themselves. A lover of Nature once had the curiosity to note down, as well as he could, the number of ideas expressed by their crows, clucks, chirps, etc. He represented himself as amazed at the result. These utterances being inarticulate, and, therefore, beyond the reach of alphabetical sounds, he was compelled to describe by suitable words, and then to note over against each the thing signified. This record was made with great brevity; yet, after having filled several pages of foolscap, he ceased, not because the vocabulary was exhausted, but because it grew upon him as he advanced. He noted upward of fifty distinct ideas expressed by them; and he was sure that there were at least fifty more that he might have noted in time. F. R. GOULDING. THE GARDENS OF MADRID. IT perial city, and that the one on the banks of the beautiful blue Danube. The Russians say that Moscow is holy, and that St. Petersburg is the city of palaces. The Swede calls his Stockholm the Venice of the North, and the Germans point with the greatest pride to the magnificent city of Berlin. The Saxons may well boast of their beautiful city of Dresden, which is, as they call it, the second home of all Americans. But what is all this in comparison with the extravagant praises bestowed by the people of Madrid upon their beloved city? According to them, who has ever seen a more magnificent metropolis than theirs? Who has ever feasted his eyes on a more magnifi. cent marble palace than the Alcazar? Who has ever seen finer galleries than those of the museum? Who has ever sauntered up and down a more splendid avenue than the Puerta del Sol? Who, finally, has ever recreated himself better in any public garden than in the parks of Madrid? Yes, the parks of Madrid. There are three of these public walks-the famous Prado, nearly two miles in length, from north to south, on the eastern outskirts of the city, with superb and regular rows of trees, and several fountains of surpassing beauty; the Pasos de las Delicias, along the banks of the Manzanares, on the west side of the city, and the Buen Retiro gardens to the east, be is very doubtful if there is any one of the great cities of Europe that has a more uninviting location than Madrid, the capital of Spain. Much as poets have sung about the city on the banks of the Manzanares, and proudly as said Philip II. that Madrid was the city of all cities, those who visit the place where once Ferdinand and Isabella sat enthroned, where Charles V. received the news of the death of his father, the Emperor Maxi-yond the Prado. Without these three garmilian I., and whence his cruel and despotic son, Philip II., issued the terrible decrees which deluged the world of the sixteenth century in blood and devastation, cannot but admit that the environs of the Spanish capital are forbidding in the extreme. The houses are built on irregular knolls, and the meandering Manzanares is noted chiefly for its lack of water, to such an extent indeed, that a witty traveler, one day, in looking at the sumptuous Puente de la Reina, said: "For God's sake, why don't they sell the bridge, and with the money buy water for the river?" The horizon of Madrid, too, is singularly sombre. Wherever the spectator's eyes sweep, they are met by the naked, treeless flanks of the Sierra Guadarama - reddish-looking rocks, utterly destitute of vegetation, in the summer time pitilessly reflecting the rays of an African sun, and during the winter months silvered with snow enough to remind the Madrileños of the fact that, while theirs is a southern city, with all the heat and close sultriness of the zone, it is also subject to the sudden cold gusts of a more northern latitude. Indeed, the climate of Madrid is such that it has become a household word all over Europe, "As hot as Madrid," "As cold as Madrid." Alexandre Dumas says in his "Esquisses d'Espagne," "For the meanest climate on earth, recommend me to Madrid;' and Alphonse de Lamartine speaks of the "horrors of Madrilene heat, and the distressing chills of Madrilene cold." Nevertheless, you must not talk to a true child of Madrid about all this. For, if ever people passionately loved their native city, it is the Madrileños. The Neapolitans invite strangers to see their incomparably beautiful city, and then die; the Viennese talk and sing about there being but one im dens, it is safe to assert, life in Madrid would almost be intolerable; and none of the monarchs of the unfortunate Iberian Peninsula, not even those who seemed to take a special delight in oppressing their people, ever ventured to interfere with the inhabitants of Madrid enjoying themselves in their peculiar manner in these three public resorts. But these gardens you must never visit in the daytime. Then every thing looks deserted, the trees and plants hang their leaves under the depressing influence of a pitiless sun; the very grass on the lawns looks yellow and drooping, and in the ponds the water, receding as it is always, is covered with a green film, indicative of sluggishness and stagnation. Pedestrians you do not meet anywhere; only now and then a lazy waiter lolling in front of a restaurant, whom you must call five