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GHOST STORIES.

Ir is long ago since those pleasant evens at Uncle Robert's. My cousins have >wn up, and there is a new generation und the hearth. Eliza Parker was mar1 to Stephen Ingalls the year after the it I have been describing. Mary Horton ow a fashionable city lady. What has ome of the schoolmaster I do not know. left that part of the country about five rs since, and returned to the West; but ere he has located himself I have never n able to ascertain. Possibly some Ina or Missouri Congressman will recogin these pages incidents which he communicated to but a few intimate ads, and which rightly belong to no but himself. Should he do so, he will, m sure, excuse one who is obliged to st a barren invention, for weaving these lents into a narrative, and associating n with so respectable and harmless a sonage as Martin Kennedy. I shall e no apology, therefore, for giving an account of that gentleman's early naturally suggested by sundry allusin his narrative of the misfortune of riend Alison, as well as by the pecumelancholy which colored his descripFor the truth of the particulars I I not avouch, as I had them from his lips; I will endeavor, to give them as h in his own style as possible.

the indulgent reader will transport elf to a certain September evening ty years back, in the now populous of ville, celebrated for its manures, he may perceive on the high hill overlooks its eastern side, a small en to the left of the plain white dwellith four poplars standing in front. If ks more carefully, he will discover tothe lower end of the garden, where rges into a nursery or peach orchard, ng man and woman seated on a bank slopes down to the gravelled pathway. is is Martin Kennedy and his first ly love, Lucy Darling. Poor Lucy!

One would not fancy, to have seen her at this time, that she was destined to taste so soon the bitter cup of sorrow; nor would any one recognize in the ruddy face of that handsome boy, the solemn and careworn lineaments of our friend the schoolmaster. Lucy was a slender girl, with blue eyes and fair hair; she was ordinarily very still and reserved, but with Martin alone, she was a wonderful talker, and could laugh so genuinely, that it was plain to him she was then in her happiest moments. Years and years after, the sound of her merry voice and the sweet innocent expression of her eyes haunted his dreams and made him start from slumber in the dreary watches of the night. She was delicate and childlike; the blushes came and went over her cheeks like the wind across a flowering meadow. All she did was graceful and lovely, and now as she sat by her lover's side, with her head leaning upon his shoulder, the two would have made a capital study for a picture of Lorenzo and Jessica.

It was near sunset. The garden where they were seated, being on the slope of the hill, commands towards the west, one of the finest views in the country. Immediately below is the town, with its spires and chimnies; beyond flows the river, which at this point widens into what is called the Cove, making a sheet two or three miles across; then succeed marshes with wooded islets and gradually rising farms and fields, which extend to distant forests; in the distance the prospect is bounded by blue highlands. Just at this time of day, when the sunlight strikes deepest into the placid water and paints another sky below, the view is most delightful; I remember often enjoying it from the windows of my apartment, when I, long after, succeeded Kennedy at the University. For the college buildings are situated upon the southern slope of the same hill, and the western windows look out upon the same beautiful scene. But I was not so fortunate duringmy

college term as my friend, if indeed it be fortunate to purchase a few months of happiness at the expense of a life-long woe.

It was within a few weeks of the end of Kennedy's last term in college, when he would soon be obliged to break the cherished associations which the four past years had gathered around him. He must soon part from his friend Alison; he must see no more his cherished companions, the old familiar faces; hardest of all, he must leave, for a time at least, the dear girl whose heart he had won, and whose love was the joy of his life.

The evening we have chosen to see the young lovers may answer for one of many that witnessed them thus together, as the time of separation drew nigh. Lucy was an only daughter. Her parents were people of methodical, secluded habits, and they had not yet learned to think of her as other than a child. Her father was always absent during week days at his store in the town below, and her mother was usually occupied with her household cares. A single servant made up the family. Few visitors came to the house, and the old people were not much given to "going abroad." But they never on any account missed going to meeting on Sundays. So regularly was Deacon Darling's pew filled on every Sabbath, that their absence would have been a matter of great surprise to the entire congregation; indeed the occasions when they had been obliged by sickness or storms to remain at home were remembered as eras in the family history.

