and reached
towards his pocket for his bandana handkerchief, but
recollecting that it was a new one, checked himself, and
lifting up the skirt of his coat, drew it over his face.--
As the wagon turned the corner, he threw himself
round upon the box for the last look. His lips quivered
--his whole frame shook--he snatched convulsively his
new bandana, and, leaning his old white head upon his
knees, drenched it with his tears.
In this very undignified and unofficial condition, Toney
left the metropolis; nor did he recover his usual placi-
dity until they got several miles from the city. At the
ten-mile spring he stopped to bathe his eyes, which the
bright sun, he said, pained very much, lit his pipe,
apologized to the driver for his long silence, resumed
his seat upon the box, and was himself again.
It is unnecessary to dwell upon the details of the jour-
ney. Suffice it to say, it was happily completed; and in
a few weeks the old people found themselves comfortably
situated in their new domicile. Leading a very retired
life, they were little known to their neighbors; but the
sad bereavement which enforced their privacy, and their
bland and unostentatious courtesy sheltered them from
the suspicion of aristocratic exclusiveness. As for Miss
Sally, she had conceived such dreadful notions of the
boorishness of country people, that she determined to
keep her little ward from all intercourse with them.
Mr. Howard's time was divided between his farm and
his library. Bred a scholar, he was familiar with the
best writers of Greece and Rome; but the Bible was
his chief book. In its sublime and enobling truths, he
found the richest food for the mind, and in its lofty
hopes, the only lenitive of sorrow.
Te spectem, suprema mihi cum venerit hora.
Mrs. Howard's time was occupied in domestic duties.
Miss Sallie was never idle. What with keeping matters
straight about the house and premises, scolding the ser-
vants, taking care of the child, and devising ways and
means for its education, her hands and her tongue
were busily employed. It is true that little Lucy was
provided with an excellent nurse in Maum Beckey, the
wife of old Toney; but Miss Sally preferred to assume
the principal charge.
A few months after their entrance upon country life,
little Lucy's first birth-day was duly celebrated; and not
many days afterwards, Toney came in, while the family
were at breakfast, with the gratifying intelligence that
her feet had begun to discharge their appropriate func-
tions. Lucy could walk! In his paroxysm of joy, the
old negro quite forgot his usual reserve and dignity.--
His habitually grave physiognomy was twisted into an
expression of infinite delight, and his gaunt sides shook
with an uproarious cachination that startled Mr. and
Mrs. Howard, shocked all Miss Sally's notions of propri-
ety, set the dogs in the yard to barking, and roused the
sleeping echoes of the surrounding hills. Maum Bec-
key herself soon appeared to confirm her husband's re-
port, by an ocular demonstration of the skill of the young
pedestrian, and the very soul of the affectionate nurse
seemed to gleam from her eyes, as she watched the steps
of the toddling child.
Lucy Howard grew as all children do, and grew
very healthy and pretty--as all children do not. She
passed unscathed through the measles, whooping-cough,
and those other petty bandits, that waylay the young
traveler at the very threshold of existence, and in due
time was conducted through the mysterious circle of
Orthorgraphy, Etymology, Syntax, and Prosody. But
what received the largest share of Aunt Sally's attention,
was--manners. She was a walking "behaviour-book,"
full of "wise saws and modern instances."
Little Lucy had scarcely learned to distinguish her
head from her toes, when she was gravely instructed to
hold the former up and turn the latter out. She was to
sit erect; never to lean against the back of her chair,
and to speak only when spoken to.
"Children," said Miss Sally, "should be seen and not
heard." Instead of providing, from her btother's ample
resources, the means of enjoyment for little Lucy, her
chief care seems to have been to limit and extinguish her
desires. The child's preferences were invariably disre-
garded. Even in as small a matter as a slipper or a rib-
band. Miss Sally always selected the pattern which
Lucy seemed least to fancy. "Vanity must be crushed
in the bud." So that the poor little thing began to
think that the sole rule of life was to do what she did
not wish to do, and to leave everything else alone.
To this stern discipline Lucy submitted with a gentle
and uncomplaining resignation; for it never entered her
mind that her dear, careful aunt could do or think amiss.
But there was one restriction which wrung her young
heart. Craving companionship with children like her-
self, she was denied their society. In her walks with
old Toney and Maum Beckey, she saw at a distance the
merry groups returning home from school; and as they
leaped and gamboled on the green sward, she, too, would
clap her little hands, and echo their ringing laugh. Ac-
cident occasionally brought them together, and as she
looked into the bright, kindly eyes of the simple hearted
rustics, while they lifted her bright curls or felt her soft
hand, and spoke in tones that touched her girlish heart,
she wondered what her dear aunt could mean, when she
charged her to "keep away from those rude, uncouth
children." The young heart (thanks to the God that
made it,) is always true to itself. We can no more
change the nature of childhood, than we can add a cubit
to its stature, or accelerate its too rapid flight.
