ZEPHANIAH STARLING.

we are writing, Turkey had but just concluded a treaty of peace with Russia, being on the eve of a war with Germany, in which Belgrade became as usual the football of the contending powers. At the same ti.ne Turkey is involved in a hazardous warfare with the celebrated Khouli Khan of Persia, on his return from his triumphant career in the East, where he had overthrown the empire of Aurung Zeeb, the monarch of a century.

In 1743, the shadows of the grave were closing over many of the great spirits, that had mingled in the turmoil of a former century.

Frederic William of Prussia, had passed away leaving his tall regiment to the favor of his successor, and his children freed from his "fisticuffs."

The Great Frederic was engaged in a sanguinary contest for empire, and the heroic Maria Theresa defending herself with the steadfastness of a Queen, superadded to the tenderness and forethought of a mother.

Whitfield, with not less of devout enterprize, and more of enthusiasm, was calling together the multitudes from the way-side, and as in the days of primi.ive Christians, the cathedral-like woods and the everlasting hills resound

"Their songs of lofty cheer."

Swift had fallen into hopeless idiocy, thus verifying his own sad prediction on beholding a tree dying at the top_"Thus will it be with me;" and he who had been the idol of the gay, and the envy of wits, in the language of his contemporary who shortly followed him to the grave,

"Expired a driveller and a show."

an approach to retribution, it may be, for his cruelty to Mrs. Johnson, the once beautiful Stella.

Pope was writhing under the playful, but cutting torts of Cibber, which penetrated deeply, however much he might pretend to despise their source.

have been his errors, let us find his apology in his own pathetic language—

"No mother's care
Shielded my infant innocence with prayer;

No father's guardian hand my youth maintained,
Called forth my virtues or from vice restrained."

Gray was traveling in Europe, in company with Horace Walpole; the one had not yet written the Castle of Otranto, or flattered the sculpture of Anna Damer, nor the other composed his iniu.i able Eleg y.

Lady Montague lived long after her early admirer, Pope, had passed to that bourne where rivalries and estrangements are unknown.

Hogarth toiled for years upon those moral pictures, which the world persists in calling very "" funny," and West went with quaker-like quietude, year by year, to the Palace of St. James, often covered with dust from the gay chariot of Sir Joshua, with the "Seasons," painted upon the pannels."

Richardson composed his quartos upon the trials of the invincible Pamela, and Fielding those of the no less immaculate Joseph Andrews. The rivers of tears that once flowed over the sorrows of the one have long since dried up, and the broad mirth of the other has ceased to be genteel.

Mark the shadows as they pass the lapse of a century. The mutations of empire, the progress of civil liberty, the refinement of taste, the revealment of thought, the clearer development of truth! Who can mark these things and not feel that the progress of society is onward? that there is no limit affixed to human improvement, that forever and forever the finite struggleth for the infinite?

Enough! Vale to the phantoms of a century since. Who in 1943 shall write the chronicles of 1943? and who among us will be remembered? Alas, alas!

ZEPHANIAH STARLING.

A REAL DOWN EAST STORY.
BY LAWRENCE LABREE.

CHAPTER I.

In the town of B-, in the state of Maine, is a beautiful valley, bounded on one extremity by hills of the greenest verdure, and washed on the other by the shallow and murmuring waters of the beautiful Ken

nebec. There is scarce a spot on earth where the music of the birds sounds sweeter at the blush of day, and where the roses wear a lovlier hue, or impart to the senses a fragrance more delicious. It seems as though designed by nature as the residence of some peculiar favorite of her own; as none but a mind incapable of appreciating its beauties to their full extent, could, without sacrilege, long dwell in the heart of its loveliness. I pity the man who could not love the re-place; his soul must be dead within him-his sentiments seared, and his brain numbed with a sense of stupidity.

In the heart of this modern paradise, dwelt Squire Ephriam Starling, deacon of the first Baptist church of that place, &c.,-a plain, honest, simple and good

Johnson was waiting his parliamentary debates in a garret, having as yet not dreamed of solving the question that "Taxation is no Tyranny;" his dictionary and noble prefaces still latent. The everlasting "Eve-hearted Yankee of the old school, with none of the lina" had not as yet hid her blushes in a flutter of new fangled system of aristocracy, which has lately gratified vanity, and the baby Boswell was undoubtedly crept into the bosoms of many of our modern "lords mumming his pap. of the soil," "grown with their growth, and strengthSavage had retired from the temptations of London, ened with their strength." The Squire, at the time of on a paltry subscription, into Wales. Whatever may our story, was about sixty years of age, robust and

church service, by the assembled belles. But of all. the bewitching beauties of the town, he had chosen Sally from among the many, and for sufficient reasons; for Sally was-but I must leave a description of her for the commencement of another chapter.