times before he will answer you with a "Sí, señor!" At the end of a fifteen minutes' walk, you will ask yourself in surprise, "Is this the famous Prado?" He who would dare to compare it with the Parisian Bois de Boulogne, with Hyde Park in London, the Prater in Vienna, or the Thiergarten in Berlin, would absolutely appear to you an idiot. But wait until the bells of the innumerable churches of Madrid have rung their vespers, and wait until the fiery sun has sunk behind the bleak crests of the Sierra Guadarama, and until the myriads of stars, with wonderful clearness, sparkle in the deep-blue southern sky-wait until then, and you will find a new, a most enchanting and fascinating life in the Prado. The balmy night air seems to infuse fresh vitality into the sluggish blood of the hidalgos. They hasten to their beloved park, and long before nine o'clock it is thronged with the beauty and fashion of the capital. Poets have often sung of the charms of the fair daugh ters of Madrid. If you want to admire them in all their surpassing grace, if you want to bask your eyes in the dark depths of orbs lustrous and unfathomable, and arched with magnificent brows, just saunter through those ak leys of the Prado, and look and listen-such sylphlike forms, such faultless contours, such sweet accents of one of the noblest tongues that Providence has given to mankind! But do not believe that only the aris-tocracy of Madrid is to be found of evenings in the dark, delightful recesses of the Prado.. The plebeians are there likewise, and the beautiful and characteristic costumes of the working-girls, who still adhere to the mantilla and the rebozo, lend a special charm to the animated scene. And, oh, the delights of the great pond! No city in the world is more destitute of water than Madrid, and the pleasures of yachting and sailing are unknown to the Madrileños. It is only on the mirror-like surface of the grand pond of the Prado that they can enjoy a boat-ride of over a thousand yards in length. It costs money to enter one of these famous barks, and those whose pov. erty prevents them from riding on the watery deep can buy, for a penny or two, a seat on the estrade, where hundreds of spectators feast their eyes upon those who, more fortunate than themselves, navigate on the only decent sheet of water in New Castile. For three or four hours the scene in the Prado is most animated. The rich and the poor congregate there as if the society of Madrid were the most democratic in the world. That old gentleman, with a lovely blond girl on his arm, is the Marquis de Medina-Sidonia, in whose veins flows the blood alike of the ancient grandees of Spain, and of the Moorish kings of Granada. The handsome young fellow who passes him is Señor Escuviaz, the president of the Internationalists of Madrid. At that round table sits General Daniel Sickles, the ambassador of the United States. The tall, bald gentleman, who jokes with him, and who for the world looks like grim old Bismarck, is no other than Emilio Castelar, the foremost orator of Europe, and the noblest patriot of his own country. And then there is music-not Spanish music though, for, strange to say, the Spaniards of our times have hardly any national music worth speaking of. The band plays the plaintive notes of Verdi's Miserere from "Il Trovatore;" and next follows "The Watch on the Rhine." Enthusiastic applause covers the stirring German hymn, for you must bear in mind that Spain and Germany are fast friends, even though the old Emperor William has not yet recognized the Spanish Republic. The air is fragrant with floral odors and with the equally fragrant emanations of cigars; for one thing is certain, and that is, that the nicotian weed is nowhere smoked more fastidiously than in Madrid. The Madrileños will put up with any thing but bad: cigars. You may oppress them, you may starve them, you may quench their thirst with the most abominable wine, but never dare to offer them a cigar that does not come from La Vuelta Abaja. And, strangely enough, everybody in the Prado smokes good cigars, and the restau rants have but one quality. It is near midnight, and the crowd begins to thin out. Lovers escort their dark-eyed Pepitas and Juanítas home. The band plays the "March of the Republic," the stars pale away, the hum in the Prado ceases, and Madrid goes to bed. S MISTLETOE HALL. SOME RECOLLECTIONS OF AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. OMETIMES, while sitting on the porch of my old country-house and basking in the sunshine, I fall into day - dreams, and amuse myself by going back in memory to the happy scenes of my youth. Many of my gayest hours were spent at "Mistletoe Hall," an old Virginia mansion on the banks of a lowland river; and my surroundings at that time were so bright and picturesque filled with odd, suggestive, characteristic scenes and personages-so different, too, from any thing that is met with to-day, that a brief sketch of them may prove valuable as well as interesting. Our country is growing to be enormous, heterogeneous, and, above all, cosmopolite. Between Old Virginia, in the palmy days of Mistletoe Hall, and the Colorado and