Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, 1859-07-07

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The old man knew, say, that the world
expected him to send his daughter to such
college; but away off in his old country
house, he had enough Of good common sense
to teach him one-thing, and that brought
the tear to his eyes as he look upon you.
He had sense enough to know, .thatit was
possible to be thoroughly instructed in all
these things, and return home after all with
out the rose-tint on the cheek, without the
pure, artless, and affectionate heart which
you carried with you; without the God-giv.
en- impulses Of happy virtuous youth-"with,
out hope and without God" He knew, that
you might cast off your simplicity of faith
and affection. and become vain, fond Of dis
play and all that kind of thing; and as you
stood beside him that night before your
departure, in all your freshness, beauty, art.
lessness and love, how could the poor old
man KEEP back the scalding tears!
Don'tyou remember how silent the fami'
ly were when you entered the dining room
the next morning? Don't you remember
how your hand was pressed, your waist en-
circled, your lips kissed by father, mother
and brother, and yet not word spokenl-
Don't you remember how the old porter
brushed away tear from his sable cheek
with his coat sleeve, as he silently lifted
your trunk upon his shoulder? How broth
er laid his head upon your lap and wept
aloud when the stage horn sounded in the
distance? Don't you remember how poor
Bridget, the maid, put her check apron to
her face whenever she passed through the
room, and how you wished that the stage
would never come? Forget it?-never:
Don't you remember, when the rumbling
old stage came down the avenue, how you
sprung to your feet and threw yourself into
your mothers arms, and how gently hel
thin hand pressed your aching head loving
ly to her ever-faithful bosom? Then CAME
painful pause-an eloquent silence. The
last kiss had been exchanged and, as you
stood upon the porch with heaving bosom
aud streaming eyes, your father said, ever
so softly: "My daughter, take my arm" ="
"Take my armV-you had been accus,
toned to hold bis dear hand on your way to
the church, the school, and everywhere; but
never before bad you heard him say, "Take
my arm" You silently accepted the prof;
fered support-leaned con6dingly, lovingly
upon the old man 'sarm ; feeling all the while
that his affectionate heart was throbbing ever
so wildly, ever so warmly, in the intensity Of
its unfathomable love for you.
Take my arm! "a devoted fathers arm !!
All it was the first time you had thought of
the fact, that the tender girl was becoming
q woman. When the next snow should come,
you trembled to think, thatthat faithful arm
might possibly be cold and pulseless, and
that the dear old hands might be folded
quietly above an icy, soulless bosom. That
hacking cough, that drove sleep from the
old mans pillow, and brought him home so
much earlier from the counting house, was
becoming no better. All, me how yourlit.
tie hand closed around his thin arm, as
these sad thoughts passed through your mind,
and left so dark a shadow there! Would
you ever see him again? Ever take his arm
again lever hear his loved voice? Oh!
you remember the bitterness of those cruel
thoughts.
You stepped into the old stage-seated
yourself upon the worn and greasy leather
bound cushion; and, casting one 'slonging,
lingering look behind" burst into tears
The old man seated himself beside you in
silence-the horn sounded-the old stage
creached andtrembled upon its rusty springs,
then noddingly and slowly moved on
Your thoughts wandered back to the child life
which was gone, when you had clapped your
little hands with delight at sightof the same
old stage coming down the avenue, and wish.
ed so much for 'sjust little ride" 1t used
to look so gaudy-so cozy and comfortable
The bright red paint-the flashing, silvery
-buckles-tb beautiful cushions and
mating within-the cherry colored lining
the large brass lamps, and the sleek, spiri-
ted, and well-fed horses-how magni6cently
did all this look to the little children All =.
you felt-sadly felt-that you we're no lon.
ger child. The bright colors and gliding
had all worn off fromthe once beautiful stage
the lamps were broken, the harness patch
ed and rough-the cushions worn and rip
ped-the horses lean, spiritlcss and time
stricken. Ten years had wrought these
changes-ten years with their winter SHOWS,
then summer storms, and then spring show
ers. Ah, me those ten years had changed
other things beside the old stage. and even
your own young heart had felt the influence
of their power. Already have you learned
to sing:
The love-lit hopes of former years
The gilded days of unknown tears,
The beauteous scenes Of early days,
Among whose glories mem'ry strays-
Are faded, sere, and withered now,
Like flowers fallen from the bough;
And TRANSIENT dreams Of visions fair
Is all the shaded past can spare.
1t was only half an hour-itseemed many
hours-that you rode in the old stage. The
scream of the iron -mouthered whistle, told
you that you were near the railroad station,
where the president of the far-away college
had promised to meet, and take charge Of