CHAPTER II.

healthy as in the prime of life, and possessing the in with an odd volume of Burns' poems, and had same energy both of mind and body. He owned one bought it from a fellow play-mate for a penny whistle; of the best farms in the state, in all about two hun- and this he made his constant companion in all his dred acres, suitably divided into arable, meadow, pas-perambulations, until he conceived that he had imbibed turage and wood-land, and none had their farms in a portion of the Ayreshire ploughman's enthusiasm, better tillage, better stocked, or kept better fences than and accordingly vented his sublime lucubations upon did the Squire; all looked to him for an example, and whatever theme might be so fortunate as to elicit his he was a proper one. His good dame was in every peculiar attention. He studied poetry without authorespect worthy of him she loved; plain in her man-graphy-rhyme without reason. ners, good hearted to those who came in contact with enthusiast of the first water. In fact, Zeph was an her, an industrious woman, and a good housewife. But what added to This happy couple had but one child-a son-Ze-pieces by himself, was, the agreeably raw and nasal the peculiar beauty of the recitation of his own phaniah Starling, not exactly a chip of the old block, twang with which he spiced them. Many thought: but a graceful and delicately formed youth as ever won it a wonder of no uncommon magnitude, that a young the heart of a fair lady. I think his height could not have exceeded six feet two inches, and the composi- sprung up in the son of one of the most venerable and man of such promising poetical abilities should have tion of his delicate frame was the bona fide flesh and venerated citizens of B—; and many a young man enmuscle-nothing superfluous. He was graceful in his vied the growing reputation, and promised popularity of form and behaviour; and his dress was invariably the Zephaniah Starling; and many a jealous and withersame, viz: to begin at the bottom; he always wore ing glance was thrown at him on Sunday, as he mothick cow-hide boots, on which the dirt would always nopolized the sweetest of the village maidens, in going tell the place that he was last in; his pantaloons to and returning from church, and in particular the were hommespun, and of the coarsest materials, gen-attractive and charming Sally Dumpkins; and many erally black, they reached about half way down from a languishing and wistful look was cast at him during the knee to the foot, and on Sundays there were huge leathern straps attached to them to keep them from riding entirely above the knee; his vest was black and yellow in stripes up and down, and his coat was green, decorated with massive brass buttons, the skirts hanging broad and square. His shirt collar was always arranged in such a foppish manner, that it gave his head the appearance of hanging on it by the ears; his hat once might possibly have been taken for a white one, but the rain and the sunshine of five years had dimmed its lustre, and scattered much of its downy fur to the winds of heaven; and to close the description of his artificial appearance, I will make but this addenda: that his coat sleeves did not come lower than within two inches of his wrist, and were ornamented with about three rows of pins each, displaying to natural advantage a hand of most exquisite beauty-long, and large, and red. This was generally his Sunday and courting apparel-for Zephaniah did sometimes lavish his smiles upon the fair-such smiles! His every-day costume was far more fanciful-my pen refuses to describe it. A moment more and I have done with his description. Of his physiognomy I must not forget to speak; it was one of deep and searching interest-it spoke of a Promethian fire that slumbered within, that might, if aroused too suddenly, consume the heart of the unenviable possessor. The hair on his depository of knowledge was of a deep carroty color; his eyebrows and lashes were jet black, his eyes gray, his face freckled, his nose of the turn-up order, a mouth of extreme proportions, and lips of corresponding magnitude. Such was Zephaniah Starling, the buck and bully of the town. And Zephaniah was in love; and Zephaniah was beloved--not on account of his person-not on account of his abilities, but-on account of the farm that would in all probability one day be his; but Zeph did not know of this-he thought it was all on account of his own peculiar attractions, and his talent for making poetry. Zeph could write poetry-he thought so-so did Sally Dumpkins-what matter was it if others did not ?-they had a little world of their own creations of their own, or soon intended to have. I said Zeph could write poetry. school-boy days (he was not twenty-two) he had fallen In his