California of 1873 what a contrast! If I could revive the old times of my youth, the picture, I think, would be as curious and as attractive as that drawn by Walter Scott in "Waverley." This I do not hope to do; it is only a few old memories I record here. They are pleasant to me-may they please you, too, good reader! Bright, homelike, honest old Mistletoe Hall! The sunshine seems to pierce the clouds of the past, and fall in mellow splendor on the ancient walls. The house, which was a very large one, stood on a gentle acclivity near a broad stream, and in the midst of green fields. You passed through a tall, white gate, and the winding road led you beneath broad-boughed oaks full of singing birds, to the front of the house, along which extended a piazza with benches and split-bottomed chairs. A door, so high and broad that one of the Anakim might have passed through it, led to a spacious hall, on one side of which a winding staircase ran up to the second floor. This hall was hung around with portraits, and the antlers of an elk served as a rack upon which to hang hats and wrappings. Engravings of English race - horses were disposed along the wall, and, on a row of wooden pegs, rested a fowling-piece, game-bag, some fishingrods, and other appurtenances of open-air sport. On the right was the sitting-room, an apartment of large size, with very tall windows, and heavily-wainscoted walls. The mantel-piece was high and narrow-the front ornamented with carvings in the shape of battlements and elaborate bead-work-and, above this, the wood-work reached to the cornice. The walls of this room were nearly covered with portraits, many of them almost full-lengths, and so old that the paint was cracking and falling, and the canvas motheaten. It used to be, I remember, a subject of curious speculation wfth me, how a little girl of twelve or thirten, with curls upon her infantile shoulders, could have been the great- Whig he was! I think he doubted whether, outside the old Whig party, there could be any salvation. He read the National Intelligencer regularly three times a week for fifty years-perusing the longest communications" with unflagging interest, and using the arguments afterward in conversation. He was an unfaltering supporter of the Federal view in politics, cordially abominating nullification and secession, and abhorring the memory of Jefferson. Upon these subjects, and these subjects only, Uncle Penriffe would grow violent. He would declaim, denounce, grow heated-and suddenly stop and begin to laugh. Backgammon followed, and he would forget all about politics. Aunt Penriffe should have her little word of description, too. I see her now as she sat in her chamber, in a great arm-chair, her favorite a tall, thin, exceedingly straight old lady, although, like her helpmate, she was touching on threescore. It would be impossible to imagine any thing milder or sweeter than the smile which habitually lit Through the windows you saw the waving up her thin white face, for the health of the boughs of the great oaks, and the green grass good lady was delicate. It seemed to spread stretching away like an emerald carpet tow- warmth and sunshine all around her. Her ard the stream. A glimpse was caught, too, gray hair was neatly gathered under a little of the old garden with its flower-beds, and lace cap, and she wore silver spectacles, was neatly-trimmed box, edging the walks. A all the time knitting stockings; and generally host of cheerful Africans of all ages and both had in her chamber, under her eye, an army sexes went and came with dishes, or stood at- of young Africans of the female sex, presided tentive. There was not the least ceremony over by an old "mammy," cutting out "fullor quiet." Perhaps there was a little too cloth garments for the servants. On the much noise and laughter for the fastidious-cricket at her feet always sat a small, curlybut then it is good to laugh; and, at Mistletoe Hall, laughter seemed to be the order of the day. Uncle Penriffe was a decided character. He was very tall, very thin, and his gray hair was quite long. I never saw any thing more cheerful than his smile; and, of all the human beings I have ever known, I should say he was the greatest "philosopher." He had not always been a planter and countryman. In his youth he had gone to "town," studied law, embarked in the practice, and made, it was said, the most brilliant début at the bar of any young man of his day-delivering an argument which excellent judges declared a finished specimen of oratory. Having performed this feat, Uncle Penriffe thereupon proceeded to abandon his profession, and begin life over again as a country gentleman, and successor of his father at Mistletoe Hall. No memories of his brief "public appearance ever annoyed him. When it was referred to, he smiled. Having married his cousin—in obedience to one of the unwritten statutes of Virginia-he settled down contentedly as a rustic esquire, rode over his great estate, hunted occasionally, became sedulous of breeds in horses and other stock, and, after a leisurely dinner, at which he drank a small quantity of excellent wine, would pass the rest of the day in