Lucy's visiting circle was confined to a few schoolmates and friends who attend ed their meeting, and with whom for the most part she had little other intercourse than casual greetings as they came down the aisle together after the sermon. She had a piano given her by her aunt, and could play on it many old ballads and all the tunes in the psalmody. Once the minister, who was a great musician, had touched it when he came to visit her mother, and his condescension and commendation of the instrument she always took pride in mentioning. In truth, she was but a simple girl, and would not probably have made a very striking impression on any such a simple young man as Kennedy 1st then have been.

He was about twenty, three years olde than she, but with even less experience the world than hers. His father had beer a farmer in the next county, who had died when he was quite young, leaving him to the care of a guardian, a plas country clergyman, who instead of sending him to a school or academy, had keşi him as a pupil in his own house until b entered the university. Consequently, be had been unaccustomed to the society ‹ those of his own age, and had enjoyed b few opportunities of mingling either in the sports of boyhood, or the social gaieties of youth. When he came to the univer it was like coming into a new worldworld for which he was unprepared and unfit to enjoy. He grew shy and reserv ed.

Few understood him, and still fee scarce any, with the exception of Alsz knew how to reach his confidence. T he had something in him, however, caz long before the end of the four years be universally conceded. If he could figure in the debating societies, yet av found out that he was a lover of literat and had acquired skill in writing. He he was able to command all the respet he required, and enjoyed, perhaps, as na of the esteem of his associates during t last months they were together, as member of his class.

It was some time in the first term junior year, that he became acqui with Lucy. She was then on a visit to aunt, who resided near by in the thriv village of Falls. Once a year, was generally permitted to spend a days with this relative, with whom a great favorite, but whose latitude «4 gious opinion and general cheerfulnes disposition, led Lucy's parents to a encouraging too great an intimacy her. These visits were bright oases waste of Lucy's life. She found aunt's house, although this good lady quite alone, such a different atm that she always enjoyed herself the ter than anywhere else. The restraint which so oppressed her s was there unconsciously removed without knowing why, or in the tending it, she was there another no longer subdued, timid, hes livel

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first made her acquaintance, were, erefore, most favorable to a rapid unrstanding between them. Lucy's aunt d known his father and mother, and ing aware how secluded had been his rly life, was possessed of the key to s reserve. She delighted to see two ung people having so many points of semblance enjoying themselves. Hence, e contrived amusements for them, and ought them together as much as possie during the few days her niece was left her charge. The distance was so little at Kennedy could walk over every eveng after tea, and he readily obtained perission of his tutor to do so, upon his nt's request.

The game of backgammon-this preous week, I have every reason to believe, id the foundation of my friend's wonder1 proficiency in that noble amusement— proficiency which afterwards, in later ars, became the solace of so many desote hours. Lucy's aunt was herself an corrigible player, and next to her own ime, her next chiefest pleasure was to uperintend and comment on the play of hers. How many rubbers were decided the course of those evenings, by Lucy ad Kennedy, under her inspection, we ill not invoke the kind old lady from her pose in the village church-yard to inuire. There were also duets with voices nd with the flute and piano, and it was ot surprising that before the week ended, ucy's aunt should have pronounced emhatically, that she never heard "All's Well," or the "Minute Gun at Sea," given with better feeling and expression.

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colored woods and fields ripening for the harvest? Or was it surprising that as they were seated together on a grassy slope, young Kennedy should find words to say, Dear Lucy, I love you!" and be permitted to kiss her unresisting lips? And that then he should grow eloquent with his hopes and prospects, and that Lucy should drink the music of his words, and suffer her shrinking heart to confide in his boundless promise? It was all natural. They could not help it. They were enjoying the innocent brightness of existence; the dew of heaven yet hung fresh upon their garments. Sorrow and grief they had not yet tasted. Alas! the bitter cup was already preparing.