"There were two beings in the hue of youth."-BYRON. Sally Dumpkins was a girl of no common appearance; she seemed a being formed for love and loving; all light and beauty-lovliness and mirth. Plump, rosy and fair, it is no wonder that Zephaniah fell in love with her. She was below the middling stature of women, with rather more than a proportionate show of bodily magnitude. Her head was round as a pumpkin, and her face, the frontispiece, was a fair title-page to so rare a volume of human nature. Her eyes twinkled with mirth, through which peeped that little devil, Mischief. Her mouth was small, and her lips pouted all manner of sweet things; her hair was black as the raven's wing, and although not finical in her appearance generally, yet at church on Sundays, no maiden of the parish showed a hat of more liberal dimensions, or decorated with ribbons and flowers of more gorgeous and attractive colors; no dress had flounces of greater depth and later fashions; the fingers of no sweet hand were ornamented with a greater profusion of brass rings; and during service no ears were less devoted to the sacred precepts of the holy man, and no eyes wandered more freely among the young men of the congregation, than did those of the enchanting Sally Dumpkins. In fact, she was the admired belle of the whole town, (other belles excepted) the paragon of the assembled multitude in church-the magnificent-the beautiful-the charming-the lovely Sally Dumpkins;-the-thethe adored and adoring inamorata of Zephaniah Starling; the heroine of his dreams-the companion in thought of all his wandelings-his goings to and fro. Sally was a lass full of genuine Yankee "spunk," and nothing but the everlasting perseverance and determination of Zeph, could have accomplished the exthe lovely Sally, and further, of forcing her to an traordinary difficulty of fixing the warm affections of

ZEPHANIAH STARLING.

avowal of them. Many and many a struggle had the different attractive youths of the town, to win the sought of all; but in "the tug of war" they were generally worsted, and were glad to make their escape in the most convenient manner possible, minus their ruffles, collars, and other little etceteras, to say nothing of sundry scratches in the face, and it was left fo Zeph to complete a conquest which so many had begun and left unfinished.

The parents of Sally were well enough for this world, having a farm well stocked, with good buildings. Farmer Dumpkins was plain, honest hearted man, and spouse Dorathea, was such a help mate as such a man deserved; she was a Christian-a Methodist-a strict observer of Christian rights and charities-a sincere and devoted follower of the cross. Sally was their only daughter, possessing all the mettle that a dozen should have had. There were six sons-Joel and Jonathan; Ezekiel and Jeremiah; Joshua and Hezekiah; but they had all with the spirit of Yankee en terprize, embarked, set off, emigrated, to some distant state to push their fortunes in any way that might appear the most advantageous. One was in the city of Boston, another in New York, another in Pennsylvania, another in New Orleans, and two, Joshua and Joel, had settled themselves in the wilds of Illinois. Thus were they scattered over the country, and mile upon mile had severed the heart-warm affections of a house-hold-no, not their affections, for those can unite, though the earth's diameter lie between objects dear to each other-it was only their bodies-their corporeal substances that were separated, one from the other. Yet, though so far away, epistles were often handed to "the good farmer Dumpkins" from one or the other of his affectionate sons, and commencing with-"Dear Father: I now set down to let you know that I am well, and hope these few lines will find you the same," &c. It was a sad thought to the Farmer to see his sons, one after the other, leaving him to seek a strange home, but as he saw their determination to leave him, he strengthened his heart to the bereavement, and as they crossed their parental threshold, he gave them his blessing and recommended them to the superintending care of Him who readeth the hearts of all men, and understandeth their thoughts.

9

ing of the unsearched forests, whose depth human eye never penetrated, whose secrets human ingenuity never unraveled.

It was evening. The farmer had finished his daily toil; the fowl of the yard had betaken themselves to their roost; the kind and faithful cow had added her reasure to the pail of the dairy maid. The wild bark of the fox was heard in the vale; the hooting of that Il-omened bird of night, the owl, was heard on the hill; the shrill cry of the night hawk broke occasionally on the ear, as with graceful and easy motion he wound his "airy flight, as in delight to measure out the ample range beneath," and to complete the pleasing sadness of the scene, the musical, though mournful note of the whip-poor-will was not wanting. It was such an evening as would inspire a poet with a sonnet to the moon.