playing his favorite game of backgammon with any opponent whom he could secure. When beaten at this game, by a sudden turn of the dice, he would raise his hands in horror, shut up the board and declare that he never would play again—which resolution he adhered to firmly until the next day. headed black girl-or "imp of Satan," as the mammy styled her-learning the art of knitting under her mistress's eye. This chamber was the regular resort of the whole family, and of almost all visitors. Aunt Penriffe sat in her high-backed chair, smiled, went on busily knitting, and talked in her mild, silvery voice, in the most agreeable manner. She was very fond of old times, and anecdotes of old-time people-whose kinships, connections, and careers, she knew all about. The excellent lady was not what is called "aristocratic" at all, and never made companions. I think she had a calm and unassuming conviction that she and her husband-as a simple result of circumstances-belonged to the class described as the "best people;" but she never told you so. Her genealogical tastes, and acquaintance with pedigrees, arose from kindly interest in everybody. She informed you that your great-uncle married her grandmother's second cousin in a tone which seemed to say, "That is a reason, my dear, why we should be attached to each other." As to abstract pride of family, she had none, I believe but she had a very affectionate interest in her own kin, and told you all about them. You must see, worthy reader, that I am not striving to make the good old lord and dame of good old Mistletoe Hall amusing by depicting their comic eccentricities. I prefer describing their general characters. Perhaps, however, we shall hit upon some other members of the household, whose individualities will afford a little more food for mirth. of these was, certainly, the old "mammy" of the family-and she asserted her prominence immediately after the master and mistress. One Mammy" was portly, domineering, and convinced of her infallibility of judgment, as also of her ownership, so to speak, of the budding -even of the grown-up-scions of the mansion. Having petted, scolded, watched over, washed, clothed, and had under her command, both chubby urchin and blooming maiden, in their childhood, she regarded them, even when taller than herself, as her property. I have seen that spoiled little beauty, Miss Frances, or Fanny, as we called her, sail into the drawing-room, receive the adorations of her youthful admirers with superb indifference and queenly superiority-and then go and cower before "mammy," submissively and humbly receiving a scolding, delivered with all the strength of mammy's lungs. I have also known Mr. Harry Penriffe, eldest son and heir, dismount from his spirited steed, which had been rearing and plunging wildly, and, tossing the bridle to his groom, enter the house to be denounced by his mammy in terms of unmitigated wrath, without daring to reply. Mammy believed firmly in ghosts, and spiritual warnings-was convinced that when it thundered somebody was dead; and had various other articles of faith. She believed, for instance, that if, in toasting coffee, you stirred it with a knife, it would "make your heart flutter;" that the ground - hog comes out of his hole on the second day of February, and, if he can see his shadow, goes back again for the term of six weeks; that the first milk from a young cow must be milked upon a shovel, not upon the ground, and then rubbed upon her back, otherwise she will become a "bad milker; " and that a cat, scratching against or clawing at a tree, will "turn the wind." Any attempt to alter the convictions of mammy upon these subjects uniformly resulted, I remember, in utter failure. The only result was an additional conviction upon her part, which she indicated by a calm nod of her head-which conviction was that you "hadn't good sense." Mistletoe Hall overflowed with children of all ages, from noisy urchins and child-maidens, all curls and roses, up to Fanny the beauty, and Harry the "hope" of the establishment. Fanny was just seventeen, and possessed various attractions-among them a pair of violet eyes, and a profusion of bright ringlets, which had proved fatal to many youths. She was completely spoiled, but was one of the most intelligent girls I have ever known, and very warm-hearted, too. No one was ever better versed in the art of managing fowls, setting hens, and raising chickens, with all whose diseases she was familiar. She was also an excellent needle-woman, making at least half her own dresses; and, if any of the servants were sick, she would leave her warm bed before sunrise to go and see them at the quarters, and take them delicacies. When, however, her out-door avocations were finishedwhen she had seen to her fowls, tended and watered the flowers in their pots, and driven the old African gardener into a fit of dudgeon by telling him that she knew more about gardening than himself which statement was made with a burst of musical laughter which quickly disarmed the old autocratthen Miss Fanny entered the house, removed her nun-like "sun-bonnet," made her toilet, not forgetting to change her substantial