After Lucy's return, Kennedy became, of course, a frequent visitor at the house of her father and mother. They were not morose or suspicious people; they were willing the children, as they seemed to them, should enjoy themselves. Indeed, Kennedy was of that free, healthful disposition which pleases without the intention to do so. He dreamed of no particular obstacle to his love; that her parents would ever make their daughter so unhappy as to thwart her affection for him when it should be prudent for them to be married, did not once enter into his calculations. He was to be an educated man, and he felt himself, so far from loving above his station, rather superior in that respect to the daughter of a merchant. The old folks, for their part, never once dreamed of the possibility of the young people falling in love. That was an infirmity of human nature, of which they had had no experience, and which their system did not take into account. It rather gratified their pride, that Lucy should have such well appearing companions as Kennedy, and sundry young ladies and gentlemen whom she had now added to her circle of friends. Kennedy was studious, and delighted rather in intellectual relaxation than in the noisy sports and pastimes practised often by young people in that rank of life. He got up a little reading party which met once a week, where they read Mrs. Opie's Illustrations of Lying," and other works of similar interest, approved of by the min

In short, before the end of that blissful week, the young couple were as well acuainted as if they had known each other or years, and happier in each other's sociey than if they had been bound together y the closest ties of kindred. When the fternoon came that Lucy was to return ome, Kennedy could do no otherwise han volunteer his services to escort her. It was a fine autumnal day, and the four niles of road that extend from the village o ville lying for the most part along A ridge of elevated land, the views in many places are extremely picturesque. What Could be more natural than that our half-ister. conscious lovers should linger in their walk, and often turn aside to behold the many

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In addition to this, he was accustomed to read to Lucy and her father and mother at home, during the long winter

we can build a house on this very old haside. How fine that will be !"

"Perhaps you'll have to take me to the West with you, before that time," woud Lucy answer. "Do, Martin, look at the clouds; I wonder if there the sunsets are as beautiful as here. I should like to see; will you take me?"

evenings. The old people were well | claim. "Perhaps, Lucy, I shall be so rich enough pleased with all this; his cheerfulness and new ideas amused them and kept them awake; he was, they thought, a good-natured boy; they liked him; the old lady used to ask him to tea, and was never tired of seeing him eat; the old man urged him to attend their meeting and sit in their pew. The minister came to know him, and would sometimes, when he met him at the house, inquire after the health of some one of the professors.

Thus prosperously continued affairs with the young lovers, during the year that intervened before the close of Kennedy's college course. Their intercourse was almost as unrestricted as if they had been brother and sister. Many happy hours they had alone, when they talked of the future, when their spirits mingled in a heaven created by their affection, when all before them took the hue of their own delight. As the time of separation drew nigh, Kennedy grew more and more sanguine in his anticipations, or, at least, appeared thus in his conversations with Lucy, partly from a desire to give her courage, and partly, perhaps, to hide from himself some natural misgiving which the bravest young man, dependent on his own strength alone, cannot wholly avoid. The patrimony left him by his father was barely sufficient to carry him through the university; from the day he graduated he would have only his own resources to depend on. He had little acquaintance, no family influence, no business

connection.

Yet he had health and youth, and the blessed ignorance of evil which aids hope. There was no undertaking too great for his dreams; others had been successful, had made money and earned a respectable place in society, and so could he.

"My dear Lucy," he would say, often as they sat together, as we have seen them, in the garden, "you have no idea what I can do. I shall go West when I graduate. That is the place for educated young men; there is a wide field for students. At first, I shall teach school; then I shall have a profession, and in a year or two, I shall be back to claim you. Will you wait?"

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Never-of course," would little Lucy say, looking into his eyes, "because I don't love you, Martin, and you know I do not, and

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I'll not hear it!" Martin would ex

My own girl, my brave lady," would Martin reply, never shall you be sorry

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that you loved me. I will take care of you forever."

"But my father and mother, will ther let us go? I fear they never will. They know we love each other, I'm sure thes do; yet they never speak. I cannot wi what they mean. I heard them talking of you, and saying what a pity you were poor. and the son of a farmer. O Martin, I feel so sad sometimes, because you are going I am almost child enough to cry!"'

Poor Lucy! In a few days more, thert would be no Martin to kiss away her rising tears, and whisper words of boldness and resolution. The lovers must part, not without much grief and some foreboding o both sides.

Kennedy had never liked a certain sixness, which was sometimes apparent in the deacon's manner, and he observed more ef this insincerity in taking leave of the famer than he had ever noticed before. The old man did not say he must let them hear from him or inquire into his prospects, bu just shook his hand loosely and wished him success in all his future undertakings, and would be pleased to hear of his temporal and spiritual prosperity in any station Providence might call him to fill-al which sounded to Kennedy very cold and formal.