The homestead of Farmer Dumpkins was more than two miles from Squire Starling's. It was a beautiful residence. The house stood about five hundred rods from the river, with an inclined plane of the most beautiful verdure in front, through which gurgled a brook but a few yards from the door, that paid its small tribute to the more majestic Kennebec; in the rear of the house was a small growth of maples with no underwood-nothing but the green sward to tread upon, which formed in the summer a delicious and refreshing retreat from the noon-day sun, and a delightful promenade for the moonlit evenings. The Farmer, who, unlike some of his neighbors, had not entirely given up his soul to the accumulation of property, and the accomplishments of selfish ends, had placed at different intervals, in this sylvan forest, seats to recline or sit upon; and often in their leisure hours would the neighbors lounge from their own domains, into this woody retreat, and often would the farmer meet them to give them a cordial greeting, or, anticipating their arrival, he would prepare, on a rudely formed table, a collation, made up of the little delicacies and fruit for which his good dame was famous; sometimes the table would appear crowned with a bowl of punch; sometimes would be substituted in its place, a flagon or two of that most delicious beverage-currant wine, for sometimes the farmers of Maine will take the trouble to make that exquisite drink. Thus did Farmer Dumpkins keep up a reciprocal feeling of amity; and between himself and Squire Starling, especially, there subsisted all the intimacy and affection of brothers.

CHAPTER III.

"He jests at scars that never felt a wound."-SHAKSPEARE.

It was the close of October-beautiful, charming October. Autumn had stript forest and orchard of their lovely and refreshing foliage; the harvest and the fruit season was over, and the well filled garners of the husbandman told in language unequivocal, how well had been repaid his patient and untiring industry: while the tinkling cow bell, the low of the herds and the plaintive bleat of the shepherd's charge on the adjacent hills, and amid the valleys, spoke of peace and plenty, and inviting the care-worn brow and the lonely A half hour's moderate trotting, with no uncommonheart of a city's crowd, from the selfish formula of a occurrence, brought Zeph safely up before the door of congregated multitude, to the rural simplicity of its Farmer Dumpkins, when he hitched the old mare to own vales, and the invigorating breezes of its rugged the end of a stick that projected from the wood pile. hills. Beautiful-thrice more beautiful than the volup- He then advanced with a bold and confidential step tuous and lordly palace of the aristocrat, is the cloud to the door, and rapped loudly with the but end of his capped mountain, the valley and the hill, the purling stick. A loud hem and a haw announced that the knock brook and the dark and solemn movement of the ma- was heard, and at the same moment the door was openjestic river; the surging cataract and the waterfall of ed by the enchanting Sally, who, on seeing Zephanithe lonely glen, and the eternal and melancholy groan-ah, started back at his unexpected arrival, exclaiming:

It was evening-three hours after an October sunset. Zephaniah, after having thrown off his every-day apparel, and donned his Sunday suit, repaired to the stable to saddle the Squire's white mare, which, having done, he lead her forth, sprung into his seat-in the act of which, by the bye, he came near, in his eagerness, going over on the other side, and putting the birch switch that he held in his hand, pretty smartly on the sides of his Rosanante, he was soon in high spirits on the road to Farmer Dumpkins'.

"Why, Zeph! is that yew?"

"Why, Sal, I rather reckon it are; but I may be disappinted, as I feel little the curesest ye ever did see, and don't quite know myself, nother. How's the Farmer?"

"Wal, none o' the best, I thank ye, for he's got an unproper headache; but I've bin rubbin it in new rum, so he's got considerably better now, and he don't feel sick at all. It tell'd him he'd be well in the morning, if he tuk a dose of salts before goin tew bed tonight, and soaked his feet in hot water, with leetle vinegar and burdock leaf in it."

"Wal, I guess so tew," responded Zeph; "tarnation tough mess, that-cure a hoss of a spavined eye. Guess I'll step in and see your father-no toll, I hope ?" and he made a motion as though he meant to kiss Sally, but there was something in her eye that cautioned him, and for once Zeph was wise. Giving a parting injunction to the old mare to "stand still, or expect tophet!" he entered the room, where the first sight that met his searching eyes, was the Farmer sitting in a huge old fashioned arm chair, his feet calmly resting in a tub of hot water, an empty tumbler of sults in one hand, a large cotton handkerchief bound around his head, and his face embellished with innumerable grins and contortions, in compliment to the exquisite flavor of the important drug which, but a minute before, he had taken the courage to swallow. The good dame Dorathea, was standing by a fire warming his blankets and pillow-cases to render the bed of Mr. Dumpkins in a fit sleeping condition. As the junior Mr. Starling entered the room, he advanced to the person of the farmer, and clapping him pretty smartly on the shoulder, exclaimed in a loud and familiar tone:

"Well, Farmer, how d'ye dew? Guess ye got the headache, aint ye? Gosh, darnation take it, but it's proper nice feeling, aint it tho?

a

"Why, Zephaniah," returned the Farmer, "if you speak from experience, belike you know."