walking-shoes for delicate slippers, which set off to admiration her pretty little feet- after which the little beauty was ready for conquest, her foes being the young gentlemen of the neighborhood who would throng around her, make desperate assaults, but uniformly retire in a defeated and much dilapidated condition. These victims were numerous, and one and all "fell back," in military phrase, after their rencounters, in confusion. Prominent among them was Mr. Fairchild, the tutor of the establishment, a young gentleman from Delaware, or that region, of very distinguished appearance and engaging man ners. Mr. Fairchild was dark-haired, somewhat sad and poetical, and would lean against a pillar of the piazza and gaze forth, busy, it seemed, with melancholy musings, which I have since attributed to his diligent perusal of the poems of Lord Byron. His soft dark eyes were full of pathos, and his good-nature was such, that when he was retiring for the day from the little office in the grove where he held his school, and his gay young scholars would steal up behind him and pull his handkerchief from his pocket, causing it to hang down in the most comic way, he would only smile, and gently replace it, without loss of temper. He would lean on the piano when Fanny was singing, gazing at her, with his sad eyes full of "unutterable things," and I must say Miss Fanny looked at him in a most reprehensible way. She would incline her pretty head, with its auburn ringlets, toward one of her white shoulders, turn slightly toward her admirer, and gaze at him from the corners of her eyes, when she came to some tender couplet in her song, so wickedly, that poor Fairchild would utter the deepest sighs. Fanny would then indulge in a sudden burst of ringing laughter, and rattle away in a headlong waltz upon her instrument. Tom Tallyho was another admirer, and was frequently at the hall. He was a gay young bachelor, who lived some miles distant, and had a passion for fox-hunting. His pack of tawny foxhounds aroused the admiration of sportsmen, and it was a sight to see them dragging their blocks, and to hear them baying around their master as he fed them with corn-bread. Tom had a great hunting-horn, made of the horn of an ox, with his name carved on a silver band around it, and this musical instrument would often be heard ringing through the hills. The youth had run down many a fox, but Fanny would not be caught. I anticipate -or, rather, sum up-as to the young lady's fate, by saying that she finally succumbed to a handsome, romantic young cousin, living about twenty miles away, who made love in so dashing and picturesque a manner that he was irresistible. He had a superb black horse, a black saddle, black bridle and martingale, and his own dress was black from head to foot. Thus accoutred, he would gallop from his home to the hall on some summer night, toss a bouquet into Fanny's open window - -sometimes falling on the very bed where the maiden slumbered, so that the sight of it greeted her when her eyes first opened-and then the black knight would go back as rapidly as he dark chevalier, and I suppose they often laugh now-when the knight is a portly squire-at these scenes of their youth. The little maiden -" pride of the hall"has taken up so much space that no room is left for a sketch of Mr. Harry Penriffe, aged nineteen. Harry had broken all the colts from his early years, robbed birds' - nests, hunted furiously, and was about to go to college. He had already had a desperate love-affair with one of his cousins, a year or two older than himself; had been brokenhearted when she married, but had quickly rallied; and, at the time I speak of, was assiduously cultivating a slender mustache, which he nursed with the tenderest solici tude. Impulsive, honest, kindly Harry!-he has developed, I am glad to say, into an excellent and most respectable country gentle man. My pen is running on very much at random, I am afraid; but I like to record, as they rise in my memory, these simple and familiar recollections of old places and people. Both have changed very much since the era of which I write, and society in the "Old Dominion" is passing through new phases with each recurring year. It may be, therefore, that such a sketch as this, unassuming and desultory as it is, will possess hereafter an antiquarian value and interest in the eyes of some readers. Those " good old times" were certainly honest, and kindly, and picturesque. The picture must be new to many readers in other parts of the country; and perhaps they impressed me more strongly from the fact that I was myself, at that time, a denizen of the town. After living the life of the streets, and seeing the never-ceasing crowds "go on forever," it was a pure de light to me to steal away in summer, be borne in a steamboat over the bosom of the great river, land at the old wharf running out into the stream, and find myself at Mistletoe Hall, where warm hearts and open arms awaited me. I shall never forget with what zest I entered into every occupation and amusement of “the country;" and how every sight and sound delighted me. I generally indulged in this "flitting," from