But there was little coldness and formality in the parting that took place that evening, at the bottom of the garden; next morning, at the breakfast talle, poor Lucy's eyes were so red and her voice so tremulous, her worthy parents had much ado not to have her suspect them of pretending to be unmindful that she had sobbed all night in her little chamber.

As for Martin, he had little thought of grief on that morning, as the steamer on which he had taken passage the night previous rounded Castle Garden, and poured forth her throng of passengers, on one of

the most crowded piers of New York. The | strangeness of his situation, transported as if by enchantment, in a single night, from the quiet of his chamber in the college building, to the noise of a great city, filled him with excitement. There was too much of novelty in all around him to permit his lamenting the past, or taking much thought of the future. Not that the image of Lucy was ever a long while absent from his thoughts for all that he saw, or said, or did, all his emotions and impressions, were connected with and had a reference to her, as to his own self. She was a part of his consciousness, and was included in his identity. Not to think of her, was not to be aware of thinking at all. Yet in these few days of his bursting, as it were, into the world, a sensitive young man, with so much to distract and confuse him, full of the ardor of youth and the confidence of strength, it is not surprising that he should have felt more exultation than sorsow. Fortune seemed to smile before him; love and hope lent him inspiration; he was in a poetic state; a kind of golden halo surrounded him and clothed the dull earth with a skyey splendor. He always spoke of this first journey to the West, as one of the pleasantest episodes in his life; it was, he used to say, like the journeying of Christian through the land of Beulah, and within sight of the Delectable Mountains.

A few hours after landing at New York, he embarked for Philadelphia. With him travelled a friend from his own village, who was taking his young bride to a paradise in some prairie of Illinois. The party remained a day in Philadelphia. Here, at the breakfast-table of the hotel, they met another young man with a pretty wife, and young lady companion, who were journeying the same way. Upon taking the canal boat at Harrisburgh, the next day, the two parties mutually came together and joined forces. Gay times they had in the pleasant days which followed, as they wound along the banks of the beautiful Juniata. What with the beauty of the ladies and the extraordinary hilarity of the young gentlemen, they were quite irresistible in the crowd of travellers, and formed 1 sort of mirthful aristocracy, which compelled all who came within its influence to be merry in spite of themselves.

An accident to the cars, which they took

VOL II. NO. V. NEW SERIES.

at Hollidaysburgh, compelled the train to stop over night on the Alleghany. Here the only sleeping accommodations were two large rooms, a few benches and chairs turned upside down; hardly sufficient for a hundred and fifty persons. The confusion which prevailed, the hostile state of feeling towards the railroad company, and general disposition to be uncomfortable, may be fancied. But to our young company, it only afforded more food for mirth. With them, all was couleur de rose; like the crazed Ophelia, they could turn everything to "favor and prettiness." Well, some of them had need enough to be merry. They little knew how much sadness was in store for them!

When they arrived at Pittsburgh, it was a dull smoky day, and drizzling clouds hung gloomily over that city of soot and furnaces. But in the cabin of a certain steamer, which left the landing that evening, anything but gloom was experienced by our party of voyagers. Here it was that Kennedy first saw specimens of those men of Gath, who are reared upon the corn and bacon of the western valley. The captain of the boat was a head taller than other men, and stepped three paces in one. The clerk, though not above the size of ordinary men, carried the stomach of ten. Each passenger separately treated this glorious conviver to whiskey, and then they besieged him in groups. He was not coy, nor did he resort to any artifices to gain the honor of drinking, without its substantial reality. He merely drank all the time, as though it had been a part of his profession and a matter of duty. Kennedy many months after met him in Cincinnati, wanting a situation; with his abilities, however, he could not have remained long out of employment.

Among the passengers were several German students from Leipsic, travelling for pleasure; Kennedy invited them to sing student songs and held long conversations with them, in the Latin tongue, respecting the nature of Liberty. They all, with himself, mutually vowed unalterable friendship, but he never saw them afterwards.

Next day, Kennedy's flute, the same which he had so often played with Lucy, was put in requisition for a dance in the cabin. In the course of the day, there came on board, from some landing on the

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