Miss Sally occasionally walked out with Lucy, but
her mauma and Toney were her usual companions.
During these walks the old man regaled her with stories
of by-gone days, and often spoke of her father and
mother, and the bright place to which they had gone,
where good people were happy, and children turned to
angels. The child wound herself, every day, more and
more around the old man's heart: and he was often
heard to say, that although "Massa Edmund was a berry
fine child, Miss Lucy was better more 'an all."
Little Lucy repaid his kindness by the most im-
plicit confidence. Into his ears she poured all her
childish sorrows; and, in all her troubles and perplex-
ities, went to him for help. He was her chosen inter-
cessor with Miss Sally, for any relaxation of her stern
discipline, and the old man never failed to urge her
suit with becoming warmth, although, generally, without
success.
"We do'nt be children for eber," the old man used to
say, "Miss Lucy hab berry short time to enjoy herself.
Give her her chance." Poor old fellow, he little knew
the full import of his prophetic words. But people of
Miss Sally's age, are not apt to change their sentiments,
and old Toney, not seldom, got a scolding for his pains.
Frequently, when Lucy asked the privilege of sitting
up a little after tea, on a balmy summer evening, Miss
Sally would order her to bed, comforting her with the
old saw, "early to bed, etc." On such occasions, the
child cried bitterly, while the faithful old nurse hung
over her, whispering soothing words into her ear, until
all her troubles were forgotten in childhood's quiet slum-
ber. How often has the old man (for he was permitted
to sit, with his wife, in the child's apartment) wiped
away the tears from her closed eyelids. How often, as
he bent over her calm, quiet brow, did he bless her, and
think within himself, that one, so young and innocent,
could not but be happy. And who that ever gazed upon
her sweet countenance, as she lay asleep, but looked
upon her as some bright and beautiful being from a
purer sphere, and felt that her very tears were not like
the tears which are wrung by earthly sorrows, but such
as angels shed over the miseries of a sinful world.
It was not long after Lucy reached her eighth birth-
day, that she began to show unequivocal symptoms of
disease; and in a short time, her health visibly delined.
Mr. and Mrs. Howard watched, with increasing anxiety,
the fading hue of health, as it slowly departed from the
sweet countenance of their grand-child. Aunt Sally's
tone of address became more tender and sympathising,
and old Toney waited and watched around her, with
redoubled solicitude. Slow as he was to entertain the
thought, the observant old negro could not fail to per-
ceive that his young mistress was fast changing for the
worse. She was easily fatigued by a short walk; was
less lively than formerly, and often reclined upon a pil-
low on the floor. The suspicions of the old man were
too well founded. In a short time poor Lucy lay in her
aunt's chamber, pale and feeble, like a spring flower
withering upon its stalk. Some weeks passed over the
little sufferer, without any apparent change. One
morning--a bright sabbath morning--in the month of
May, she said she felt much better, and begged them to
open the blinds that she might look upon the green
fields, and feel the pleasant breeze. Old Toney, who
was in attendance, clad in his sunday suit, soon arranged
everything to her satisfaction. It was indeed a beauti-
ful morning. A light, quivering breeze played among
the trees, waving the vines that hung in graceul fes-
toons over the chamber windows, and stirring the child's
hair, as it lay, parted in golden tresses over her pale
brow. Partially revived by the fresh air, she turned
over upon her side, and gazed tenderly upon the garden,
where the rose and the fringe-tree, the sweet-shrub and
eglantine, yielded their fragrance to the light breeze,
that stole gently and noiselessly into the room of the
little sufferer. The family withdrew--the old nurse
left for a little while--and the old man and the child
were left together.
"Daddy Toney," said little Lucy, in a faint, tremu-
lous tone, "I think I am going to die."
"Lord a mercy!" exclaimed Toney, "how de chile
talk. No, Miss Lucy, you must'nt die yet. You are so
young and sweet. Leave old man like me for die. You
must grow up and be a big 'oman."
The child paused thoughtfully, and rejoined--
"I know I am going to die, daddy Toney."
"How? my dear missus."
"I know it, because the doctor looks troubled when
he comes to see me, and then I see him and grand-
papa talking together, for a long time, before he goes;
and my dear grand-mama often comes to me when she
thinks I am asleep, and kisses me, and cries over me."
The child paused. The old man attempted to reply,
but said nothing. He rose from his seat at the side of
the bed, coughed, walked around to the head, drew the
cuffs of his coat-sleeves over his eyes, and returned.
"I am not afraid to die, daddy Toney," continued the
child, "I am going that bright and happy place, you
have told me of."
The old man was silent.
"You have been very good to me," said Lucy.
"Don't say no more, Miss Lucy," replied the old man,
rising and walking to the other side of the room. He
took out his bandanna handkerchief, looked out of the
window, wiped his eyes, replaced it in his pocket, and
resumed his seat at the side of the bed.
"How beautifully the sun shines, how sweet the
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