heat and dust to green trees and healthful airs, about the middle of June, when that merry season "harvest" was approaching. At this time of the year the wheat-fields around Mistletoe Hall were a magnificent sight. Hundreds of acres of rich "low-grounds" were covered with the golden grain, rippling in every breeze like the ocean; and the shadows of these ripples were exquisite. Then came the harvesting. From morn to evening the cradlers were seen slowly and steadily advancing -the ripe masses fell before them—and you could hear, from the knoll in front of the hall, the long, measured chant of the harvest ers, full of musical sweetness; for nothing can be more delightful than the slow songs of the Africans at their work. At the head of the line advanced some stalwart cradler, famous for his skill and endurance, who "led" the rest; and I never saw more mirth exhibited, or more cutting jests indulged in, than at the failure of some member of the company to "keep up." When the unfortunate fell behind he was greeted with uproari ous laughter, and personal observations far from flattering; and then the line swept on, to the loud, triumphant chant of the harvest ers. Good old songs of the merry harvesters of other years! You come back in memory like a breath from the golden fields; and, when I hear you to-day, as I do sometimes, I grow young again, and the years roll back to my boyhood! At All the summer long Mistletoe Hall overflowed with company, and the house seemed "elastic;" there was literally no end to its capacity to afford lodging and entertainment to its guests. The great crowd did not come in response to any formal invitation. Nobody seemed to expect any such ceremony. Uncles and aunts, nephews and nieces, cousins and friends, came unbidden, and never succeeded in getting away again without a struggle. The numerous servants were trained to wait on guests, and "company" was the normal condition of things at Mistletoe Hall. There was no formality whatever. All were left to their own devices-it was truly "Liberty Hall "—and every thing went on c like clock-work." At about eight o'clock in the morning Uncle Penriffe, who had risen early and ridden over his estate, rang a bell, read prayers to whomsoever he could secure, and then a second bell announced breakfast. this meal it was not necessary that you should appear punctually; and not a few of the young ladies were habitually unpunctual-but the fact caused no inconvenience. The smiling servants were waiting, and there was nobody to scold-certainly not Aunt Penriffe, who, seated behind her great japanned tray, smiled, and addressed everybody as "my dear." Then came walks in the grove or on the lawn under the broad oaks, riding parties, a sail in the boat, dinner about four, and strolls of youth and maiden at sunset. The evening festivities succeeded, and the great drawingroom of the old hall rang with mirth and laughter. The piano resounded, songs were sung; cotillons were danced-old-fashioned country-dances, innocent of all tendency toward waltzes or galops; and then the prayerbell, family devotions, uncle and aunt disappeared, and the "young people" were at liberty to sit up and amuse themselves to as late an hour as they fancied. An idle, useless life, you may think, kind reader. But consider that it was cheerful and innocent. The charm of these assemblages at Mistletoe Hall was the relationship of everybody. I have seen nearly a hundred human beings, young and old, at the hall, and every one was related. They lived in every part of the country, and never saw each other save in these summer gatherings around the old family roof-tree. For the time, they laid aside all other thoughts but the pleasure of each other's society, and laughed, and rested, and enjoyed themselves. Nor can I think that they were wrong. Life is full of labor and care, and sorrow often. Is there any thing better than innocent enjoyment, when no duty is neglected? The dear Father of all permits that to his children. And this meeting of the large clan every summer was a pure happiness. They "ormed a clan in the full meaning of that old Scottish world, and I doubt if the tie of relationship was ever as strong even in Scotland as it was, and indeed is, in Virginia. The result has always been an absence of stiffness and ceremony, an earnest affection and interest felt for each other, and the indulgence of all the gentler and kinder emotions. I have lived a long time in Virginia now, and believe me, worthy reader, her people are a kindly, warm-hearted, generous race, firm in their friendships, and strong in their sentiment of the claims of "blood." Love of the old family roof-tree accompanies this sentiment, naturally; and, to hundreds of persons of the Penriffe clan, the very sight of the roof of Mistletoe Hall, peering from its great oaks, brought a sudden warmth at the heart. The impression has no doubt been produced in foregoing pages that the "head of the house" at Mistletoe Hall was Uncle Penriffe. This is a mistake. The personage who really controlled every thing was "Cousin John." How shall I describe this worthy, endowed, as he was, with a thousand peculiarities? No