"As for that air matter, it's likely I dew, but then I "I say, Sal, there be some gals wat be most darnanever medicines for it, but jist as soon as I feel it come-tion awful pooty-there be no help from loving them." in on, the way I dus work would astonish a rigalur blue nigger. Them's my way of takin' meddersins. I sez-sez I, natur brought it on, let natur take it off.”

"There may be a few," replied Sally, beginning to

recover."

"Ah, Zephaniah, when as many years roll over your head as there already have over mine, you will think and speak differently," sighed Mr. Dumpkins, as he shifted his position.

"Yes, there is a few, and a darnation small few, I tell ye-skerce as flowers in winter, or June bugs in sleighing."

"I expect you mean Miss Deborah Dinkins," roguishly stammered forth Miss Sally Dumpkins.

"Well now, that air dus beat natur, all holler, by gum! I guess if I was a mind tew inlighten yew, I should say it warnt her no how, any way yew can fix it at all. Guess agin."

"I don't calkilate to live as long as you have, and to bring up sich a hul grist of sons, and sich a pretty darter

tew boot."

Sally had located herself in one corner of the fire-
place, busied with her knitting work, and Zephaniah,
after having deposited his hat on the table, had adapted
himself to the conveniences of the Farmer's arm chair,
which he had drawn closer to the fire, and was amus-
ing himself with making diagrams with his stick among
the ashes. In this manner they both sat together for
the space of fifteen minutes, neither speaking a syllable.
At last Zeph began to feel awkward, from the situation
in which he was placed, and thought that a word, of
however small importance, would break the spell, and
might possibly start a train of ideas which would furnish
them with conversation during the period of his present
visit. Well, in good time out came the all-important
word which might affect the future destinies of these
two loving and devoted beings. Zephaniah began:
"Sal!"

“I kinder guess, father, that Zeph's intended tew be a long liver, 'cording tew all appearances," said Sally, with a sinister expression in her eye.

"I calkilate a little longer than yew, by half," replied Zeph, in a manner to let her know that he took her meaning.

"I expect," said Dorathea, to her husband, "I expect, my dear, that you had ought to be thinking of 'bed, for I am going to put the blankets and pillows on, and you must git in while they are warm."

"Well, I don't know but what I had, my love. Good night. Zephaniah-don't stay late." And with this kind and parting injunction, the good Mr. Dumpkins retired from the room, preceded by his dame Dorathea with a light, leaving Zeph and Sally by themselves, with their own discretion to guide them through the intricate maze of courtship.

Sally started as though struck with an electrical shock-her knitting work almost fell from her hands. Zeph repeated:

"Sally!"

The blood crimsoned the damask cheek, and a smile seemed for a moment to quiver around her playful lips in scintillating brilliancy, and Sally ventured a timerous and inquiring glance at the magnanimous Zeph from beneath the raven lashes of her liquid eyes.

Zephaniah caught the glance; his muscles were stifened, his nerves regained their power, and his heart once more felt the invigorating glow of manly fortitude, and more assured, he continued :

"Sally, there is some gals as I believe, as wot ought tew be loved with a precious and admirin' love."

Sally trembled-she was afraid, and she could not for the soul in her, open her lips to yield the enamored youth a reply. She seemed like Mahomet's coffinpoised between earth and heaven, but she had a secret purpose to fulfil, and to depart from it would be a sacrifice greater than she could make. But still the persevering youth contined:

"Well, I'm sure I don't know, unless it is Temperance Osgood," still evasively answered Sally.

"What! she?" cried Zeph; "She looks like a burnt scrap in a skillet. You know better nor that, Sal. Sposin 'twas Comfort York ?"

"Comfort York is a very nice young woman," said Sally, hitching in her chair.

"Well, 'taint her, I swow," exclaimed Zeph. "Sa'ly,
you have got hansome lips, and any one as sez tew the
contrary, I'll lick um."

At this communication of Zephaniah's, Sally begun
to assume a new position, and show her true colors.
"Come, come, Mr. Starling, enough is enough, and
I likes nothing further; so don't come any of your
sugar speeches over me."

"Take it cooly, Sal, and don't git mad," replied

ZEPHANIAH STARLING.