other "place or time," save some "old baronial hall” in Old England, could have produced "Cousin John." He was a bachelor of about fifty, who, according to family tradition, had been a gay gallant in the days of his youth, and lived very fast; but at forty he had eschewed all the vanities of life, especially the fair sex, and settled down as a member of the family, and the controller of the destinies of Mistletoe Hall. This gentleman was indeed a character. Thin, active, dogmatic, with a firm conviction that he was acquainted with the best method of doing any and every thing, and endowed with a pleasing air of command, Cousin John took the whole household under his protection, and really did make himself invaluable as general superintendent of the interior-and of the exterior, too. He was wholly without any thing consequential in his bearing, opinionated as he certainly was. He would soothe the most fretful child, dandling the young one on his knee with the skill of an experienced nurse; set traps for hares and other game with his own hands; doctor all the sick horses, for whose ailments he had unfailing remedies; and was looked upon by the old head-groom of the stables with profound respect as a complete farrier" and jockey. It was the delight of Cousin John to conduct visitors to the stables, and to cause the blood horses there to be led out and exhibited, during which process he indicated their fine points with extended finger; and every young colt and heifer was "broken" under his supervision. He was strong in recipes for all ailments, and never at fault. If you differed with him he laughed at you with a good-kumored air, scarcely condescending to reply. He had but one unconquerable opponentthe old gardener of the establishment-and between him and Cousin John took place unending discussions and battles on the subject of horticulture, each being as dogmatic and unyielding as the other. Having regulated every thing in the outer or foreign department, at the hall, and indulged in a quiet smoke on the piazza, Cousin John would proceed to the interior. With Uncle Penriffe he held long and unyielding arguments. Cousin John was strongly for State rights, and stigmatized General Jack. son as a usurper and a tyrant for coercing South Carolina. It was indeed a treat to hear our bachelor cousin talk politics. Thereupon he was grim, violent, and intolerant of interruption during his eloquence - a fact which did not prevent him from habitually interrupting others, especially my good uncle. They were inveterate disputants. Uncle Penriffe would sometimes say, in a mild, inoffensive, and meditative mood: "After all, and however we view the subject, my dear John, human nature is " "I deny it!" Cousin John would interrupt. "But, my dear John-" words uttered in a tone of gentle remonstrance. "I deny it!-human nature is not!" the unconquerable foe would respond; and, shaking his head, Uncle Penriffe would give up the discussion. Cousin John was reported to have had a very desperate love-affair at some remote period of his life, and the lady was supposed to have treated him very badly indeed, as he invariably spoke of matrimony with philosophic contempt, and professed to regard children as the plague of human life. In spite of his declarations upon this subject, however, he was an enormous favorite with them, and they ran to him, tumbled over him, imposed on him, and evidently regarded him as their warm personal friend. He was inordinately proud indeed of the young ones at the hall; and regarded them as superior to all others, from the simple fact that they came of the Penriffe blood. This was Cousin John's master hobby. He would have looked down upon the "proud Duke of Somerset " himself, and was a walking chronicle, a living genealogical tree of the family. Did you hazard, in a weak moment, some question on the Penriffe pedigree?-terrible was the infliction! You brought upon yourself a torrent of names, of dates, of details, of anecdotes; and the general impression produced upon your mind was that "the family" exceeded in purity of blood and social consequence all other familiespast, present, or to come. Worthy Cousin John!-honest old fellow, who had floated into this quiet harbor, and attached the tendrils of your heart to the old home-scenes and beloved forms of your own "people!" Fate had denied you a wife, and children, and a hearthstone of your own; but you found all at Mistletoe Hall! I have spoken of the great crowd of friends and relations who flocked to the good old homestead in the summer. Let it not be supposed, however, that the hall was deserted at other seasons. All through the autumn and up to Christmas even the festivities continued. What a charming place Mistletoe Hall was in October! The forests had then assumed the variegated glories of "the fall," and the young people engaged in the delights of nutting, gathering apples, and drinking the new-made cider as it flowed from the press in the orchard. How delightful was that beverage, drunk from a gourd! What merry parties rambled through the woods! I can see the little maidens now, dear flowers of the autumn, scattered along the hill-sides in |